The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  "Well. Save it, and I'll handle you when I get back."

  "Possum…"

  He takes a step toward me, and I hold a finger up. "Don't."

  His smile is full of dirty promises as he takes my hand and yanks me closer. His lips skim just below my ear. "Just call in sick," he whispers, his hot breath tickling my neck. "We'll have a sex day. It's like a snow day, only better."

  I melt into him for a second, nearly caving. He nips at my ear, and I playfully shove him away.

  "I have to go. I'm already late." I snatch up my coat and rush to the door. "Love you."

  When I turn around, he's leaning against the kitchen counter with Mort scooped up in his arms. I don't believe there can be a cuter sight than Brandon O'Kieffe clutching a tiny, bald kitten in his arms. "Love you, possum.”

  By the time I get to the clinic, I'm half an hour late, and I cringe when I walk through the doors. Doris is bent over, shoving patient charts into the filing cabinet.

  "Sorry I'm late. I overslept." I throw my purse under the counter, drop my lunch by the mini-fridge, and I check the schedule. "I'll go get Mr. Brighton," I call out on my way to the waiting room.

  But the only person out here is Mr. Williams. He smiles at me over his newspaper, and I smile back before shutting the door and heading back to the nurse's station.

  I plop into the seat beside Doris. "Did you already take Mr. Brighton back?

  "Mr. Brighton passed away last night.” She stands and wraps her arms around me in a comforting embrace. "They just called."

  A familiar sadness settles over me. "What? What happened, he was just…" He was just fine.

  "He took his own life, dear."

  I clutch at my tightening chest.

  "It's a terrible thing when your own mind is your worst enemy. He's at peace now. At peace..."

  The rest of the day is a blur. Patients come in and out, and all I can think about is Mr. Brighton and how he waved when I told him I would see him later. Did he know then?

  After my shift, I sit on the tube, deep in thought, and by the time I get home, anxiety is crawling across my skin because what if. What if?

  The apartment is quiet with no trace of Brandon or Mort when I drop my keys onto the kitchen counter.

  "Hello?" My voice echoes around the empty apartment.

  Nothing. I walk to the bedroom door and push it open to find Brandon and the cat both in the bed. One of Brandon’s muscular arms is thrown over his face. The other is cradling the Mort against his side.

  "Brandon?"

  "Hmm?"

  I sit on the edge of the mattress and rub his arm. "You feeling okay, babe?"

  "Yeah." Mort struggles to free himself from beneath the weight of Brandon's arm, then walks over his stomach, purring like a little engine.

  I place my hand against Brandon’s forehead, but he's not warm. "Want to go get Chinese? I know how you love your crispy seaweed." I smile.

  He moves his arm and drags his hand down his face, then rolls onto his side, turning his back to me. "No, I'm good."

  The Brandon I left this morning and this Brandon are so vastly different. Mort bites my finger because I'm not petting him, so I swipe my hand over his head a few times before placing him on the floor. I do the only thing I know to do when Brandon is like this—lie down next to him, wrap my arms around his broad frame, and hold him.

  "I love you," I whisper.

  He remains silent, but reaches for me, placing my palm against his chest.

  His heart beats steady under my hand, but there’s a sadness radiating from him, and it tears me in two because there is nothing I can do to take this away.

  We are never more alone than we are when we’re trapped in our own minds. And Brandon—the place he's trapped, it's a place I could never begin to understand. He's not angry, he's drowning in sorrow, and I don't know which emotion is harder to witness. So, I just hold him, and he clings to my arm, not allowing me to let go.

  We lie in silence, and eventually, his breaths grow shallow from sleep. I’ve almost lulled off when he violently tosses, throwing his arm. His head thrashes from side to side, and his face twists into a grimace.

  I want to wake him, but I'm afraid to. "Brandon," I whisper.

  His arm flies out to the side, swiping the lamp and the glass of water to the floor. Mort hisses, his bell tinkling as he runs from the room.

  Brandon mumbles Connor's name in his sleep, and chill bumps scatter my skin.

  He sits bolt upright in the bed, chest heaving as he pulls in deep breaths. His head whips to the side, and when his eyes fix on me, he relaxes. "Did I hurt you?"

  Shaking my head, I rub a hand over his clammy chest, and he falls back against the mattress, his chest still heaving, and his skin clammy with sweat. “Bad dream?”

  He nods.

  "Tell me.”

  Inhaling, he turns to face me. "I can't." His eyes squeeze shut, and he swallows. "It's not the kind of shit you talk about."

  I don’t say anything, but when his eyes open and meet my gaze, he exhales again before he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me down against his chest, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Go to sleep, poss."

  I think of Mr. Brighton, of how he called the memories of the war ghosts. And I just want to know. "Tell me, Brandon. Please."

  "You don't want to know the details of how he died. It will run through your mind on repeat. Trust me."

  I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, like a caged animal desperate to get out. "I am stronger than you think,” I say. “I accepted long ago that it was brutal." I pause, my gaze veering up to him for the briefest of moments. I feel like I’m invading some personal space of his, but I can't help it. "Did he suffer?"

  "No. It was an IED. I don't even remember the bomb going off. I just remember waking up. The foxhound was on its side, everyone else was dead. I tried to save him, I tried, but he was already gone." His voice is a distant hum, disconnected as though he recalled a story he read in the paper. "The truck was leaking diesel, and, for a moment, I thought that if I just stayed there, just kept pressing on his chest, the whole thing would blow, and I wouldn't have to crawl out of that fucking truck and leave my best friend behind."

  For a second, I feel like I'm suffocating with him. There are so many things I selfishly want to force out of him, but I won’t. I just want the undue guilt he carries day in and day out to vanish. For all Connor meant to me, I know he meant so much more to Brandon. Connor was my love, but to Brandon, Connor was his salvation. "You did the right thing,” I whisper. “You know that."

  "There were four of us in that truck. Connor was the best person I knew, and he died while I survived. How is that right?" He inhales a ragged breath. "It's not fucking right."

  "Some people, Brandon…" I fight the tears and the hurt, even though I want nothing more than to collapse and crumble. I want to wallow in this hurt with Brandon, but I can't allow myself. "Some people are too bright for this world."

  He squeezes me tighter. "Yeah. He always was the golden boy."

  50

  Poppy

  Every time I closed my eyes last night, my mind drifted to thoughts of Mr. Brighton, of how he smiled and called Doris a wench the last time I saw him. I wondered what dark place he must have been in for to death to seem enticing. For most people, life is a series of ups and downs, peaks and valleys—but when the valley is so damn bleak and dark, how long can a person survive there?

  I'm afraid one day Brandon may get so low he'll never be able to come up again, like Mr. Brighton…because while Brandon wouldn't do something like that, that darkness would.

  The coffee maker beeps, and I fill my cup to the brim just as the bedroom door creaks and Brandon shuffles out. Dark circles loom beneath his eyes, and I question how he can look so exhausted even though he slept most of the day yesterday.

  "Morning," he mumbles as he steps in front of me and grabs a mug from the cabinet.

  "Sleep good?"

 
"Yeah.” He cups my cheek and presses a kiss against my hair before moving to the coffee machine. He pours creamer into his cup, followed, of course, with whiskey before he moves to the couch. “You sleep okay?”

  "Yeah…"

  Mort claws his way up the side of the sofa, crawls into Brandon's lap, and nudges his hand. Brandon sips his coffee, stroking the tiny tuft of fur on Mort’s head while he stares off into the nothing, with a vacant glaze to his eyes. And I wonder, how would I know. How would I possibly know if Brandon had reached the point of no return? Anxiety creeps up my throat.

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, petting Mort’s back. "Brandon.” I hesitate. I’ve always been able to talk to him, but something about this feels invasive, like I’m accusing him or degrading him. "I worry about you."

  His eyes narrow, and he shoos Mort away. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “The doctors at the clinic are really good with PTSD, and I just thought…”

  He rubs a hand over his face, places his coffee on the table, then takes my mug from my hand, and sets it beside his. “Poss”—he drags me into his lap and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear—"You're everything I need."

  "Brandon, stop." I move his hand away from my cheek, and he glares at me.

  "I'm serious."

  "You're the only one who can help me, poss. I don't know what you want from me."

  But I can’t help. I can't make things better for him, because sometimes, I'm just as lost as he is, and sometimes, I fear our sorrow threatens to drown us both. "Brandon, don't you see I can't fix you. I can’t—"

  "Fix me?" His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches before he carefully shifts me off his lap and stands.

  That came out differently than I meant it, and I stumble for words to backtrack, but he’s already pacing.

  "Is that what I am to you?" His body bristles with agitation, and his fists clench. "Something broken? Defective?"

  "I didn't mean it like that.” My heart pounds against my ribs. “I just meant—"

  "I don't need you to fix shit!" He storms out of the room, and I drop my chin to my chest on a hard exhale.

  I know that sounded like I think he’s a broken toy that can be pieced back together, but that’s not at all what I think. I’m terrified, worried that nothing will make this better and that all he’ll do is continue to sink in the muck and mire of depression, and it makes me angry. It makes me angry that this is the life he’s been given—we’ve been given. Nothing about it seems fair. I follow him into the hallway. "You don't need to be fixed; you need help. We need help.”

  "There is no helping this!" His voice booms off the walls, and I flinch. "There is no fucking cure. No fix. This is survival, one day at a time. You knew what you were getting, Poppy." He spreads his arms wide as a mocking laugh slips from his lips. "Is it everything you hoped it would be?"

  That dig stings, and it brings angry blood rushing to my cheeks. From the age of ten, I had hoped for so much more for us, for Connor. "Nothing in my life has ever been everything I hoped it would be. But the way you were yesterday—"

  "It was Connor's fucking birthday yesterday!" he shouts, then slaps a palm over the wall, and my thoughts come to an abrupt halt, my lungs seizing.

  I forgot him. I was so consumed with running late and Brandon and Mr. Brighton, so worried about my life as it is now, that I forgot someone I promised I never would, and this is where my strength gives out.

  Burying my face in my hands, I sink to the floor. This time, I don't try to stop the tears from falling.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. To Brandon and Connor. "I forgot.” A fresh wave of pain grips my heart in its clutches.

  Brandon crouches in front of me, swiping his thumbs below my eyes to dry my tears before he pulls me to his chest, cocooning me in his warmth. "It’s all right.”

  But it’s not. I want to throw things and punch things. I want to destroy something until it's as ugly and battered as I feel—but, instead, I cling to him.

  "I love you," he mumbles against my hair.

  When I fall to pieces, he is the only thing that keeps me from completely breaking.

  51

  Brandon

  October 2015

  I step into the ring and crack my neck from side to side. Josh Harmon grins before he blows me a kiss.

  "I'm gonna break that pretty little face of yours," he says. His eyes are blown wide, pupils nothing more than pinpricks, and his hands twitch in agitation as he bounces on his feet.

  Brilliant. I tell Larry to step it up, and he brings me some gear-jacked thug.

  I don’t respond to his jeers, but I do allow the rage to swirl and build like a thick cloud until it swamps me, wrapping me in its tendrils.

  The sound of Larry's voice becomes a distant hum, as if I'm underwater, removed from the situation rather than at the center of it. And then, the bell dings and everything snaps back into place in an instant: the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes. And the rage—it punches against my skin like a rabid animal waiting to get out.

  Harmon comes at me like a train, fists swinging. He instantly tries to step inside and block my leg with his. It's a dirty move, and in any normal fight, an illegal one. I swerve to avoid his trip and catch the end of his swing, only a glancing blow, but enough to split my lip.

  I pause, swiping my fingertips over the tiny cut and smiling when my hand comes away bloody. He comes at me again. Whatever he's on must be some good shit because he's lightning-fast, but even with his speed, I still nail him twice in the face. It doesn’t faze him.

  He takes another swing. His fist barely brushes past my side, but I wince at the sting that breaks out over my skin. When I glance down, I notice three bright red lines stretching across my ribs. Blood wells up and spills down my side, and the crowd erupts. Some booing, some cheering.

  Larry shoves his way into the ring, closely followed by Kyan. "Time!" he shouts. "Disqualified for breach of conduct."

  Harmon throws his head back and laughs as he lifts his hand. The light glints from the razor blades the bastard has in his wraps.

  Larry and Kyan step in front of him.

  "Protecting your boy?" Harmon says. "I would have destroyed him."

  I snarl and step forward, but Finn is in front of me in a second. Harmon grins, spits on the floor, and steps out of the ring.

  "We both know you would have had the fucking junkie," Finn says.

  He never swears, and I can practically feel the tension hammering off him. His anger may be controlled, but all it does is feed my own. I shove away from him and pace the ring a few times, clenching and releasing my fists. My ribs sting. Blood trickles down my side, mixing with sweat.

  Larry stops me, placing his hand on my side as he inspects the damage. "Go get cleaned up," he says, studying my face closely. "Finn, go with him. Get him some first aid, and do not let him out."

  By the time I'm back in the storeroom, I'm murderous. My skin itches and anger crawls over me like ants. Finn sits on the metal bench in the middle of the room with a small first aid kit in his lap. Although seemingly calm, his knee jerks repeatedly in my peripheral, and his agitation makes me nervous. Too much time in a battle zone will get you like that. When you live, work, and kill beside other guys, you feed off their emotions. If one of them suddenly becomes tense, you best assume you're about to get a bullet in your arse. In a way, you become like a pack of animals, each looking at the others for behavioral cues, and his anger is only setting light to my own, stoking it and stirring the flames higher.

  "Finn, you need to go," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Larry told me—"

  "Look, you're pissed, and it's not helping me." I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes closed. I hate feeling this out of control, a slave to this aggression.

  He hesitates for a second, then nods, gets up, and leaves the room. The second he does, I slam my fist into one of the metal lockers. The skin at my ribs pulls with the movement, and I place my
hand over it. Blood slicks my palm. "Fuck!" I roar, jumping when the door to the storeroom slams against the wall.

  Poppy’s gaze skims my side, and she shakes her head. Inhaling, she takes the first aid kit from the bench and begins rummaging through it.

  "I'm fine," I say.

  "You're bleeding." She kneels in front of me, swatting my arm away from my side so she can inspect the cut. “I don’t think you need stitches, at least.” A line sinks between her brows, and her lips press into an angry little line. “You should have knocked his teeth down his throat."

  It's so cute that the anger in me ebbs slightly.

  "I would have if Larry weren’t such a pussy about it."

  She fiddles with a bandage. "I mean, what did he hope to accomplish by swiping you with a razor?"

  I concentrate on a spot on the wall while she tapes the dressing in place. I count to a hundred in my head and focus on breathing. In and out. I allow the pleasant scent of Poppy's perfume to drown out the smell of blood and sweat and violence.

  Her fingers trail over my cheek, and I blink, staring down at her. The little frown line is still there.

  "Stop worrying, Poppy."

  She scowls at me. “I didn't realize that you getting shanked by some filthy asshole—in an underground, illegal fight pit—was something I shouldn't be worried about."

  "Babe, it's a scratch. I did not get shanked." I can't help but smile at that.

  "Don't try to downplay this, Brandon."

  I lift my hand and sweep the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

  Her eyes flutter closed, and she swallows. "I hate this," she whispers.

  I press my lips against her forehead, then throw on my shirt and hoodie. "Let's go."

  As soon as we step outside the storeroom, I spot Finn lingering against the back wall. Hope is with him, no doubt chewing off his ear about some pointless bullshit. The second he spots me, he crosses the room, Hope trailing behind.