The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  Getting up, I reach for the other half of the pot, smiling as I slot them back together and then frowning at the flaw that remains in place, one small piece still missing from the joint. I don’t want any cracks or flaws. I want joined and merged. I want every thought that passes through my mind to be able to speak freely and be accepted as standard. I want her mingling with those thoughts.

  My eyes rise up to look around again, scanning for the last remaining piece of my jigsaw puzzle as I stand up.

  “Where is she?” I snap, my fingers unbuckling my belt and dragging the sodden jeans down my thighs as I keep searching the floor. “I need her.”

  “Need?” I glare at up at Delaney, warning of the temper that’s still resonating regardless of my softened fucking heart. He holds his hands up and backs off a step. “At home when she called me.” It’s not her I want, not the actuality of her, anyway. I want the last fragment of my vase. That’s what I’m searching for. I need to see if it fits and slots the pieces back together, completes them.

  “Why did you have her fucking number anyway?” I mutter, my clothes discarded as I turn furniture upright, glancing underneath it and scanning again.

  “I put it in there, just in case she needed a confession.” Needed a confession? More like fucking.

  I scatter the bed sheets, ripping them from the mattress and up ending the frame to look under that, too. Nothing is there, nothing like my missing piece, anyway.

  “When?” The muttering continues from my mouth, regardless of my disinterest. It calms me down, focusing me in on finding what I’m looking for, alleviating the strain on my mind.

  “While you two slept in my bed, which you never thanked me for.” I stop and swing to him, a look of continued irritation settling over my features. Thank him? Fuck that. He holds his hands up again, a smirk lingering around his mouth as he watches my frantic search. “The fuck are you looking for?”

  “Answers.” I walk away from the bed towards the doors, searching the floor there for it instead.

  “You’re looking for answers on the floor?”

  The thought makes me mutter on, barely hearing him as I keep examining and turning things over, ordering my mind as the events unfold, until I eventually see it lying by the ottoman. It makes me sigh and blow out a breath as I stare at it. It’s so small in comparison to the rest of the blue ceramic. Just a simple shard of detailed pot, a sliver of a section, but it’s the missing piece I’m desperate for.

  I don’t move for a minute. I just find myself frowning at it, trying to process the information and allow it’s credence within my own disarray. It’s just there, slightly out of reach, tempting me with its fucking mesmerising gleam in the sun.

  “Blaine?”

  I don’t hear what he’s saying. I’m disinterested. Unengaged with anything but that sliver of ceramic telling me something about myself, or about her. It’s indecipherable. A contrast of imaginings I can’t find a route for. The jumbled mess inside me narrows my stare, focusing it in on the one thing I’m looking at and blurring everything around it to indistinct obscurity. The aim eventually drives me towards it, my fingers scooping it up as if it might shatter, and then squeezing it within my grip until I feel it cut in.

  “Blaine?”

  I glare at him as I sit on the bed and begin pulling the three bits together in my lap, slotting the portions in place on my thigh and hoping that, when I open this hand, the section inside will still be in one piece. He stares back, a look of confusion on his face. Of course he would be confused. He doesn’t know this resonance. He never will. Never feel its throb within his veins, never feel its depth of fortitude or determination.

  “Look,” I say softly, as I swing my head back to my hand, watching my fingers unfurl to show the missing piece. “It didn’t break. Perfect.”

  “What are you talking about, Blaine?” The vision makes me smile as I gaze at it, the shard still intact as it mingles with my blood and shimmers through the liquid. I lift it out and brush it down, slowly drawing it up towards the top of the pot. It slots into place effortlessly. No sound, no effort required, the blood helping ease the section to where it should be.

  “Dates, Delaney. I’m talking about dates. About love.”

  Chapter 13

  Alana

  I don’t know when Priest put his phone number in my phone, or why, and if I hadn’t been scrolling to find my publisher because of my emails, I suppose I never would have found it, but I did. Then I couldn’t help but phone him, ask him to check in on Blaine, make sure he wasn’t about to do something horrendously stupid. He’d seemed so odd on the drive back to mine. His mood changed from gentlemanly and quietly reserved, to sullen and depressed. I’m not even sure how I felt it, but I did, and that caused enough worry for me to text him hoping he’d respond. He didn’t. It caused, still is causing, an unease I can’t put my finger on. I’m worried, anxious to hear he’s okay. Love, I suppose, continues regardless of the information I now have. He might have killed her, but he’s a killer I have feelings for, irrespective of the rights and wrongs.

  That was over two hours ago, and the time keeps slipping by as I attempt to busy myself with notifications and emails I’ve no interest in, all the time trying to work out what Blaine’s been up to with my emails. I’m backtracking constantly, trying to follow the path of his replies to people, follow the thread to make my responses sound sensible. It’s made me smile the entire time, the thought of him ensuring my career doesn’t fail because of my ‘holiday’ somehow comforting to me, as much as it’s surprising. I thought he’d let this slide. See it as ineffective and intolerable. Ignore it all. He hasn’t. He’s been completely on top of it. Kept it flowing without my help. When and how, I’m not sure, but he’s taken control, allowing me to not think about anything other than him and writing. Every day he’s ensured fluidity, interspersing professional emails with ones that answer questions and add a hint of joviality. I didn’t realise, didn’t think he’d be so thoughtful. And he’s fucking brilliant at it, using my tone, but using it more effectively than I could ever employ. It’s like he has been me, pretended. The only thing he hasn’t been able to do for me is send the actual words to the people who want them. I snort, amused with the fact that he’s even given his opinion on my latest covers, telling the designer to change the graphics. He’s right to have done so as well. He’s done just what I would have wanted.

  So now I’m just answering and renewing what needs to happen, finding my path back into this again. Not that I want to. It was easier with him doing it, less worrying. Still, it needs doing after my sabbatical into finding myself under his hands. A few make me smile, readers telling me of how they enjoyed something I’ve written, glowing feedback from edits in on one of my latest works, but there’s nothing from Bree, and she’s the one thing I’ve been searching for. I need her now. I need her guidance, her ability to say it straight and lift me from this fog of confused thoughts. She might not understand completely, and it’ll take some explaining to her, but when she gets it she’ll help me find the sensible answer, or she’ll give me the momentum to just go for it and throw caution to the wind entirely.

  I pick up my tea and stare at one of her profiles, checking she’s been online and still alive. She is, although her posts are more sporadic than usual. It makes me frown, checking for signs of emotion. There’s none, typically Bree—she just delivers precise content, sales information, occasionally interspersing it with a joke to pull the readers in, but nothing more. I scroll to my last text to her, the one she never answered, and thumb out another one asking if she wants to meet. Nothing comes back. Nothing at all. So I chuck the phone on the sofa and stare up into my apartment, wondering what to do with myself. Perhaps I should go out and walk the streets, be free for a while and let Manhattan enthuse some words from me. I snort at myself, knowing exactly what I need to enthuse myself. It’s got nothing to do with Manhattan’s pavements. It’s all to do with Blaine and his way of surrounding me. I miss that. M
iss that sense of ease under him, regardless of his tightening fingers. It makes me look at my own and scan the remnants of black ink still tracing my nails, amused that they no longer tremble. The staining from the old typewriter seems less embedded now, or perhaps it’s so engrained it’s sunken through and changed the colour of my blood instead, blackened it to match his.

  It makes me chuckle a little, remembering the first uncomfortable clunk of that old machine and the harness he strapped me into to use it. We seem so far past that now, like it’s more natural to me than the laptop that lies in wait in my office. And I haven’t even thought about my pills since I’ve been back, even though they’re littered around this apartment. In fact, whatever he’s done, he’s done so effectively I stand and start heading to all the places I keep them in, ready to empty them down the sink. I don’t need them anymore, do I? He’s done that, helped me away from them. It didn’t even seem like he tried. Maybe he didn’t really, maybe he just took me out of my ordinary and showed me those dreams again, letting me think of something other than all this in front of me.

  My phone rings as I’m emptying the last of them, making me run for it in case it’s Bree, but as I pick it up, Fuckwit’s number flashes, his piggy eyes instantly coming to mind as well as the number. Fuck. I pull in a long breath and keep staring at the number, remembering the nineteen texts Blaine’s already ignored over the last however long. It’s the only thing he hasn’t responded to, like the sight of Fuckwit wasn’t worth bothering with. But I don’t suppose he knows who fuckwit is, or how relevant he is to my career. I sigh out and lean back in my chair. I can’t do it anymore, can I? I have to get back into this, be Val again. Pretend Barringer is of interest, enough to keep my contract in tow anyway. Still, I throw the phone down again and look towards my office. I could write. I should. The notifications don’t seem as insane as usual, less chaotic somehow. I’ll get back to it. Yes. Perhaps after a few hours writing I’ll be able to face conversing with Fuckwit the 3rd and realign my career, find a path through its irritations. It’s the writing I want after all, and Blaine’s helped me see that again. I can finish this story he’s helped me find, use it to keep me focused enough to put him out of my mind for a while.

  Priest would have called if there was a problem, wouldn’t he? I nod at myself, knowing he would. He said he would so everything must be okay. Nothing to worry about. Focus, Alana. Christ, I wish I had the stack of papers currently sitting in Blaine’s house that contain the entirety of my story, because without it I’m lost as to what comes next.

  ~

  By the time I look up, I realise its dark in the space around me, the evening apparently coming long before I realised it had arrived. I snort, trying to remember the last time I was so absorbed in my story that time simply slipped away as I wrote it. Months, years even. Well, other than the time Blaine made me write. I smile at the thought and check the clock, then listen to my stomach as it growls at me, instantly reminding me of Blaine again, not that I’ve been able to ignore his interference. He’s everything this story is—bold, considered, unabashed in his deliverance of words. He’s the epitome of a hero, one drenched in dirty words and endless orgasms, something that is as true to him as I could ever write.

  It makes me smile wider as I push myself away from the desk and wheel away to my folders, hitting print as I go. I still don’t have a title for this, nor a penname. It’s still such a change from my norm that I can’t find the right words to describe it. Certainly not a name that hints at its plausibility. It might even be that it needs to be another male author writing it, not a woman. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll know when I write The End.

  I wander out into the kitchen and open the fridge to find some food. There’s nothing in there. I don’t know why I thought there would be. I haven’t been here, haven’t been shopping. I haven’t even got a pint of milk. I drank the tea black earlier, strangely enjoying it for some reason. So I pick up my keys and jacket, swiping at my bag as I go. Shopping it is. Perhaps it’ll help me focus in on something other than Blaine, who continues to linger in my mind. I’m not sure what to do about it as I keep going out the door and down to the streets below. He’s so present in here, like he’s here beside me now as I stare at the traffic and walk towards the deli. I can feel him, just like I could in his home. I can feel his hands on me, his voice in my ear, and his heartbeat on mine as I keep walking. It makes the noise around me become a distant cacophony rather than the chaos it should be. Almost like a blur of muffled rebounds, not the sharp sounds I normally hear.

  My phone bleeps at some point, breaking me of the comforted smile still attached to my mouth, so I reach for it and scan the message, not caring for its content.

  - Where?

  It’s Bree. The sight of her name makes me sigh in relief and stop to send a pleading response. Anywhere she likes, at any time she likes. I miss her. I miss her banter and her charm. I miss the way she just says it straight, cutting right across the bullshit and offering precise answers to questions I fumble around. I miss the closeness of her.

  She comes back reasonably quickly as I carry on, saying Bluties in about an hour, which makes me check out my attire. It’s atrocious. Black jeans, a brown t-shirt and my green leather jacket. It’s as drab as the mood I returned in, one that had me thinking of nothing but Blaine and what I should do with the thoughts he left me with. Think, that’s what he said. Him and me. That we should think. In reality, no matter how much I’ve thought, nor diverted my thoughts, it doesn’t seem to matter to me. The information is all there now, waiting for me to find out more if I choose to. I got into that car. I followed, irrespective of the knowledge he delivered. And I still want to, don’t I? I’m still willing to travel down that rabbit hole, learning more about him with every mile we fall. I want to know more. I want to feel more. I want those waters to be calm on top, no matter the ferocious intent beneath them. Whoever he might have been before me, I don’t believe that man’s still there. For all his heavy hands and bitter words, his heart beats in there. It thuds with its own cadence, one I can still hear against my ear as I keep going towards Bluties. I need a drink so I can explain this to Bree. She needs to understand so she can help me organise myself, form an opinion that isn’t just based on the area between my wayward crotch and my heart. I need her logic for a while, her rationale on the outside of this world I’ve slipped into.

  Screw the shopping.

  I fluff my hair around as I carry on along the pavement, shaking it about and heading straight for the person who can help me find sense in this. I’ll apologise for the last meeting, or leaving as the case might be, and then talk. I’ll talk my arse off at her, explaining and giving her a base to work from. No wonder none of those other submissives I talked to in the beginning could explain it. It’s not logical. It holds no reason or rhyme. It’s inside me, something most people can’t relay with words, but I can. It’s my job. It’s what I do. I turn emotions into words so people can understand them, find sense in them. I interpret the uninterpretable onto paper, give it a rationale readers can find their way through. I can do this. I can. And then she can help me understand why, even after the knowledge I’ve got, I still want him around me. Inside me.

  It’s only ten minutes before I’m turning into Bluties, my bag discarded onto the nearest available table. I’m enthused by the thought of seeing her again, joining back into the reality of the normal world. Everything looks so new here, as if it’s somehow changed from the place I once came to. It’s not just this venue either. It’s everything. I’ve noticed stupid things on the way here. The way the light glints as the afternoon sun cascades down on it. The way the occasional tree whistles above me as autumn winds whip them around. The sounds embedded in other sounds. Not the top line noises of everyday life, the ones beneath the surface. The ones that complete all the others somehow, making them deeper than they are on their own.

  I smile at the waiter as he comes over and order a coffee, one hand reaching for a chair as I t
hink about those noises and differences. It’s the way I used to write. I used to find those small differences, use them to explain something. Not because I searched, but because they came naturally to me. I suppose it was the whimsical Alana in me. The version of me that daydreamed and let the little things be so much bigger than they were. He’s made me see them again somehow, hasn’t he? I don’t know how. I don’t even know if it’s entirely him, but they’re here again regardless.

  “Lana.” I look up, shocked out of my musings.

  “Bree.” She just stands there, her arms folded and her bag still firmly clamped under her arm. “Are you going to sit down?” I ask, as the waiter delivers my coffee.

  “Thinking.” Oh. I smirk a little, amused by her attitude. She deserves it. I’ve got no right to have a go. If she wanted to walk out of here right now and never speak to me again I’d understand, much as I might hate the thought.

  “Please, Bree,” I say, as I pick up the coffee and look at her. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?” she snaps, no movement in her frame whatsoever.

  The question throws me for a minute, making me wonder what I am actually sorry for. I’m not sorry for going with Blaine, but I am sorry for making her feel like her opinion didn’t matter. It does, did.

  “Please, Bree, just sit. I need to explain this to you so you understand.”

  “Are you still with him?” My head nods, irrespective of whether I am or not. I will always be with him in some ways. This is a part of who I am now no matter how much I think like he’s asked me too. I’ve felt what he’s shown me, let it change me, or take me back to who I used to be. “No fucking point then,” she snarls, her body swinging away from me. I stand up instantly, my fingers reaching for her without thought.

  “But I need you too, Bree. I need your levelling. I need your help to work it out.” She tugs my hand from her, her feet backing away almost immediately.