The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  Mort jumps down from his spot on the couch, kneading his claws on the rug. "Stop it, Mort." I snap my fingers at the cat, and Brandon freezes.

  "Hey, poss."

  "What happened?"

  "It's nothing; I just knocked over the lamp. Go back to bed." He dumps the shattered glass into the trash, then flops back onto the sofa.

  "Come with me," I say, wanting nothing more than him to curl up beside me and hold me. Lately, it seems more times than not that he falls asleep watching TV, and I miss the intimacy. The closeness of waking up with him right there.

  "No."

  My heart crumples. "Please." I sound desperate, but I don’t care. I’ve spent half my life feeling desperate when it comes to him.

  "Just go back to bed, Poppy." He drags a hand through his hair, then fists a handful of it like I’m working his last nerve. "Please."

  I study him, the furrow of his brow, the bounce in his knee, and I know why he’s out here and why the lamp is broken. "Did you have a nightmare?"

  "No. Leave it alone."

  A commercial comes on the TV. The pale light dances across his face and I catch his jaw tense, and I know he’s lying.

  "It's okay if you did."

  A cynical laugh rumbles from his chest. "Good to know I have your permission to be a fuck up."

  "You're not a fuck up. It's just a dream—"

  "Really?" He sits up and swings his legs off the sofa, resting his elbows on his spread knees while his head drops forward. "Is that what you tell yourself? That I'm not screwed up? That I just have bad dreams?" There’s a cold cruelty lacing his voice. "Do you think I'm all fixed, Poppy?"

  That jab was low, and it hurt. "All I want is to understand."

  He balls one fist tight and rests it against his forehead, gritting his teeth as he presses his knuckles into his skin. "You will never understand me!" The hate that fills his voice causes me to flinch. "Why the fuck would you want to understand this?" He slaps his palm against his bare chest, while his shoulders rise and fall in uneven swells.

  Moments like this make me feel completely helpless like I'm just watching him drown while I'm holding onto a life raft. Like he’s Jack and I’m Rose.

  When I step forward and try to take his hand, he jerks away.

  "God, he's right." He grips his head, his fingers winding through his hair in agitation. "I’ll never be good enough for you."

  "Brandon." I hesitate to ask. "What are you talking about?"

  "Why don't you just leave, Poppy? I'll never be what you want me to be! I hate this. I hate that job. I hate this bullshit life."

  He paces the length of the floor, his fists constantly clenching. I don't know where any of this came from, but it's here, and it's been here, looming beneath the surface.

  "Stop it. Just…" I cover my face with my hands.

  "I hate that I don't fit in your perfect fucking box."

  "Stop it," I shout.

  He laughs, his expression turning cruel and unrecognizable. "Why? So we can go back to pretending I'm Connor?"

  That is an arrow through the chest, hard and swift, and one that leaves my jaw dropped. Out of all the things Brandon has said, that is the cruelest and the most depressing because what he’ll never see is that it has always been him—always, Brandon, who owned my heart. I fight the tightening sensation in my chest, my brow wrinkling. "Why?" I exhale and swallow, trying to manage my emotions. "Why would you say that?"

  "I stole his life. Took his girl. Hell, I even have the shitty nine-to-five he would have happily worked for you." Brandon kicks the coffee table over with a string of obscenities, and Mort goes dashing across the living room.

  "I swear to God!” Brandon's fist goes through the sheetrock, sending dust into the air. Then he grabs a vase from the side table and smashes it, and I find myself moving away from him until my back hits a wall. And just like that, he freezes. His eyes lock on mine, and all that rage rippling over his face melts into despair and grief.

  Without a word, he takes his jacket from the hook by the door and storms out, leaving me standing in the middle of so much destruction; the remnants of love and war.

  58

  Brandon

  I found the first shitty bar I could and ducked in for a drink, but now there’s a bottle of whiskey on the bar top in front of me, a short glass beside it that I keep filling up and necking in a few gulps.

  Finally, that numbness and quiet I've missed sets in, and my mind stills. Today, tomorrow, they don't matter, just this exact moment, and to a guy like me, that’s sheer bliss.

  What was I thinking, trying to work a normal job, trying not to drink? I didn't get rid of the monster, I just threw it in a cellar and prayed it wouldn't come back out, but eventually it was roaring so loud the floorboards were shaking, and when it got loose…

  I wish Poppy would get out of this shit because God knows I'm too damn weak to leave her.

  It’s past three when I stumble out of the bar and into the drizzly London night. Traffic zooms past, the lull of tires over the wet tarmac almost has me in a trance when I step off the curb. I close my eyes and keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m in the middle of the road. Waiting, thinking that if I stand here long enough, perhaps fate will fix everything for me.

  A horn blares, followed by the breeze of a vehicle passing close by, then someone grabs onto my shirt and yanks me back several feet. “Hey mate, what are you doing?”

  I turn, focusing my blurred vision on the stranger. “You all right?” He glances back at the traffic and thumbs to the bus, now taking the corner. “That double-decker nearly flattened you out.”

  Adrenaline floods my veins as I watch the cars whizz past, then shake my head as my senses return. “Thanks.”

  He pats me on the shoulder and gives me one last, concerned look before walking off.

  I wander through London; down alleys and across parks, until I end up at Finn's door, asking if I can crash for the night. I skip work the next morning, and when my manager calls wanting to know where I am, I tell him he can shove the job, then hang up.

  "Smooth," Finn says from the kitchen doorway.

  "Looks like I'm in the market for a job, huh?"

  "Your skill set is pretty limited." He rounds the coffee table. "But, you can always fight."

  I know he's joking, but the idea is oh so tempting. Such easy money, and that feeling… I miss the energy of it, the bloodlust in the air, but most of all, I miss the respect that everyone used to look at me with. I miss being the best at something. And maybe I miss the continuity of it.

  Fighting was something I did before everything went to shit, a constant point in my life that has never changed. The ability to fight. The ability to win.

  I dial Larry's number, imagining the disappointment on Poppy's face, and while I wait for him to answer, I tell myself I need this in ways she can’t understand.

  The line clicks. "Well, there you are, you son of a bitch." Larry laughs. "What’cha want?"

  "I want a fight."

  59

  Poppy

  "Poppy." Hope shouts through the door, and I groan. She has no idea about what’s happened over the past twenty-four hours: that I didn’t go to sleep until four this morning when Finn called to let me know Brandon was safe, or that, when I called his work, I was informed he’d been fired.

  "I know you're home." The knob rattles before she bangs on the door. "Open up, or I'll be forced to smash your bedroom window and climb in."

  I get up and flip the lock, and the second the door opens, she’s shoving one of her jackets at me.

  "Here. Put this on." She grabs my arm and pulls me into the walkway before I have a chance to blink. "Let's go. Chop-chop." She snaps her fingers.

  "I’m not going anywhere, I—"

  She drags me toward the parking lot. "Oh, yes, you are. We’re going to The Pit." She stops midstride and places a stern hand on her hip. "And you want to know why? Because Brandon, like the prick that he is, is due
to fight in about twenty minutes."

  "What?" My blood pressure ticks up, and within seconds, my entire body is on fire. "Oh, I'm going to kill him."

  Breaker. Breaker. Breaker.

  I've never seen this place so crowded. People are shoulder to shoulder, yelling and shouting and toasting their beers while I duck underneath their sweaty arms and weave between heckling men.

  The microphone crackles before the jarring screech of feedback kicks in. "Gone from the ring for four months, he's back with a vengeance." Larry pauses for dramatic effect, and everyone goes nuts. "Brandon 'The Breaker' Blaine!"

  Brandon steps out from the back, hands taped, and hair messy. He paces the pen like a tiger hungry for blood, and with each agitated movement, I catch a glimpse of his monster, willing and ready to claw its way out.

  I finish shoving my way through The Pit, losing Hope as I go. I pass Finn before I climb between the worn ropes.

  Men whistle, and Brandon whips around, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull when his eyes land on me. I march between him and his opponent, only stopping when my face is inches from Brandon’s chest. "Get out of this ring, Brandon."

  The crowd boos, then a crumpled beer can lands at my feet. "Get the pretty out of the ring," someone yells.

  "Brandon, please. Get out," I repeat because there is a very real fear gripping my throat. I’m terrified of the setback, the inevitable downward spiral.

  "Get your bitch out of the ring," the opponent shouts over the boos bouncing from the concrete walls.

  Brandon's jaw sets, then his neck cracks to the side. I've seen that look in his eye once before, the night he nearly killed two guys—the night he hit me.

  Brandon moves around me, and his gaze strays to the side. "Finn," he says in a low voice before his attention swings to his opponent, then he charges. A hard punch lands on the other fighter’s face, the spray of blood splattering the front of my shirt.

  "The fuck did you just say to her?" Brandon fists the guy’s hair and slams his head back against the concrete with a loud crack.

  The opponent manages to block his face from another blow, but Brandon just goes to his torso, battering it with ruthless jabs.

  Someone’s arms wrap around my waist, lifting me up and over the ropes. "You all right?" Finn asks as he drags me away from the ring.

  The crowd is going ballistic, but even with their cheers, the sickening whack of the guy’s skull against the concrete rises above the noise.

  I thought I was helping him. I thought that getting him away from this violence would allow his wounds to heal, but I know nothing. All getting him out of this ring did was place a Band-Aid over a knife wound. It didn’t even stop the bleeding, much less heal him.

  Finn escorts Hope and me upstairs while Larry and Kyan attempt to subdue Brandon. Finn seats us at one of the empty tables, then disappears through the doorway beside the bar.

  Hope tries to talk to me, but her words are nothing more than background noise, I’m focused on the fact that I caused this. I stepped into that ring when I shouldn’t have. I can’t help but think that maybe I’m part of Brandon’s problem; all I seem to do is make things worse. When we were sixteen, I showed up at his caravan and kissed him. I was the one who grabbed his hips and pulled him inside of me. And nearly ten years later, I was the one who tracked him down when all he wanted to do was disappear. I am part of his problem…

  Hope must sense the thoughts running amuck through my mind because she rubs a soothing hand over my shoulder. "You can't feel guilty about any of this."

  But the thing she’ll never understand is—I can.

  And I do.

  Hope fought me about coming back home, but she lost, and now, as I make my way to the door, my stomach kinking and twisting, I wish I hadn’t. I have no idea what to expect when I go inside, so I take a breath before shoving my key into the lock and turning it. The door swings open and I stop mid-stride, keys still in my hand while my heart beats out a rhythm of heartbreak like it’s been tethered and quartered and pulled in four opposing directions

  It’s not the sight of Brandon on the floor with his back against the sofa, his bloodied fingers clutching a bottle of whiskey, or the dark red smudge staining his cheek that breaks my heart. What pulls my soul apart are the tears pouring down his face while his chest heaves.

  I’ve seen Brandon angry and quiet, and I’ve watched him cry, but outside of when his Ma died, I can't ever remember seeing him sob, and it terrifies me.

  I close the door behind me, fidgeting with the keys in my palm before I take cautious steps toward him.

  He tips the bottle back and swallows several heavy gulps before I drop to my knees in front of him.

  "Brandon,” I whisper, knowing he's not here right now, afraid I’ll startle him.

  His empty eyes meet mine, his wounded soul begging me for help that I have no idea how to give.

  "Poss," he murmurs. "I just want it to stop." The utter brokenness that resonates in his voice drags me down a bit deeper. And deeper.

  The memories that plague Brandon day and night may as well be a terminal illness because I fear he will die with them still clinging to his mind. They’re as much a part of him as he is a part of me.

  "I know." I cup his cheek, and he closes his eyes before leaning into my touch. "I wish I could make it stop."

  "I'm sorry." He tips back that bottle again, and God, how I hate that he feels the need to apologize to me for something he has no control over, for the awful cards he has been dealt.

  "Nothing to be sorry for." I grab his sweat-slicked hand, and he allows me to pull him to his feet. All I want to do is pretend this isn’t as bad as it is, that it’s just another rough night when I know it’s anything but. "Let's get ready for bed."

  He stumbles into the wall several times before we reach the bathroom, and I help him out of his bloodstained clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers when I turn the taps to the shower, and again when I help him onto the edge of the tub.

  Unable to manage the tears still lingering in his eyes, I run a washcloth under the scalding water, then rinse the blood and sweat from his face, his neck and chest. His hands.

  He doesn’t say a word the entire time, just stares at me like the world ends right here with him and me.

  After I dry him off, we go to lie in bed. Like so many other nights of my life, he rests his head on my chest, and I place my palm against his cheek while running the fingers of my free hand through his thick hair. But this time, the silence is blaringly quiet.

  I focus on each of his ragged breaths, understanding for the first time that some pain, some ghosts—well, they’re just too much.

  "You know you should get out of this, Poppy," he says, his broken words cutting through the silence. "Save yourself. For me."

  I sweep my hand through his hair again, pressing my chin against the top of his head. Just needing to feel him. "We're not talking about this right now."

  His arms wrap around my stomach, holding me so tight that he shakes like he’s scared if he lets go, I'll disappear. "I turn everything I touch to shit,” he says. "I’m poison."

  And that is what Brandon has been told his whole life, what he’s been conditioned to believe. How can I possibly explain love to someone who can't love themselves, who can't manage to see their own worth—How do I explain to Brandon that he is my world?

  In this silence, I realize I can’t. Those words can leave my lips ten thousand times, but Brandon will never hear them. Some things just won’t break through that darkness.

  I continue to sweep my fingers through his hair until his breaths even out and his tense muscles relax. And when he’s asleep, I cling to him a little tighter because I'm so afraid I'm going to lose him.

  Later in the night, I wake to a dark room, gasping. My lungs burn and ache for a breath I can’t seem to catch. Someone’s grip tightens around my throat, and I claw at the hands crushing my windpipe. Arching my back from the bed, I kick and swat the
person pressing down on my throat.

  Spots dot my vision, and the last thing I think about is Brandon before the pressure disappears. Dragging in lungful after lungful of air, I throw myself from the bed and stumble to the floor.

  "Oh, God.”

  Brandon is on his knees on the bed, staring at his hands. “I…” He thrusts both hands into his hair and doubles over, a broken cry leaving his lips. "Fuck!"

  My legs are shaking, and when I try to stand, I collapse before I crawl across the floor and grab the jeans from earlier, pulling them on while I fight the tears. Fighting everything inside of me that tells me to run away from him.

  "Poppy?"

  I force myself to look at him. "I'm okay. I'm just going to…" Mort slinks out from underneath the bed, coiling around my leg. "It’s fine, Brandon. It was a dream.” I rub at my neck. “I’m okay,” I say before closing the door and stepping into the living room.

  I grab the blanket and curl up on the sofa, silently breaking apart in the dark. I want to be strong for him like I always have, but everyone has their breaking point. And I’m terrified where mine will be.

  60

  Brandon

  Poppy comes in before the sun rises. She gets dressed for work, then kisses me and leaves, like nothing ever happened. Like this is normal.

  I nearly killed her.

  She's the only good in my life, and what happens when I extinguish her?

  That dream was so vivid, and it was Connor. Only Connor was the enemy, and I was choking him—choking her. I bite back the strangled sound slipping from my throat. I would never hurt them. They are the two people in this world I would never hurt, and yet, I did. I'm no longer living with a monster. I am the monster.