A/N: Dedicated to you, the one reading this. Thank you. I love you. For context, this is set in December, close to New Year's. Tyler has his license/car back and has managed to determine a meet-up date with Alaska.
• • •
In my dream, I'm having a conversation with a fancy tea-drinking dog. We're talking about clothes. He says I should dress more fashionable, because, to put it lightly, You look like you pulled the first rags you saw out of the rubbish bin and decided to wear them, old chap. I say he should dress more casual because That get-up just looks really fucking stuffy and uncomfortable, bro. Jesus Christ.
It's one of the first times in a long time I've had a dream while asleep, so I try to exploit it.
The setting is a really fancy dinner party, and I'm aware I thought of this just so I could fuck it up.
I think of flying sandwiches that spit out venomous ingredients and condiments. Bob Ross shows up and the talking dog has nothing to say except his fashion Is just repulsive, my friend.
Since no one gets away with insulting Bob Ross, the weird flying sandwiches attack the fancy talking dog.
During this ordeal, the phone begins to ring. This isn't my place, so I sure as hell don't plan on answering it.
No one else in this room is, either. They're either looking at me because I summoned the demon sandwiches and they expect me to stop them, or they seem disinterested and expect me to answer the phone.
Instead, I wait for the dog to give into his animalistic urges.
It doesn't take long.
His eyes cloud over, teeth barring as he snaps and snarls at the airborne morsels.
He looks at me. "I know how much you want to see it burn, boy."
"Huh?"
"Burn, burn, burn," chortles another guest - a hedgehog is a shabby purple gown. I wonder why the dog didn't say anything about her attire.
"Yeah, your house," the badger cook hums. He slides a tray of poisoned cookies down the counter. "But it'll never happen. Your dad's too attached to it."
God, that fucking phone. If I could just find it and tear it out of the wall, then I'd be able to figure this out.
"I can help you get started. I'm the one closest to the fire, after all," the cook continues. "Who cares what your dad thinks?"
"But then he'll have nowhere to go!" the hedgehog squeaks.
"You're not as heartless as him, are you?" the dog asks.
"No," I say. "I'm not. I want it gone because it'll give me piece of mind. Legal issues be damned, if I do it, it's likely he'll try to come back into my life. I can't have that."
"Oh. Well, that's disappointing, old boy," the dog says. He licks sandwich carnage from his lips. "Don't we all love a little destruction?"
"I used to," I say. "Not anymore."
"Who are you?" queries the dog.
"Huh?" I repeat.
"Who. Are. You?"
"I'm Tyler. Tyler Petrit. That's who I am, fuck-face."
"I think the phone's for you."
"Why would it be for me? I don't belong in a place like this."
"Well, no one else is answering it, and it's clearly only annoying you."
"It'll only get louder until you pick it up, old sport."
Suddenly, the room begins spinning. The hedgehog unzips the fancy dining room, revealing it was a cover for an endless black void. She giggles into her palm, and when she removes her hand, her mouth is bloody. "You need to pick up the phone." With barely any effort, I'm pulled into the sea of darkness.
And that's when I wake up.
I fall from the couch, my face smacking the floor with a soft thump.
The credits to an episode of The Animals of Farthing Wood are playing. I groggily look up and see my unfinished blunt put out on the table, next to a half-eaten small store-bought sandwich.
Yep, that'll do it.
I can't even be proud of myself for attempting to eat something, because the phone is ringing.
Oh, God. Fuck.
I pick it up, a tightness in my chest.
It's Dad.
I sure as shit don't open the conversation with a pleasant hello. "How the fuck did you-"
"Y'know how Gio and his mom always have talks on weekends? Yeah, she and Candace talk every day and kinda got the gist of where you lived, so I looked in the phone book and called everyone in the apartment 'til I got you. I called here before and this really rough-voiced lady yelled at me for calling before confirming you lived here."
God damn it, Bianca. "What do you-"
"Anyway," he interrupts again, "Candace is dead and I need you to get the rest of your stuff out of my house."
The edges of my vision start to blur, a sharp ringing sound stabbing the base of my ears. I slide to the floor and put my head against the wall. The spinning of the ceiling fan is the only constant. It is the only thing in the world that makes sense. Of course, it makes sense. When you flip a light switch, the fan will spin. This is in order to create air, maybe to enact a cooling sensation or remove a foul odor.
Of course, a fan spins.
I finally manage to choke out a "...What?"
He sighs. "Candace is dead and I need you to get the rest of your belongings from the house."
"What?"
His annoyance breaks through the surface. "Candace. Died. Overdose, if that's what you wanted to know. Come. Get. Your. Shit."
"What?"
"God damn it, did you suffer brain damage? If your retarded ass doesn't come get the rest of your bullshit out of my house by seven PM, I'm tossing it into the street!"
He hangs up, but I still don't move.
I can't feel anything.
• • •
It takes me a good five minutes to move again. The first thing I do is take my medication, hoping it will clear my head.
I leave the apartment and sit on the sidewalk.
Candace. Dead.
Not emotionally distant, not physically far away.
Dead.
I start to cry. I'm aware I'm in public, so I attempt to muffle the noise.
It doesn't work. That only makes it worse.
In the past, I could take comfort in the fact that my last words to her were of dismissal. But now, it doesn't seem like enough. Dismissal is not enough. She deserves contempt, my fully unleashed wrath.
And I'll never be able to confront her, tell her how much I fucking hate her. She got to die in one of the most self-indulgent ways possible, after getting everything she'd ever wanted. Yet, I have to not only stay sober, but also live with her actions. How easy it must have been to destroy everything and everyone around her, and then let go.
Life really isn't fair, I suppose.
But that doesn't mean I have to let it crush me. I wipe my eyes and pull myself together as best as I can. Today is a big day, and I can't get overwhelmed so easily.
One way or another, this is going to end with me on top.
However, there's something more important I have to finish first.
• • •
I'm not surprised that she's here before me.
She gives me a small smile, and I chastise myself for still finding her utterly beautiful.
"Hi," Alaska says.
"Hey," I respond.
"You...look really good. Healthy. More alive."
"You look...aesthetically academic. Like you could educate me more than any of the greatest textbooks." I cringe and immediately follow it up with, "I thought it'd still be awkward if I said you look nice."
Candace is dead.
"Not at all. I've matured. Let's just say I won't be going into anymore underground grunge pubs anytime soon. Too many assignments, y'know? Being here already makes me feel out of place, but I chose it because, well, I thought it'd be a way to bookend things. Not necessarily in a good or bad way, either. It sure looks different, though."
I finally take in my surroundings. The Poetry Hut still has tacky art of historical writers and painters on the wall, but its audience has changed. It's more professional, almost. There are students and business people quietly reading or frantically writing. The indie writers and over-dramatic theatre kids are nowhere to be found. With just a couple more renditions, it could be mistaken for an office building.
Candace is dead.
I notice I don't feel anything sticky under my shoes or on the table, and there's a distinct smell of chemicals that probably go hand in hand with how shiny every surface is. "I see their shitty menu has changed, and it sure is...clean." I shake my head. "We're not here to talk about that...are we?" My hands start shaking. I clench them into fists.
Dead, dead, dead.
Alaska's expression drops. "No, obviously not."
"Look, I don't have any excuses. I shouldn't have left you like that. I should've calmed down and explained what happened, or at least brought you home. There was no reason for me to do what I did."
Why don't I feel more regret? I feel like I should feel different. Maybe it hasn't fully sunk in yet? I shouldn't be thinking about this now, anyway. Alaska deserves my undivided attention.
"It's been a long time. Since you didn't tell me - or Gio - anything, I got it into my head that it had something to do with me. The longer life went on, I decided I couldn't stay wondering and I had to focus on my future...whether or not you were in it. It finally helped me write. I wrote lots of poems, on top of all the essays."
I get a certain feeling in my stomach I can't identify. It's a mixture of shame and possible melancholy. "Oh, God. It...it didn't. Since you said it's been so long, me saying this probably doesn't mean anything, but I've always planned on giving you the reason. I went looking for my mom. I found her, she rejected and disowned me, and that was the last straw, if you catch my drift. Nothing mattered to me after that and all I wanted to do was be dead. I'm not, clearly, so...yeah."
"Jesus, Tyler. I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what that felt like."
It doesn't compare to how I feel right now.
"Nah, I'm in therapy and on meds now. I'm doing...okay. It's not great or horrible, and that's fine by me. I like having a taste of stability. If anything, the fact that she didn't want me was her loss."
"I like this, y'know? I like seeing you okay. Just because we're not together anymore doesn't mean I stopped caring."
"You don't have to worry about me, alright? The present is all that matters. I know that's cheesy, but it's true."
"The last thing I wanna say is, I'm sorry I didn't answer when you called me. We never were good at picking dates, were we?"
"We sure as hell weren't. I'm as much to blame as you for that. Are you okay, Alaska?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." She looks away, and that's how I know it's done.
We're done.
She stands up and pushes the chair in. "I'm really glad we did this. I needed it."
"I did, too. Uh, thank you for being my first. I mean it. I couldn't have asked for a better beginning."
I wonder what her final moments were like.
Alaska smiles, and I smile back. It's genuine, and she ends it with, "I...can I hug you? As a friend?"
I pause. "Sure. Yeah."
She does, and that's it. It's short, but genuine. No other words are exchanged, just a final parting grin, before she walks out of the diner doors and out of my life forever.
But she doesn't leave me feeling empty.
In fact, a piece I was missing finally feels filled.
I sit in my car for a while after that, kind of taking it all in. I let out a sigh, and a weight lifts off my shoulders.
Alright, time to deal with Dad.
I turn on some music to calm my nerves and don't stop until I reach the house.
My house.
Candace probably died in here. I don't have it in me to ask exactly where.
It's so disgustingly strange and so repulsively familiar all at once.
But I don't have to talk myself into getting this over with. I'm ready.
I walk up and knock on the door at 6:15 PM. He answers and moves out of the way quietly.
I hate the quiet. I hate how everything looks the same, but like how it doesn't take me long to get the rest of what's mine.
I can still feel her. I could get the matches and destroy her for good.
I'm halfway to the door when he mutters, "You really have nothing to say to me?"
"Don't start this bullshit, Dad. I already told you everything I wanted to say. You are responsible for how your life ended up. I never asked for you to be my dad, or for Angie to be my mom. I'm not like either of you. I learned you can't keep running away when things get rough, and I don't know if it's too late for you to learn the same thing."
He scoffs. "The first thing you did after you graduated was run."
"No, Dad. I left. I had a mission, and I completed it. There's a difference. You have no goals in life."
"Yeah, okay. I don't believe you actually talked to Angie."
"I did. She said she left because of you. Even though that doesn't excuse her abandoning me - likely also for drugs, at least at the time - you were projecting. You knew she couldn't stand you, didn't you, Dad? Isn't it odd how the people in your immediate family keep cutting contact with you? You don't see a pattern? No parents, no significant other, no son. No one."
I see I've gotten through to him, as his face morphs into various different emotions over the span of a minute. I continue, "She's doing better than I expected. She has a nice little house full of her own plants, paintings, and decor. Despite the fact I...really, really resent her, and she seemed very reserved, she also didn't need anyone to prop her up. You, on the other hand, can't function without the help of others."
What will he do now that Candace is gone?
Y'know what? None of this is my business. Candace doesn't deserve to take up anymore of my thoughts.
He lets out a short grunt. "We would've been better off without you in the first place. Where would we be, if it wasn't for you?"
A younger, more vulnerable me would have flinched and shut up, but I'm not a child anymore. Not physically, and no longer mentally. "Under a bridge shooting up with other hobos, since you've apparently had issues with drugs since high school, and they only got worse after your encounter with Gacy. Stop trying to blame me, Dad. I'm not responsible for the choices you've made. I'm not responsible for the degenerates you surround yourself with. I'm not responsible for the fact you let me get hurt just so you could forget you're a fucking disappointment. You, Angie, and Candace loved to project your failings onto me. I'm not an extension of any of you. I'm an individual, and it's time you learn to be one, too."
He blanches, but I head to the door. The final thing I say is, "Don't call me, ever."
No matter how weak it is, for the second time in my life, I get the last word.
And it feels really fucking good.
• • •
I drive back to the apartment and throw my shit on the couch before heading to the living room.
"Where the hell have you been?" Gio asks.
"Officially ending things with Alaska."
"Oh, I'm sorry, man. That sucks."
"No, it's okay. We left on good terms." It takes me a minute to say, "Candace died."
"What?"
"That's how I responded, too. I feel like I'm going to throw up and like I've been freed at the same time."
"Shit, man. That's crazy. You need to talk about it?"
"Depends. How many therapy sessions you think it's gonna take to sort through all that?" I laugh dryly, but stop when a lump lodges itself in my throat.
"As many as you need."
"You wanna know something? I was kind of expecting my dad to die first, given how he always said it'd be my fault if he OD'd, how my mom said I'd get the house when he died, how I was all ready to confront Candace, and just generally due to how fucked up he is. That's not how life goes, I guess."
My fucked up dream is something I plan on ironically taking to the grave. I don't tell him how I very much want to watch my childhood home be destroyed, whether it be by flames or demolition.
It just sounds so satisfying.
"Give him a few years," Gio responds flatly. "I don't have much faith in him, either."
But even without that, Candace is dead. Gone forever.
I'm free.
"Y'know something else, Gio? I think I'm gonna start painting again."
• • •
I wake up early the next day, two days before 1995 begins, with intent.
I stand on the roof of the apartment and stare into the sunrise, with all its reds and oranges and yellows and pinks and purples. This is what I need right now, an endless cascade of colors instead of a black void. I can think later. This moment of peace won't last forever. I might mentally go through hell tomorrow. The idea of the sun rising, of waking up, might disgust me tomorrow.
But not now.
I've got my new easel, my new set of paints, and, most importantly, my new canvas.
Completely blank. Untouched. Endless.
A light breeze picks up, not too cold yet, running through the happy little trees and across the fresh new snow.
It's such a beautiful day.
• • •
Final A/N: Jesus Christ, I technically didn't finish this book and yet I'm still emotional. I really hope you liked this despite all the ups and downs and considering the fact it's unfinished. Of course, there's a lot I would change and a lot I would remove and a lot I would keep. For now, I'm gonna leave it as is. Thank you for reading this mess for this long. The first chapter of my new book, titled Skin, will be up by May at the latest. I hope you check it out! :) That being said, I don't know how long this draft will stay up, and you'll see why when Skin starts (I consider saying anything more to be spoilers). If you have any questions, please leave them in the comments. See you soon!
- Nora ♡