by S. C. York
They say there are two sides to each story. Here’s the beginning of mine. I call it the beginning, because I was dead inside. Until the girl full of sunshine breathed life back into my soul.
─Ryan
Prologue
"Promise me you won't let go."
"I promise Abby, keep pedaling you can do it."
"I'm scared, Ry."
"I'll never let you fall. You’re my baby sister. It's my job to protect you." I tug on her ponytail while keeping one hand on the end of her seat. I just took the training wheels off her bike and I know she can do it. I just need Abby to believe in herself. I'm sure I can get her to; I'm her big brother and I won't lie—when she looks at me with her warm brown eyes full of worship, she makes me feel like I can do or be anything. She looks at me as if I'll be a king one day.
I don’t tell her that I took my hands off. A wide grin splits my face, as I watch her glide down the driveway by herself.
“Ry?!”
She’s confused when she stops by the mailbox and looks over her shoulder at me still standing twenty feet behind her.
“You did it Abbs! Come on, I’ll make you an ice cream cone to celebrate!”
“I can’t wait to show Daddy when he gets home!”
“I’m sure he’ll be just as proud of you as I am Abby cakes!”
I help her climb off her bike and we walk into the empty house. Dad’s at work and Mom is probably getting her hair and nails done. She often leaves Abbs and I on our own. Although, Abbs doesn’t say anything, I can tell she gets scared when Mom’s not here. So, I end up playing with her for hours after school every day. Yesterday, she made me play dress up. I’d never live it down if any of my friends found out. Abbs made me wear a tea hat and a feathery scarf that itched the heck out of my neck.
I open the box of chocolate ice cream and carve out two huge scoops.
“Will you be my best friend forever, Ry?”
“Of course, Abbs,” I ruffle the top of her head and her tiny chubby arms wrap around my waist.
“I love you.”
“Love you too, now hurry up before Mom gets home and finds out I gave you ice cream again.”
Ryan…
If you ever wondered where hell is, I can tell you.
Because I’m here.
It’s an hour north of Boston, on a snowy hill overlooking the Atlantic.
It’s not hot.
It’s cold—fucking cold.
Love and passion are forged from fire where hate is born of ice.
I used to be a man of fire, but now I dwell in the frigidness of despair.
Snowflakes gently fall from the sky. It feels like I’m watching a movie in slow motion.
If only, I was.
Because this is nothing short of hell: a goddamn nightmare that I can’t wake up from. As the solo violinist plays, Ave Maria, my hand grips her casket. I carry her to where the new granite headstone with her name carved on it waits. My feet move forward, but my mind screams at me to stop. How ironic: she always wanted a white Christmas, but she’s not here to see this one.
It is wrong.
It shouldn’t be happening.
She was only eighteen.
She was my baby sister and I failed her; now she’s gone.
I hear Blake whisper behind me, “You can do this Ry. You have to.” I chose my best friend and my wingman, Blake Foster, to be one of the pallbearers.
If he wasn’t here to talk me down, I might have put my father in the grave with her. My anger simmers just below the surface. I’m volatile and all it will take is one wrong look from him to unleash the fury that has been building inside of me.
I breathe in the cold January air and let it freeze me.
I welcome the cold, it's numbing and I don't want to feel the pain of losing her anymore.
We finally reach her grave site. I let go of the handle and my finger traces the stone where the date of her birth and death are etched in. In this moment; my heart turns to stone just as hard and cold. I feel myself shutting down and I let it happen. If loving someone and losing them hurts like this…I’d rather not love anyone that much at all—ever again.
Somehow I make it through the rest of the service, without giving my father another black eye to match the one I gave him on the night that she died.
Four days ago.
Four days ago, she laughed, she breathed, she loved—Abby.
My throat is so thick I can barely breathe.
She should have nothing in front of her but empty road, but instead my baby sister’s casket sits beside her grave while my parents weep and cling to each other.
I can’t be here anymore.
The pain that’s crushing my chest is devastating. I’ve never felt such an overwhelming grief, or such an all-consuming loss. My fists clench at my side and I feel the muscle of my jaw clench.
“Ry—? You have to get through this man. It’s almost over. Hang on buddy.”
I turn to Blake, “I can’t. They did this—he did this.” I nod over to where my parents are sitting. But I stay for her.
When the last prayers are said and the last red rose is placed on top of the cold metal box where she rests, I bolt out of my seat to where my parents stand clutching each other.
“You did this.” My finger is in his face. We are the same height and although my father is still a very fit man: he knows better than to challenge me. “You are both dead to me. Your daughter isn’t the only child that you’re burying today. You both just lost a son as well.”
I turn on my heel, leaving them behind. Even my mother’s reckless sobbing doesn’t move me. I don’t turn around. I can’t feel her pain, because I’ve shut off feeling anything. Inside my chest is a block of ice instead of a warm, beating heart and it won’t bleed for anyone; ever again.
“Ryan?” Her voice was once soft and soothing to my ears, but now all I hear is nails on a chalkboard when she speaks. Her hand clutches at the sleeve of my pea coat. I pause for a second before flinging it away. I don’t acknowledge her, even though we’ve been dating for a year. I haven’t said the words but she must know that they are coming.
We’re over.
Even if Abby hadn’t died, my relationship with Em was fading. She’s been begging me for a ring and it’s getting old. I haven’t even finished my MBA yet and she thinks I’m ready to get married? I never liked clingy women and it’s way past time to cut this one loose.
I rip open the passenger door of Blake’s Mercedes-Benz and tell him to drive.
“Where to?”
“To the nearest bar, but nowhere they would think to look for me.”
“Done.”
My eyes don’t register where we are going. Everything is a blur, as the last night that she was alive plays in my head. I had debated whether or not to even tell my mother that I had caught Dad banging his mistress in her home, but I did. When she confronted him, they had an all-out war. Abby was distraught. In many ways, she was still so young. She was naïve and sweet, the news that the father she had worshipped was a cheating bastard, didn’t go over well. She grabbed her car keys and left, never making it back home.
She drove to a holiday party. Her friend told me that Abbs just wanted to forget what was happening—so she drank a few glasses of champagne. Not enough to get drunk or even buzzed, Abbs was too responsible for that, but her car hit a patch of black ice before hitting a tree head on.
I blame my father, but the sick bastard had the balls to blame me, because I opened my mouth and told my mother about his affair. He said that if I had just kept my damn mouth shut about busting him, that she’d still be here. Fucking prick—doesn’t deserve to have me in his life.
If he had kept his dick in his pants, maybe Abbs and I would be catching up
about college; about life. Instead, I spent the last couple of days planning her funeral. Everything feels empty, now that she’s gone.
***
Blake parks outside a hole-in-the-wall bar by the docks in Quincy. It’s dingy, dark and depressing.
It matches my mood perfectly.
I can’t talk.
My throat is choking on too many emotions.
I follow Blake in, and take a seat at the bar. We met at Harvard and became fast friends. As much as we are different: we are cut from the same cloth. We both grew up with parents that come from old money, and we both crave independence from the bullshit that comes with it. Blake is just as studious and I am, but he definitely knows how to party. He is ‘the guy’ not just around campus, but up and down the entire East Coast. His father, Charles, owns a luxury yachting company with clients from all over the world, that put their small family business on the map and millions in their pocket.
My thoughts are broken by the amber liquid in the low-ball glass that’s placed in front of me.
It takes all my energy just to raise the cheap glass of whiskey to my lips. But when I do, I don’t stop.
We sit for hours.
Blake senses that I just need to get drunk and numb my pain. The cheap silver and gold tinsel garland mocks me where it hangs above the bar. The cheery twinkling Christmas lights are pissing me off. It’s supposed to be a time of joy and peace, but all I can do is slip straight down into hell.
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas… let your heart be light...” This was her favorite holiday song. My glass hurls across the bar and smashes into the glass wall. The bartender ducks and turns around ready to deck me.
You don’t fuck with an Irishman’s bar in South Boston.
But he stops short, when I lay my head on his bar, sobbing like a baby. I hear Blake explain the situation and offer to pay for any damages.
The sound of something heavy being placed next to my head causes me to turn my head. The Irishman’s old eyes are filled with understanding, “For you, son.” He had put three shot glasses and an unopened bottle of Jameson down. I raise my glass and he opens the bottle pouring shots. He shuts off the Christmas music and plays Irish pub songs instead. “May she rest easy, with the wind on her back,” he says raising his glass. It’s the oddest thing and yet out of everything that’s happened: it makes the most sense.
I sit in the bar and drink, remembering Abby, telling stories of all the happy times we had together. Remembering how she always looked at me: like I was the most amazing brother in the world. I chose to think of Christmases past, where we sat under the tree— me with my trains and her with her dolls, eating cookies and drinking hot chocolate.
It’s past midnight when Blake and I stumble out onto the icy streets and into a waiting cab. I can’t get away from the strands of lights and cheery decorations. My world is filled with an all-consuming grief, while the rest of the world celebrates. We pass row after row of houses where kids wait for the jolly fat man in the red suit.
“Get me out of here Blake. Christmas—is going to kill me too.”
“I’m on it. We’ll fly to South Beach in the morning. My family has a house there.”
“Thank god.”
In the morning, true to his word—we hop a private jet that Blake chartered. It’s a good thing he did, because I spend the entire flight puking my guts out, praying that I could just die too. When we land, the force of the bright sun causes me to wince in pain. I can’t drink like an Irishman, maybe I just need more practice. I pause in surprise when I notice Charles Foster standing next to a black Maserati. He moves forward and gives me an awkward hug, “Blake has explained everything to me. You can stay here as long as you need.”
“Thank you, sir.” I whisper, slipping into the cool back seat of his car. As Charles drives us to his winter home, I sag with relief, because it doesn’t feel like Christmas here. And just like that— I spend my first Christmas ever without my family—without Abbs. There’s no big tree filled with the homemade ornaments she and I made at school. There’s no smell of fresh cookies wafting in the hallways. The Foster’s Miami home is a true bachelors pad. It’s the perfect new home for a lonely bastard like myself.
Three months later…
My place is a fucking mess. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and reach for my phone. “Shit!” My hand knocked the empty bottle of Jack Daniels to the floor and shards of glass fly in every direction.
I’m disgusted with myself, but I can’t snap out of the funk that I’ve been in for months. I’d crash back into bed, but the stench of my sweat-soaked sheets mixed with dried alcohol, makes me a gag. The pounding on my door mirrors the pounding in my head. “Open up Ry…are you dead, man?”
No—but I wish I was.
Fuck.
“Stop shouting and give me a minute!” I hop over the shards of glass but feel the cut of a few pieces lodge into the bottoms my feet.
Fucking fantastic.
Limping to the door, I sag for a moment against the sturdy wood frame before unlocking the deadbolt.
“Christ, you look like a dead man walking.”
“And I feel like one, too. What’s up Blake?”
He hands me a tall black coffee and a bag of bagels, before waltzing inside, “Welcome to your intervention. Now get in the fucking shower and give yourself a shave. You have an appointment in an hour.”
“With who?”
“A shrink. You need help. Your place is a pigsty and you look like a junkie who had a bad hit. Wake-up man, before it’s too late and you flunk out an inch away from graduation.”
I scrub my face with one hand—he’s so fucking right, but I don’t have anything left inside: the fire went out.
“Who are you calling?” I stalk towards him afraid he’s dialing her.
“Relax Ryan,” Blake holds his palms towards me, “just a maid service. It’s my birthday gift to you.”
Holy shit. I’m so far gone that I didn’t even realize it. Today is my twenty-sixth birthday and instead of a fit man in his prime— I’m a shaky pathetic mess. Without a word, I hobble to the bathroom and sit on the toilet, reaching for my shaving bag. It’s covered in a layer of dust. I wipe it off with my hand before looking inside for tweezers.
“Shit! Mother-fucker!” I curse, extracting glass from my flesh.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
When I’m done, I dab the bleeding cuts with a wad of toilet paper. Then I stand up and grab the edge of the sink when the room starts to spin, not recognizing the man in the mirror.
I’m a ghost. A pale stranger stares back at me.
Turning on the taps, I splash cold water on my face and clean the blade. The fragrant smell of shaving cream fills the air and with each swipe of the blade; I slowly re-appear.
I’m out of shower gel, so I stand under the pounding jets until I can no longer smell the weeks of stank that clings to me.
Blake’s right.
I need help, but he better keep his mouth shut. Best friend or not—I’ll break his jaw if it leaks to anybody that I’m going to see a shrink.
Ryan Stone is no pussy.
Even though I’m too weak to kick ass right now, I need to pick myself up off the floor and return to the land of the living again.
***
“Jesus I’m a mess.”
“True. But was she good or what?”
“Fuck, depression… me?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Between school and your personal life things were a goddamn ball of stress, and that was before Abby died.”
“Christ I know. You’d think after being with Em for over a year, I’d feel something. But the truth is Blake, I feel dead inside. Zero, zilch, nada.”
“Give yourself time. Are you going to fill the script?”
I look down at the piece of paper in my hands; she said it would take two to three weeks to kick in—Lexapro. Never heard of it, but then again, why would I?
I’m at the edge of
the cliff and I have a choice to make. Do I jump off, or claw my way up the crumbling rocks to safety?
It was weird talking to the psychiatrist at first. And like a girl, I asked Blake to go in with me. I didn’t talk about Abbs, not yet. The pain is too raw. Instead, I started off talking about Em, school, and what my goals were for my future; before everything turned to shit.
Dr. Miller thinks that my emotional nose-dive into hell started before Abby died. She thinks the pressure of Harvard, and Em wrangling for an engagement ring was already pushing me towards the cliff. It was Dad’s affair and then Abby’s death, that pushed me right over.
“Hell, it kills me to admit this— but yes, I think that I do need the anti-depressants.”
“Just remember that you can’t drink, or they’ll spiral you right back down into hell.”
“I never left brother, but summer is coming and I need to get myself right. I’m going to focus on two things: the gym and work. Actually make that three— gym, work and ass. Thanks for everything Blake. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through these past few months, without you.”
“Shit. Are you going all sappy on me?”
“Shut up,” I push him against the hall in jest. “I’m hungry, you buying? Because this has been the shittiest birthday ever.”
“Hell, dinner isn’t the only thing that I’m buying. I just got access to my mother’s trust fund.”
“Jesus— how much?”
“Thirty-million.”
“Well, your best friend is on his way to being a kick-ass financial advisor.”
“I know, but I’m not putting it in the bank.”
“That’s a mistake. Don’t go all crazy on hookers and cars.”
“Oh, I’m going to spend it on a woman alright. I just paid the commission on a custom-made Viking.”
“Christ. The base model of those yachts starts at ten-mil…”
“I know, but mine is probably going to come in over twenty.”
“You fool.”
“I don’t care. She’s the only woman that will have my heart anytime soon. When she’s done, we will have to name her.”
“Good grief. Does your father know about this?”
