by Loretta Lost
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder. I accidentally used my arm attached to the shoulder with the bullet wound, and it sends pain searing up from my collarbone to my skull, but I clench my teeth together to hide this from her. If this is how much it hurts while on drugs, I’m really looking forward to them wearing off.
“Are you still planning to go through with this, son?” Mr. Bishop says, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. “As your lawyer, I must caution you that thoroughly faking your death and dividing all your assets is… well, irreversible.”
“Not totally irreversible, but we’ll all have to suffer the consequences. I would probably take the fall for this,” Rodriguez says. “So you have to be absolutely sure.”
“I’m sure,” I tell them all. “Make me dead to the world.”
“How is this even possible?” Miranda asks. “Are you sure we can pull this off?”
“Roddy has connections,” I explain.
The detective nods to confirm this. “I know a guy.”
Mr. Bishop clears his throat. “Cole, son, for the sake of the company, I must highly recommend that you not—”
“I have to, Mr. Bishop. I’m so sorry. I know Levi is struggling in Karachi, but I’ve done all I can for that project. They have my designs, they have my instructions—I can’t babysit them anymore and yell at them to do the jobs they were hired to do, and intimidate them into making deadlines. It’s destroying my health, worrying about this 24/7. I barely sleep as it is, but now…”
“Are you sure this is the best time to make this decision?” Mr. Bishop asks. “You’ve just been shot, and poisoned—the physical illness and emotional trauma could be clouding your judgment.”
“My judgment is crystal clear, maybe for the first time ever. My whole life, I’ve just been working myself to the bone. Every single day, work, work, work. I need some time to heal, Mr. Bishop. I need some time away from it all, without my phone buzzing constantly. I need to get away from the company, away from the stress, away from this whole damn city. If I don’t get away now, it is actually going to kill me. Sooner rather than later.”
“I understand, my boy,” says Mr. Bishop. “Your parents would be proud of all you’ve accomplished. You need to put your health first. If stepping away from all of this is what you need… well, I will support you.”
“Thank you.”
“He also just needs to nurse his broken heart over his wife marrying some other guy,” Rodriguez explains, to which I roll my eyes.
“Honey,” Miranda says, stroking my hair. “Scarlett is going to be devastated when she finds out. Do you want us to tell her the truth…?”
“No!” I say, a little too forcefully.
Rodriguez echoes, “No way in hell.”
“Cole,” Miranda says with a disapproving tone. “Are you just doing this to make the poor girl upset?”
“No,” I say softly.
“Honey, that would be a terrible thing to do! And you’re going to make us lie to her?”
“What makes you think she will even show her face here, Miranda?” I ask a little angrily. “She doesn’t care about me anymore. She doesn’t care about you, or Mr. Bishop, or this company. She’s moved on with her life.”
“So do you want me to cut her out of your will?” Mr. Bishop inquires.
“On the contrary,” I respond. “I want you to leave her everything.”
“Everything?” he asks.
“What about my yacht and my ranch?” Rodriguez whines.
I smile. “There are already large endowments in my will for all of you. I want to leave Scarlett controlling shares of the company. We started Snowfire together—with Miranda, of course. But she left me to run it all by myself. She left me high and dry. So make it her responsibility to take over all of this stress that I have to deal with on a daily basis. And if she doesn’t come to claim it, you can give it all to Miranda and Levi.”
“I beg your pardon?” Miranda objects. “You want to give me the stress?”
“The control. You can sell your shares if you don’t want the stress. Mr. Bishop, I would like to leave a million dollars to my therapist, Dr. Annabelle Nelson, or to the charity of her choice. She’s been so kind, and she really tried to help me. Tell her it wasn’t her fault, and that I just couldn’t be saved. I’m a lost cause.”
Pausing, I remember another important detail. “I have a note I need to give to Scarlett. Maybe you could just write it down for me before I leave. And there’s a manila envelope for her in the top drawer of my desk with some information about her birth family I received recently.”
Mr. Bishop is furiously writing down my demands. He glances up over his wire-framed glasses with a pitying look. “You’re really upset at the poor girl, aren’t you, Cole?”
I give him a sad smile. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m letting go.”
“I understand,” the older man says softly. “Do you know where you are going to live from now on? You’ll have to lay low for a while.”
“I have the prototype of the mobile home we sold to NASA. That thing can take me anywhere. But for now, I was thinking of your vacation home in Nevada? If you don’t mind, Mr. Bishop.”
“Of course, son. That home belonged to your parents. It was never really mine.”
“Thank you. Miranda, have my security team wipe the hospital cameras so that the police can’t figure out that I left the hospital alive.”
Rodriguez frowns. “That’s not going to help us find out who’s after you.”
“Does it matter? They succeeded. They killed me. They will stop trying now.”
“Bad people need to be punished for their crimes,” Rodriguez says. “Can I get a copy of the footage before they are wiped?”
“No, Rodriguez. It would put you at risk.”
“Fine.”
Everyone stands around in silence for a few seconds, and we all seem keenly aware that we are in standing in a room that serves as a walk-in closet for refrigerated dead bodies.
Gesturing behind me, I grin to break the ice. Then I wince at the pain in my face. “As long as all those corpses are really dead, we should have no problems,” I tell my friends. “I have complete trust in all of you.”
“So we’re really doing this,” Miranda says softly. “We’re saying goodbye to you for good.”
“Yes,” I say softly. “It’s better if you just pretend I’m actually dead so that it’s easier to lie.”
“I’m going to miss you, honey,” she says, leaning over to give me a hug. “Everyone’s going to believe you’re dead, because I’m going to be crying for days at the thought of losing my friend.”
“I’ll miss you too, Miranda. Oh, don’t cry now.”
“I can’t help it. There’s nothing we can do or say to change your mind? You’re really going away? Do you really have to do this?”
“Yes,” I say with quiet conviction.
“We are going to have to lie to the whole world,” she says tearfully. “We’re going to have to lie to poor Scarlett.”
“Yes,” I say again, feeling an odd twist in my stomach.
Rodriguez nods enthusiastically. “Bitches need to learn.”
Chapter Five
After I died
It’s the fourth day since I was officially murdered.
I never knew life after death would be so good. If someone had told me that wiping out my entire existence was the key to happiness, I would have let myself get murdered a long time ago.
Yawning and stretching in bed, I breathe in deeply of the fresh, filtered air in the cabin, and congratulate myself on finally achieving the luxury of not having to look at the clock to know what time it is, and not having to immediately rush off to complete tasks that should have been done hours or days ago by people I already paid to complete those tasks. Delegating never really works as well as it should—no one ever cares about your business as much as you can. It’s just a job for everyone else, while for you, it’s your calling,
your purpose, your destiny. Your raison d’etre. Most people will never understand that kind of passion.
Of course, this same passion, mixed in with an unhealthy dose of perfectionism, usually means you end up polishing up and redoing everyone else’s tasks, and carrying the weight of the duties of a dozen or more individuals on your shoulders. Until one of those shoulders gets shot, and you decide to fuck it all. It’s really glamorous, isn’t it? The high-powered life of a wealthy CEO. So stressed it’s impossible to take a dump without coffee or laxatives, and so tense that even masturbating feels like an exhausting chore. If only all those dumb, gold-digging girls who prey upon men like me could understand the levels of anxiety I face, and how unhinged I am, they would think twice about coming near me.
None of this was ever worth the money.
As soon as I finished making arrangements for all of my assets and responsibilities, Rodriguez had a coroner friend come by and give me an “autopsy.” I must admit, although I have experienced a lot of unusual things in my life, I have never been autopsied before.
In Los Angeles, everything is truly for sale. Love, sex, beauty, ecstasy—even death.
The coroner even tried to sell me a new face to go with my death certificate. He said he knew an excellent plastic surgeon, and could get me a package discount. Apparently, after faking one’s own death, many people like to go the extra mile and totally change their appearance. This makes sense, especially if they were being hunted by the mafia, the police, an abusive ex, or you know, if they were just plain ugly.
I declined the surgery, of course; partially because I’d just been shot in the face, and partially because I like my face. I just couldn’t delay or stay in this city any longer. I needed to get away. ASAP. Rodriguez had his friends drive me out to the factory that produced my mobile home, and we took one of the newer prototypes. They helped me to load up the house with supplies, a few personal effects I requested from my home, and enough MREs to last a year.
Then I happily drove the hell away from L.A., out into the middle of the desert. I drove and I drove, with one eye nearly swollen shut, and one arm lying limply in my lap. I didn’t even look back once with nostalgia, or to bemoan the life I was leaving behind.
When I finally arrived at the house on Red Earth Lane, I stared at it for a few minutes, thinking of my parents. They used to bring me here when I was very young, but I can barely remember those days. What I did remember was a secluded geyser, in a mountain oasis with fresh water. Not even entering the house—which now belongs to Mr. Bishop, since I gave it to him in exchange for taking care of Scarlett when I was in prison—I took a detour back out onto the road, and drove around the valleys and between the mountains to a deserted, well, desert, that I could drive my vehicle across. Then it was time for some serious off-roading.
Driving thirty miles over paved road is easy, but when there is no road, and the terrain is virtually impassable—you need a tank. Or something better than a tank, like my NovaTank. Although it has been field tested, I must admit feeling a great deal of pride from getting the opportunity to really see what it’s made of. I have designed a lot of houses in my life, and even partnered with other companies to design house boats and the interiors of luxury airplanes, but this one is my baby.
Upon arriving at the oasis, my good shoulder was in just as much pain as the one that got shot. It took a lot of strength to steer the Nova across all that rocky terrain. But once I saw the geyser shooting up to welcome me, I knew the journey had been worth it.
I need to be isolated and off the grid to totally detox from all the bullshit and stressors of society. I need to leave behind all the artificial constructs of humanity, and reconnect with nature.
I don’t care if that makes me sound like a hipster millennial.
Besides, I’m not doing something ridiculous like hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. This is not a sensationalized vision quest; it’s a deeply personal choice to set my whole life ablaze, and destroy everything I am like a self-immolating monk. Everything I am is wrong, and flawed. Everything needs to be changed.
I realize that camping out in a tent is probably the preferable housing for reconnecting with nature, but my NovaTank has an endless list of benefits that a tent would never have. (Although, along the drive, I did think of at least five ways that I could improve this model.) I know that considering my weakened state and poor health, it is unwise to be far from civilization and hospitals, but I have no intention of getting sicker or going back.
Somehow, I know that everything I need to heal is right here up in the Great Basin desert.
Since the day I officially died, I have labored to keep a detailed journal of my activities. As any solitary adventurer out into the wild knows, it is customary to keep a diary of your thoughts, experiences, and discoveries—even if mine will be largely internal. Many brave and intellectual men throughout history have chronicled their expeditions thusly. Charles Darwin, Ponce de Leon, and hundreds of much less famous, but equally important, captains of ships venturing across oceans, ice, and outer space. Of course, my writings are not nearly as exciting, but they are important to me.
This may or may not be an exact transcription from my journal thus far:
Day One: Sleep.
Day Two: Sleep.
Day Three: Sleep.
Day Four: Sleep.
Needless to say, it’s been the best four days of my life. At least in recent memory. Has it even been four days? It might be more or less than that. I’m not even sure, as I’ve been too busy sleeping to care. It’s a deep, dreamless sleep in my completely darkened Nova. I needed this so bad. Have you ever been to one of those float tanks, the sensory deprivation chambers? I have always been meaning to go, but I just never had time for that sort of thing. The quietude of my house combined with the quality of the mattress, and the dulling peace of my painkillers, have simulated my own sort of private float tank.
For at least 72 hours, I haven’t been miserable.
No cell phones ringing at all hours because I have business happening on the other side of the planet. No computer lights blinking for my attention because I fell asleep working on my laptop. No conversations with anyone asking me for help, or to fix a problem, or to sign something, or to talk sternly to someone who’s been giving them trouble.
Is this what Scarlett felt like when she got rid of all her technology? I always wondered why she would choose to work with the government instead of me. I always wonder why she would accept their ridiculous imposition that she steer clear of the internet. I have found it extremely frustrating that she hasn’t owned a cell phone or computer for several years, as it has become nearly impossible to communicate with her.
But now, it makes sense a little. It feels so damn good to be so totally disconnected. I can’t remember the last time I heard myself think so clearly. I mean, I think all the time at work, but it’s mostly utilitarian thinking about immediate actions I need to take. Thinking in the city is like trying to have a conversation with the one person you care about most in an extremely crowded room where everyone is chattering loudly and pushing you around. Your inner self needs to yell just to be heard, and even so, it’s never heard clearly. There always seems to be a deep, fundamental misunderstanding.
Now, I can easily have a conversation with myself. I can remember who I am, underneath the suits and ties and deadlines. I can remember who I was before all this—before the money, the fame, the offices, the houses, the cars. Before the bullet wounds, before prison, before meeting Scarlett, before my parents died. If I go back to the very start, and try to remember the little boy I was before life started twisting me up and throwing curveballs and tidal waves at me, I realize that I haven’t taken care of him. I sacrificed that little boy’s mental and emotional well-being—I haven’t let him get a full night’s rest without medication in twenty years.
I stopped listening to myself. I stopped caring about my basic needs, so much that I lost touch with who I really am. I pushed him down
. I’ve kept him buried under all the ash and soot and cinders of that fire.
I’ve managed to skirt by, pretending to function as a normal human being, while very often feeling dead inside. I may have been successful, but it never felt the way I wanted it to feel. I had effectiveness, and the drive to finish what I started, but I was woefully lacking in real human connections. And when Scarlett left…
I think I had just invested so much of myself into building a life with her that I could never imagine anyone else. I was torn apart. No amount of therapy could give me the ability to mend. I don’t know how so many people are able to experience the death of loved ones, go through many breakups and divorces, and still continue about their lives as though they haven’t been shaken to the core.
I can barely remember a time when I was not grieving for someone. In my experience, losing someone you love is always devastating, and you can never be the same person you were before. My whole life has been lived in a state of grief—cumulative, mounting, escalating grief—until this explosion, when I finally realized that if I didn’t make a drastic change, I was going to lose myself as well. And I might be willing to say goodbye to everyone and everything I love, but I am not ready to say goodbye to my life.
I love my life: every painful, messy, miserable minute of it. I always have.
Climbing out of bed sluggishly, I place my hand on the wall to flip on the light switch. There is something to be said for how condensed and convenient this living space is. I can almost reach everything I need to sustain my body without taking a single step. The close quarters are cozy, and much preferable to the loneliness of sleeping by myself in a five-thousand-square-foot home, and bolting out of bed to check the security camera footage at every creak and sound.
Reaching out to my very compact bookshelf, I retrieve an old photo album. I sit on the bed rubbing my injured shoulder, pleased with how much better it feels after so little time. Sleep really is a magical thing. I wonder if I would have been able to tolerate continuing on as Cole Hunter if I could have only forced myself to sleep a little more. But it’s not as easy as it sounds.
