"Are you okay, Cayse?"
"I am okay."
"How do you feel, Ren?"
"Never better, sir."
"Have you ever blamed yourself for what occurred at Milena Seble?"
"I have not, ma'am."
"Did you try to stop what happened?"
"I tried my best."
"Are you happy, Ren?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"How about we schedule another appointment, hm?"
"As long as you keep asking for money, I'll keep coming."
Change was often very much associated with time, and, in the seven years that things had become safe and settled, everything had changed. "Everything" was classified as little things that, when put beside an image of what it'd been like before, had stark differences. Children had gone to university and came out as doctors, and lawyers, and business executives, then they'd grown and gotten married and built a family in their little boxes.
Yes, people and places changed, but the little boxes and what they contained did not.
The way the sun beat down still made Ren sweat as he twirled the steering wheel and went down yet another familiar lane. Kids still biked their way through the streets and raced one another, and later, they'd all still be sent to summer camp just like Ren had when he was younger. Houses were still situated in cramped rows, the same design, with the same sorts of families inside. They were all made out of ticky-tacky, and to him, they all looked just the same.
Up an off-road he drove, up to acres of seclusion, not the hillside, but a cliffside, where his home sat, still a box, but not quite as close to the rest.
The day had only seemed to drag on with conversations he never really wanted to get involved in, with smiles and laughs that weren't genuine, with little falters in his speech as he realized that the people that surrounded him only sat there for the sake of collecting his bills.
The day had dragged, yes, and so did his feet as he used what was left of his energy to slam his car door shut and walk his way up to the door of his house, his home, and fumbled with keys he'd used a number of times. It was late enough that the white hot light hanging above the porch was on, but not so late that it was pitch black outside. It was more of a darkening blue, light but dim. Soon the black would spill over. It always did.
He breathed in the fresh air while he could until a click sounded in the door, and he pushed his way inside.
He was discouraged when he found that the lights were on, as was the television in the living room to the right of him, displaying the regular news cases of massacres and murders, because things never change, do they, Cayse?
He was quick to drop the bag at his feet and slug the suit jacket off his shoulders, hanging it up on a hook by the front door. His shoes, tight and blistery, were kicked off soon after, and once he'd made himself comfortable he stepped forward, ready to head up to bed and end the day like he would any other night.
At his first step, however, he heard the chink of a blade being jammed into wood.
Slowly, with nervous laughter bubbling up on his lips, he looked to the left and shrugged. "Honey, I'm home?"
The man stood behind an island in the kitchen, his hand wrapped around the handle of a knife pushed deep in the center of a chopping board. Lights were bright behind him, making the brown hair atop his head shine and, frankly, making a scene Ren would've expected to find in a horror movie. It was solidified by a playful smirk on his lips. "You missed dinner."
Ren sighed. "Please don't go crazed housewife on me. Next thing I know you'll be standing outside the shower with, I don't know, a...a cheese grater or something, prepared to grind me into bits."
The man's smirk widened at that, and he let go of the knife, letting it sit prim and proper where it was as he wound his way around the island and hopped his way down to where Ren stood by the door. "Would you say you're mozzarella or parmesan? I know you're not cheddar, because I hate cheddar with a passion."
"I am most definitely cheddar, Michael," Ren said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
The supposed Michael only chuckled and wrapped his arms around Ren like a child would to a teddy bear. The latter was left standing in the embrace awkwardly, and though he didn't mind the hug, the series of events throughout the day had soured his movements. I knew I should've teepeed their houses instead, damn it.
A series of light pecks to his cheek melted away the ice, though, and soon he found himself hugging back, taking comfort in the fact that there was somebody that truly knew him, truly cared for him like a partner should. Over Michael's shoulder, he sighed. "Today royally sucked."
"Yeah," Michael replied, drumming fingers against his shoulder, "you seem tired. Usually you're more...witty? Sarcastic? Annoying?"
"The self-esteem just rises and rises," Ren said flatly, pulling away. His next words were far more interested, though, clear and genuine. "Where's Sammie?"
"In bed." Michael's brows went up, inquisitive, and Ren waved his hand at the familiar expression that meant he'd be dealt questions as quickly as cards. "Spill. What happened?"
Even quicker than the question came, Ren smirked and dodged both the question - and Michael - with silence, taking long strides to gather up the bag he'd left at the door. His fingers fumbled with the zipper time and time again, for they always trembled, non-stop, at any given time throughout the day, and now was no exception.
Michael stepped up to hover behind him, no doubt with that subtle curiosity he was known for, chin resting upon Ren's shoulder as he stared down at what might come out of the bag. Ren only sighed, lids falling over his eyes as he pulled out a square box the size of his palm. It was covered in shining green paper, solidified with a red ribbon, like a little present that the chunky house intruder of the twenty-fifth would likely leave.
His lips were pursed and his brows were knit as he lifted it up for Michael to examine. The husband reached out to take it, but Ren played a different game, pulling it just out of his reach so he could explain the rules. "You can only open this after three twenty-five. My only condition."
Michael huffed. "What is it?"
Ren frowned. "You'll find out at three twenty-five, you impatient swine."
"And that's why I love you." A round of heavy chuckles sounded by his ear, and though Ren was tempted to smile, he didn't allow himself that much, only ducking his head and gathering up the bag before heading upstairs, where Michael set an alarm, and Ren kept close watch that he didn't peel back the wrapping of the box too early.
Hours passed like that, one sleeping, and one staring at the ceiling as time ticked on and the pitch black poured onto the sky.
Night was quite the seductress, flouncing around in lacy black that trailed over every inch of skin he left exposed, and the temptation was hard to ignore, but somehow he managed. His old sense of self was always snatched up by the greedy golds of daylight, but for some reason or another, dusk went in and delivered it back. Seven years of deprived day, seven years of relieved night.
But with his sense of self came a heavy weight that continued to press down and down and down upon his chest until he felt as though he could barely breathe. Buckles were tight, while jackets lay limp and roomy off his form - no, no, shit, no: that was before the invite.
No blankets lay over him, and he craned to glance at a clock on the bedside table by his head. 2:50, it read in digital oranges, flicking to something closer to day than he was content with.
Ren felt himself moving, without the mind to tell him what to do. His feet met cold tile, his bones ached as he shifted and stood. A mindless glance was cast back to the man deep in slumber, and briefly, Ren thought he looked peaceful.
Then he left the room with no reason to head back in.
The house was easy to navigate, and soon he had his arms digging deep into the fridge until he'd come out with a little bottle with a satisfying little substance inside.
His elbows struck the counter and he flicked off the cap. He'd done something similar a few times before, but only once - right then - did he mouth the words, "cheers, to Milena Seble."
The bottle was so cold it was hot against his lips, and he took several generous gulps until the pain in his lungs was near torturing him. "Cheers, to Milena Seble," he whispered in the dark, feeling nauseous at the sound of his own croaking voice. "The place that fucked me ten times over." He tossed more liquid to the back of his throat, hissing when he'd swallowed it down. "And will continue to make my life a boiling pot of shit." Another heavy swallow, another wave of acidic pain. "Simply because karma is one stubborn bitch."
He pressed the bottle back to his lips, prepared for another onslaught of burning, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't keep the tip on his mouth. Eventually, he just gave up, slamming the bottle down on the counter and huffing at his own incompetence. His lips quivered against his will, and to somehow staunch what might've been the beginnings of some nervous breakdown, he dug his nails into counter, dug his tooth in his lip.
Don't lose it, don't lose it, don't lose it.
Even though it was nearly pitch black in the room, he could see the outline of furniture beginning to blur, could feel the burning prickle slide over his eyes.
It wasn't your fault, it wasn't, it wasn't.
His arms slid over the countertop, and soon he'd hunched over, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
You are to blame, you are, you are.
His shoulders heaved in silence. Sleeves grew wet and stuck to his skin, and a smooth sort of stickiness spread over his cheeks.
You're a grown ass man. Why are you crying?
An echo of his words sounded through the silence, but he deemed it a figment of his imagination. Such a figment couldn't be ignored once it was repeated, though.
"Daddy? Why are you crying?"
Ren lifted his head immediately, quickly swiping his sleeves over his cheeks and catching his breath in the darkness. "I'm not, sweetie. I'm not." His voice was stuffy and backed up - it was obvious.
"Are you okay?" The voice was small and petite, with a genuine concern that those who were as young as the little girl gave to everyone despite who they might be.
I'm not, sweetie. I'm not.
"I'm great," Ren said, heading over to flick on the kitchen light. His fingers hovered over the switch, not quite sure he wanted to make his streaked face clear. Instead, he coughed, and scratched the back of his head. "What are you, um, what are you doing up?"
"Can you get me some water, please, daddy?"
Every time she called him that, he felt his insides begin to crumble away, but nodded and got out a small Disney princess cup all the same. It took a bit of hesitation, but he flicked on the light, keeping his back to her.
As the tap ran, he pinched his nose between his fingers, sighing. How long's she been there? Did she hear me say all those things? His stomach twisted with the thought that maybe she had.
He had a potty mouth, but he'd never cussed with her present.
The girl, no older than five years, swung her arms back and forth, committing a vain attempt at whistling. It turned out something like blowing raspberries. Ren stared out of the corner of his eye and bit his lip. She shared no resemblance to the pair, but that meant nothing to him - she'd been raised by them both since she was three months old and, though they were a few hellish years, Ren loved her like she was his own.
If he was ever asked, he'd probably say she was the only one he truly gave a shit about.
With the knowledge that Sammie would see his face eventually, he turned around and handed her the cup.
She stared up at his face, never taking a drink. A lock of mousy brown fell in front of her face and she blew it away, squinting up at him. He coughed a few times, averting his gaze, but it always fell back on her, and those amber eyes that seemed so confused at what she saw.
"Daddy, why are you so sad all the time?"
Ren felt his heart drop. "Why do you think I'm sad?" Whereas he'd be expected to say it with bitterness on his tongue, every word was expressed softly, even through the slurs that sat there.
"Mikey said that sometimes people are sad 'cause they hurt someone they love, and sometimes it's 'cause they got hurt by someone they love." She tucked her lip between her teeth, as if the conversation was one she was nervous to get into. "Are you sad 'cause you got hurt?"
Ren considered turning back, considered walking away from the whole thing, but he was compelled to drop down to his knees, place his hands on Sammie's shoulders, and look her straight in the eyes, even if they were bloodshot and puffy. It took him a while to get actual words out, but he managed.
"I hurt someone pretty bad. A few people, actually. And I couldn't feel any worse about it. That's why I'm sad." He nodded as a means to see if she understood.
Sammie nodded, but Ren hadn't finished.
"I want you to always, always remember that, no matter where I am, or where you are, or where Mikey is, that we will always love you, and that I will always love the both of you, even when I'm mad or sad or just really far away. Never forget it, never. Promise me you won't."
He didn't notice the hitches in his voice or the heat on his cheeks until Sammie was wiping her little fingers over them, cleaning up what'd fallen. "I promise."
Ren stared, nodded. "Good." He sniffed. "Good." Up he went, standing and nudging her off with her little princess cup. "Now go back to bed, little rascal."
She smiled her near toothless smile at him before turning tail and heading back up the stairs, her tiny feet pattering across the polished floorboards until she was nowhere to be seen.
Ren was alone again, and the loneliness hardened him as he walked his way over to the door, slipped his shoes on, and grabbed his jacket.
He didn't bother to take his house key, and with the knowledge that he wouldn't need them again, he stepped out into the frigid night air, feeling some sense of freedom in the mist that spread from his lips.
Ren allowed himself five more seconds to stand in front of the door, just listening to the lap of waves against the cliffside they were situated upon, before leaving it all behind for good. The car that awaited him in the drive was a dark blue camaro from decades before, an old model he'd gotten for cheap, mostly due to the owner being just about ready to set it ablaze.
The one key he'd brought with him was the car key, and he was quick to unlock the door and slip inside, letting the engine purr for quite a while as he situated everything he needed, as he made sure everything was in order.
He was ecstatic to see that the passenger seat was empty, void of green boxes similar to the one he'd given Michael. He'd delivered two more earlier in the day. One went to a man considered a patient by doctors, a lunatic by outsiders, and a friend by Ren. The other had gone to a pair of artificial women in their fifties, two women that called themselves his mother, even if they hadn't recognized him when he showed up on their doorstep for delivery.
The same directions had gone to all three: "Open this at three twenty-five." He knew his mothers would stay awake for the chance to somehow make up for the twenty years they'd gone without. The friend, whom he called B, would await purely for the chance to say he knew what Ren had planned. Michael would awake when he had to simply because Ren said to - he was an awfully curious man.
Ren had a box of his own, but he had no ribbons to sweeten things up with. It sat in the glove compartment.
With everything in order, he put his foot on the gas, and with the crunch of tires over pebbles, a drop of rain struck his windshield.
I told you, Milo, that the world is just nothing but a bunch of selfish assholes. I'm no exception.
He frowned at himself, at the clouding and clogging of his thoughts, and switched on the radio to occupy himself in other ways. Above the dials he twisted was the clock: 3:15.
He blasted the volume and drove on.
The road he travelled was one that was never rode in the late hours of the night, a one-lane expanse of winding asphalt that sat a little too close to the cliffside for anyone's comfort. Rails kept vehicles at bay, but usually did little to ease a driver's worries. Ren, however, felt more carefree on that road than he did anywhere, and found it a comfort to speed up. The rain picked up to a light sprinkle.
Through the clouds shone a moon, which ended up casting some bluish sort of dark instead of black.
It was simple; it was perfect.
With nothing else to linger on, he thought back to the boxes and their contents. For the patient, he'd tug away the ribbon to find nothing more than a large stone inside. To anyone else, it'd seem like some joke, but Ren was positive that B would stare down at it and start a string of curses.
Being surrounded for ten years by four walls of stone did that to a person.
For the mothers, they'd sit around a table and tear away at the green wrapping to find an oval mirror that would fit across the span of their palms. When they looked at their reflections, they would expect to find perfection. The thing was, the mirror was cracked: their faces would be marred and deformed, the very definition of imperfect, and then they'd wonder if it'd broken in the exchange.
Ren knew it was purposeful.
For the husband, he'd wipe his tired eyes and flip each of the cardboard flaps until he found a little band of gold. Underneath that would be a picture, one where their arms were draped over each other's shoulders. In their free hands would be a dainty one - those of a little girl being lifted up on her third birthday. They'd all be smiling.
And at the very bottom of each of those boxes would be a folded slip of paper, handwritten three times over. They would squint their eyes and begin unfolding, and by three twenty-six, they'd be reading the steady font intently.
"To those reading," it would start, "I just want to say that there's a reason I sent this to you. For some reason or another, you clever fuckers have managed to take my mind off the guilt. Applause to you! You've either made my life better, or reminded me of how shit it was beforehand, sometimes both. Just think of these little knick-knacks of awards, gifts of my appreciation, if you will. Now read on, and make it snappy, because you've got two minutes to reach the end."
Ren flicked an overhead light on, and afterwards, he draped his entire body over to the other side of the car, clicking open the glove compartment while simultaneously working the wheel. His hands trembled as they always did as he patted around. His fingers eventually crinkled over plastic and something rectangular, papery.
He grinned to himself and snatched up the box, slamming the compartment shut and making himself comfortable again.
It was a cigarette box, and inside was one old, stale cigarette.
"To my friend of twelve years, I want to thank you for sticking by my side until I left, and for helping me get back on my feet after everything went down. Even though you were the most annoying piece of shit I've ever come across, I wouldn't dare consider anyone else a friend. All those people, they were the same, but you were markedly different. This is all I really have to say to you other than it's about time I do something stupid again. Goodbye, B. I would wish you luck, but you won that bet."
He shook the box until it opened, and pulled the bitter stick out with his teeth, discarding the box to the back seat. Fingers swished through his front pocket until he held a metallic lighter. The other head was stuck on the wheel.
When the rain picked up, so did the speed of the car.
"To the women that birthed me, I want to thank you for building me up to be the man I am today. I'm sure you'd be terribly proud of the heathen I've become under the watch of guards and therapists. The sixteen years I spent with you before you shipped me away were wonderful: any kid would dream of watching their mothers smile and wave to the neighbours before closing the doors and going absolutely batshit. No one saw the smudged mascara, or the bruises that sat under all that makeup. No one saw you with a bottle of alcohol unless they invited you over for a martini, and no one heard you holler and scream unless they sat just outside the windows to watch your shadows attack one another. So thank you, mother, mother, for being just as guilty as I am. P.S: you called yourself my family, but to me, you're just a family. Stay away from my real one."
The flickering orange was hot on his face, and he placed the flame upon the very tip of the cigarette. It was rancid and bitter - seven years did that to something. The lighter joined the empty box in the back seat.
His fingers settled over the steering wheel, and for once, they didn't tremble.
"To Michael, the man I married: I'm sorry. After everything happened, you were there to support me all the way. The first time I saw you, I thought you'd been someone else. The light in that bar made you look like a ginger, and you'd gone days without shaving. But I'm glad I did mistake you for that man - you gave me so many things to be happy about, even if I stopped being happy a long time ago. Remember that I love you, and I love Sammie, and I don't wanna hear about you telling her bad things about me, you hear?
"You took the guilt away, but now it's back, and I don't really know what to do other than this. Again, I love you."
He removed his hand from the wheel for a few seconds to spit out the smoke collecting in his lungs, but quickly put it back. His arm went out the window - the coldness of the rain sent his heart into overdrive, and his foot pressed down on the gas.
He floored it with one hand on the wheel and embers blazing at his lips.
"This note is just about over, but there's one thing I want to make clear: I am many things, but a liar isn't one of them. I don't lie when I say that I'm just one more element in the cesspool that is slowly, slowly rising, deepening, ebbing, flowing. There is absolutely nothing that one of us, or a dozen of us, or hundreds or thousands or millions of us can do to stop the buildup of hate and violent. Parasites live not few and far between, but in every one of us. Not a single person in this world is free of sucking the life out of something else. Even you. Remember that."
His smile deepened with the glow of bright embers before they fell away into ash on his lap. "It grows as I speak."
Ren glanced at the clock: 3:26.
It would be switching over to the number he'd been waiting for soon enough. His eyes switched up to the rearview mirror and he saw that fine shade of green he'd always prided his appearance on more than anything. He smiled around the cigarette, which he soon plucked out of his mouth and held to the sky.
"Cheers, to Milena Seble!" He flicked it out the window, cackling like the madman he'd been seven years before. "The place that might land me in a coffin before the night is done."
At 3:27, he jerked the wheel sharply to the left. The scratch of metal was deafening, but it was momentary, and soon the sensation of falling was primary as he plummeted to the roaring waves below.
"Are you okay, Cayse?"
"I am not okay."
"How do you feel, Ren?"
"I feel like shit, sir."
"Have you ever blamed yourself for what occurred at Milena Seble?"
"All day, every day, ma'am."
"Did you try to stop what happened?"
"Hah! Are you kidding? I caused half of it!"
"Are you happy, Ren?"
"Does the smile throw you off that much?"
"What are you thinking right now?"
"At least I still look hot as hell."