The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  Thankfully, before memory lane takes us into a shitstorm I can’t get out of, a peroxide-blonde steps to the end of the bar and shamelessly stares at me—small waist, a ton of cleavage. She's just what I need right now. Larry follows my gaze and pats me on the shoulder as he stands, and then finds his way behind the bar.

  Six glasses of whiskey later, and the guilt is gone. Everything is gone. I'm blissfully numb. Blondie is hanging off my arm, her lips leaving a trail of bright red lipstick down my neck.

  "Wanna get outta here?" she purrs against my ear, and my gaze drops to her ample chest.

  "Sure."

  27

  Poppy

  The street running in front of the pub is deserted, except for the old men loitering by the entrance who let out a whoop of catcalls as a group of girls walks by in short skirts.

  For a moment, I wonder why I’m even here. Brandon has always been stubborn. It would be foolish of me to believe I could talk some sense into him. Then I remind myself: Connor would want us to lean on each other. He always said friends carry each other when no one else will. And, right now, Brandon and I both need someone to carry us.

  The ruckus of bar noise spills onto the street when the bar door swings open. The group of men cheers when Brandon's stumbles out with a curvy blonde. She presses her lips to his neck and wraps around him like a vine. They are almost to the curb when his gaze lands on me, and he unwinds himself from her hold. She reaches for him again, and he staggers back, saying something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, wins him a shove, followed by a middle finger before the blonde heads back into the bar.

  He drags a hand through his hair and takes a step toward me, then stops and turns around.

  “Brandon?” I start after him, but he keeps walking.

  A sportscar's headlights flash, the alarm disarms, and he reaches for the door.

  “Brandon O’Kieffe!” I reach the car just as he falls into the driver’s seat.

  “Go away.”

  The stout aroma of whiskey wafts up. There is no way he should be driving. He goes to shut the door, but I grab it, then reach over him and take the keys from the ignition.

  “What the fuck, Poppy?”

  “You are not driving.”

  He straightens his arms, gripping the steering wheel while his jaw tics. Just as I think he’s about to argue, he slides over into the passenger seat, giving me silent permission to take the wheel.

  Brandon directs me through London’s city center. We wind through squares and roundabouts, and all I can think about is how in the world he would have ever made it home. We park in front of a row of townhomes, and he topples out of the passenger side, swaying and bobbing on his way up to the entrance.

  He slumps against the door, and I grab him by the elbow to pull him away, so he doesn’t fall on his face when I open the door. He stumbles over empty pizza boxes and bottles of whiskey before he falls onto the sofa.

  I take a hesitant step inside, and my stomach sinks. This reminds me of his dad—the one person Brandon never wanted to be like.

  His stomach rumbles. "Oh, shit,” he groans and sits up, wobbling for a second before he slides to the floor and starts to crawl across the floor.

  "What are you doing?" I grab his arm and attempt to get him to his feet, but he swats me away.

  When he reaches the bathroom, he grabs the doorframe, hoists himself up, and hurls himself inside. A chorus of heaves and coughs, followed by a string of profanities filter through the door, and then, minutes later, the toilet flushes. Brandon stumbles out and slumps against the doorway. His bloodshot eyes meet mine for a moment before he pushes off the frame and heads down the hall.

  "Brandon?"

  He swipes a hand through the air and grunts before disappearing into another room. By the time I step to the doorway, he’s stripped out of his shirt and jeans and lies, sprawled out and face-down on a bare mattress. For a moment, I’m sixteen again, watching him self-destruct after his mother passed away. Only this time he hasn’t climbed through my window—he’s run away.

  Exhaling, I make my way to his bed and sit on the edge. Out of habit, I sweep my fingers through his thick hair, and the memories of who we once were nearly crush me.

  "I'm fine," he manages. But he’s not, neither of us is.

  “No matter how pissed I am at you,” I say around the lump lodged in my throat. “I’m just glad you’re alive."

  "And I didn't—" he hiccups—"I didn't mean it when I said you should go home.”

  "I know."

  "You always know, possum."

  He hasn’t called me possum since that night at Hope’s party—the night that changed everything between us. Tears blur my vision, and I duck my chin, swiping them away.

  "You’re still my possum.” He swats at my hair. “That never changes.”

  I knot my hands, fighting the emotions, the hurt, the memories of Brandon and Connor, and me. Brandon’s breaths fall into a heavy rhythm, and before long, a deep snore cuts through the silence. For a moment, I sit and watch him sleep. There were so many nights growing up just like this. A lifetime of memories, of heartbreak, of promises to never leave each other. I trace a light finger over his bruised jaw. I lay beside him, and all I can think of is Connor.

  "Possum…" Brandon mumbles in his sleep.

  My chest tightens, placing my lungs in a vice and forcing me out of bed. Grief weighs me down. Learning to accept my life without Connor has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

  It destroyed my soul, and it destroyed Brandon’s.

  28

  Brandon

  I stare down the scope of my rifle. My heart slams against my ribs, no matter how much I will it to slow. The ground trembles as chaos ensues around me. The occasional explosion interrupts the steady pop of gunfire, and my arm shakes but stills when Connor’s hand lands on my shoulder.

  "Breathe, Bran. Just take a breath.”

  "I can't do this."

  "Those guys," he points toward the derelict factory our unit surrounds, "They'll kill hundreds, if not thousands. They’d blow up kids in the name of their cause. This is war, Bran. And in war, there are always casualties."

  It really is that simple to him, right and wrong. Good and bad. I pick up my rifle and stare down the sight before I pull the trigger.

  The bullet tears a hole straight through the chest of the elderly woman the enemy is using as a shield. I aimed for her shoulder but missed. I didn't want to kill her, but I did, and that makes me a monster.

  I jolt awake, pitching upright as a ragged breath fills my lungs. The bedsheets are drenched with sweat, the same as always. But this time, something brushes my arm, and it’s not until I instinctively lash out that my mind quiets from the memory of war and comes back into focus.

  Suddenly, I'm on my knees, straddling Poppy with my forearm pressed to her throat. Her eyes lock with mine as a choking sound slips past her lips, and reality sets in. In a panic, I scramble to the edge of the mattress.

  She shouldn't even be here, let alone in my bed.

  An all too familiar sinking sensation settles in my gut.

  I rise to my feet. "You need to go," I say through clenched teeth. I'm angry at myself—angry at her. I'm angry at the whole world for screwing me so damn hard.

  She stares at me like I just punched her.

  "Just go, Poppy!" I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow around the lump in my throat. “I can't look at you. I look at you, and all I see is him."

  "And when I look at you, all I see is him, too, but I don't want to let that go. I feel him when I'm with you…"

  "He's dead.” I open my eyes. “I've let go. So should you." And with that, I leave the room.

  Hurting Poppy is the only thing I could possibly do that would make Connor hate me, and that thought eats away at me.

  "Fuck you, Brandon O’Kieffe!” she shouts from my room.

  I can't take this shit—her grief. Mine. The guilt and tragedy of it all. I find myself running for
the kitchen and tearing open the cabinet in need of a drink.

  The bottle of whiskey sits there like the answer to all my prayers, and I press it to my lips, swallowing gulp after gulp, finding a mild form of relief in the familiar burn.

  Poppy moves into the kitchen, but I ignore her, instead, watching bubbles float their way up the neck of the bottle as I continue to drink.

  She snatches the bottle from me, and liquid spills onto my chest before it splashes onto the linoleum floor. "You can be as mean and nasty as you want, but I'm not going anywhere."

  I try to grab the bottle, but she smashes it against the wall. Glass and whiskey spray everywhere.

  Anger rises like a cobra, hissing and spitting its way to the surface, and I grab her shoulder, backing her into the whiskey-soaked wall while glass cuts into the soles of my bare feet. "What the hell do you want from me?" I shout. "You want me to save you? Huh, Poppy?" I laugh as my grip on her shoulder tightens.

  Tears cling to her lashes before spilling down her cheeks. “I think I'm the one who needs to save you."

  "I don't need saving." I shove away from her. "The devil looks after his own. And I’m beyond redemption."

  I just want her to leave—having her here is too painful. Too real. I'd almost convinced myself that Connor never existed, that everything before the fight ring in London was nothing more than a dream.

  Almost…

  Poppy rubs at the finger marks on her arms. "Then take me down with you.” She slides to the floor and buries her face in her hands. The diamonds of her wedding ring glint in the light, and that’s just another knife in my heart because she hasn't let him go. Not one bit.

  "You're all I have, Brandon,” she whispers. Her tired gaze meets mine. “So if you want to drink yourself to death, fine. Push me away. But I'm not going anywhere."

  I drop next to her, and she leans her head on my shoulder like nothing has changed. And we sit in silence, allowing the pain and heartbreak to fester between us.

  They say the people left behind are the ones who suffer the most—isn’t that the truth? I'd give anything to swap places with Connor. Anything. Poppy didn't deserve this. And now, I'm all she has.

  If there is a God, he has a sick sense of humor.

  29

  Poppy

  I tossed and turned on the couch last night, and finally, around four am, I gave up and started cleaning the grime from the coffee table. I picked up beer bottles and half-smoked joints, socks, and condom wrappers, thanking God Brandon was at least safe. Around seven am, I pulled the cushions from the couch and found a crumpled photo of Brandon perched on the hood of a tank, Connor against the side with an AK-47 saddled on his hip. The sight of the two of them at war tore my heart right in two, and I sank onto the couch with a half-filled trash bin at my feet. It’s true.; life is ever-changing—it’s unfair. But that knowledge doesn’t make any of it easier.

  "My head." Brandon stumbles down the hall with his hands to his head, his shirt off.

  My gaze skims the tattoos peppering his bare chest, ones I’ve never seen, and then my gaze lingers on the one both Connor and Brandon had. Connor regretted it, thinking it looked more like a rat than a possum, but Brandon had worn it with pride, insisting it wasn’t a rodent. Possum.

  Brandon places a hand over the tattoo and scowls at me. "Don't start."

  I realize, instead of two rat tattoos, there is now only one. My chest tightens, but I fight against it and manage, "It's a rat,” hoping to pick a fight and change the somber mood that’s settled between us.

  "It's a possum," he says and shoulders past me on his way to the kitchen.

  With his back to me, I notice the raised scar that zigzags along his side. A multitude of tiny blemishes accompany that one. Shrapnel. He disappears into the kitchen, and I sink back against the cushion, closing my eyes and trying not to think of Connor.

  Cabinets open and shut, and Brandon comes back, shoveling dry Coco Pops into his mouth. "Why does my flat look like Mary fuckin' Poppins has been in here?"

  "Because it was disgusting. I'm worried I've caught something from sitting in here for too long."

  He cocks a brow and smirks before sticking his hand back into the cereal box. "You might from that couch."

  “That cereal is crap. You need better than that for breakfast, Brandon.”

  He frowns. "Don't you have a life or something?"

  The sad thing is, no, I don't. Not without Connor. Not without Brandon.

  "You should go home, Poppy. This is no place for you."

  I take a breath and let the shame drown me. "They'll have repossessed the house by the time I get back."

  He crouches in front of me, and I nearly jump when his knuckles trail across my cheek. My gaze meets his, and there’s nothing but pain.

  "It's not that I don't want you," he whispers. "I just can’t handle the memories. We were happy once, and now—look at us. We're nothing more than empty shells. You remind me of everything I've lost, and every time I look at you, it breaks me all over again."

  My gaze drops to the floor, then his fingers grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Did you hear me?” he says. “It's not that I don't want you."

  His arms wrap around me, holding me tight, and I cling to him. I cling to the familiar safety I thought I’d lost.

  "You can stay here. I'll sleep on the sofa," Brandon murmurs, his warm breath blowing through the strands of my hair. "But, you can't be throwing my Coco Pops away."

  30

  Brandon

  I hold the lighter to the small glass pipe until the green ignites in the bowl and fizzles to embers. The pungent smoke fills my lungs, and I can feel Poppy's judgment from across the room—I ignore her.

  “Really, Brandon?” She huffs. “Weed?”

  I hold the smoldering pipe out towards her. "Want some?"

  "No."

  There's a moment of silence while I take another drag. I wait desperately for that numb feeling to kick in. "This will make you forget all your troubles," I offer.

  She shakes her head, and, for a split second, a hint of shame crosses my mind, but I quickly brush it off. Poppy always did have this way of making me feel guilty. But in the grand scheme of things, smoking weed ranks pretty low on my guilt scale. And that’s exactly why I do it, to try to forget all that shit.

  I'm blissfully numb when the front door clicks open, and Kyan, one of the guys from the fight ring, walks in. I frown at him. "You could knock, prick."

  His dirty-blond hair is dragged into a haphazard man bun, and his eyes are bloodshot. I'd put money on the fact that he rolled out of bed sometime in the last half hour.

  "You're normally too pissed to get up and answer, so why bother?" His eyes stray to the burning pipe, and he holds his hand out.

  I pass it to him, and heavily tattooed fingers clasp the glass as he brings it to his lips. Poppy makes some noise in the kitchen, and his gaze darts across the room, sliding over her body.

  He coughs, waving the smoke away from his face. "Well, hello there." He stares at her with all the subtlety of a brick.

  Kyan is a dog. Pussy, booze, blow, and fighting are all he knows. We don't talk all that much, other than when Larry sends him over here to sober me up for a fight.

  “I'm Kyan." He reaches for her hand, but she yanks it away. "You down for seconds? I'll take you out for dinner and everything." He glances in my direction with a smirk. "And I'll do you better than that one and his permanent weed dick."

  "As charming as that sounds," Poppy's gaze strays to me. "I think I'll have to pass."

  "Ah, you're breaking my heart." He hands me the smoldering pipe and clutches at his chest.

  "Poppy doesn't want your STI’s, Kyan."

  I shake my head.

  A wrinkle forms on Kyan’s brow. "If you know her name, does that mean you didn't bang her?"

  "Oh my God." Poppy wrinkles her nose.

  "No bang zone," I say, pointing at Poppy while eyeing Kyan. I don't miss the way he’s d
ragging his eyes all over her, and I don’t like it. “Repeat after me: no bang zone.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He sighs. “Just checking you’re alive. I’m going down to the pub. One-eyed Larry wants you there in a half-hour.” He gives Poppy another quick once over. “You should come down and watch the fight. I’ll introduce you to Madame Wrinkles.”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  I toss my head back on a groan.

  “Madame Wrinkles,” he says again. “She’s the bald pussy Larry keeps behind the bar.”

  “Dear God…” Poppy tosses her hands up in the air.

  “All right,” I point at the door. “Out. Fuck off." I set down the pipe, get up, and open the door, shoving him through and locking the deadbolt behind him.

  I reach for the pipe on the table again, but Poppy snatches it away, tucking it behind her back. It’s enough to make my temper spike, and I rise to my feet, towering over her

  "I didn't ask you to come here. You want to stay, stay, but I'm not looking for a mother. And you're not coming to my fight."

  "You don’t get to order me around."

  I smirk, leaning closer to her until I'm in her face. "You won't last five minutes in there, princess."

  "I was just fine the other night. Besides, Kyan asked me to come. Not you. I'll go to see him." She looks pleased with herself as she pops her hip to the side.

  "You're not going!" I shout, and she flinches away.

  My fists clench and release as I try to get ahold of my temper. The weed usually numbs it, keeps it locked down, but damn, if she doesn’t bring it right to the surface again.

  She turns around, storming to the front door and slamming it shut behind her.

  "Shit!" I pick up a beer bottle from the table and throw it at the now-closed door. It smashes, bits of glass firing in every direction.

  She can go to that fight, but I'm not helping her when some guy decides to cop a feel. She's on her own.