I love stiles.
SONG: Glass Animals - Heat Waves
Trigger warning: references to self-harm, institutional mistreatment, suicide.
🌸
Derek Matthews
The Matthews Tower is an extensive, mammoth, awe-struck skyscraper circumscribed in vigorous viridescent, sixty floors, glass walls imprinted with the luminous beacon M.
A dimming radiance, grounds layered and layered of cracked leaves rustling like hissing snakes, dancing and elevating in circles. I steer to the underground parking lot. Grey, contemporary, fluorescent tubes, sturdy poles upholding the low ceiling.
April struggles to detach the modular helmet's strap. "I honestly thought you were going to kill me."
That was random.
"You are delusional to think I'd waste my time doing that."
"Well, you'd be doing a favour."
I frown at her choice of words. Three months ago, I would have joked along and agreed. "Again, you are delusional to think I'd waste my time doing that. Let me help," I insist, cringing as she wrenches on the strap. "You'll rip it and I can't be asked to get another helmet."
She dubiously drops her hands. I try to suppress the smirk at her mortified, velvet cheeks. Her blush is endearing, I suppose.
In the grandiose lobby, an instant welcome of reviving air-conditioning, scraping my nostrils like needles. Polished, marble floors and walls. A double staircase meanders upward to the first floor, and each barrier of each floor, bristling with workers, overlooks the foyer, blessed to witness a stream of spherical lights, suspended by the oblong ceiling twenty feet above. Clients in elegant attires rest in the lounge area — voluminous, black sofas, several glass coffee tables —, nattering to their colleagues, sipping tea and refreshment drinks.
The receptionist straightens. On the flawless, variegated wall behind is a stupendous portrait of Dad. In memory of Samuel Rhodes Matthews.
"Good afternoon, Mr Matthews."
"Good afternoon, Arnav."
Arnav eyes April, who offers a cute wave. "This is the special guest?"
"He kidnapped me," says April.
"Arnav, do you hear something?"
The receptionist curiously flickers between April and I, a glint in his gaze. He erupts into a hearty smile, somewhat satisfied and relieved.
"What?" I say.
"Nothing. Just ... quite concerned that you kidnapped her."
His side was chosen.
"He's planning to kill me," she deadpans. "Can you help me escape before I see Jesus?"
"Why do you want to ... kill this young girl?"
"I was hoping she's valuable." I peer at her, toe to hair. "Disappointing to be let down."
She looks at Arnav. "Do you hear something?"
Arnav shakes his head. "Not really."
"Tell her she's not valuable."
She counters, "Tell him he's wrong."
"Tell her I'm always right."
"He's never right."
"Arnav."
He chuckles. "Should I be intrigued?"
I frown. "By what?"
Arnav beholds April once again. "Girlfriend?" I shoot him a glare. He held up his hands. "I'm just saying. Your request this morning ... odd choice."
I knew this would happen. "Arnav, this is April. She is Mike Levesque's sister."
"Your brother is inspiring."
She smiles. "Thank you."
He withdraws a blank lanyard. "I have a feeling I will be seeing you more often."
"Arnav," I say and he doesn't wipe off that grin.
"If Samuel Matthews's son requested the finest floor in the building for the whole afternoon to the night, then you are a special guest."
Five minutes: signed her name to the database, got her ultrasound fingerprint, her lanyard finished.
In the elevator she asks, "Special guest?"
I push the lowest button, angling onto the handrail. My stomach mildly lugs to my throat as we ascend. "I don't bring anyone here." Not even my friends.
For incalculable reasons. The substantial one is nervousness. This Tower dominates Edgewater, hence it is remarkably intimidating. The history, the reputation, the competency — how can it not be?
I bought April here to enliven the ambience, knowing this building can certainly provide that as it is my favourite place. I brought her here for peace, for elation, before we transgressed to the dark.
"Oh." She awkwardly shifts her weight to her left leg, that endearing blush revisiting. "That's ... sweet."
"So, what did you do for the past three days?"
She grasps the handrail, her tender fingers tickling mine. "Revising, cooking, cleaning, babysitting Rose, reading—"
"You like to read?"
"Yeah. Do you?"
Interesting. Destiny never liked reading — which explains why she's senseless.
"Absolutely."
"What's your favourite genre?" she asks.
"Honestly, I don't really care. As long as the book is a good read, that's what matters."
"Tanner said you like to read erotica. I saw him reading one of your favourite books this morning."
"They're fun. I never watched porn in my life, but I know reading it is better and healthier."
Reading is knowledge, and knowledge is useful.
"A guy who loves to read," she muses, fascinated. "Wow. Never thought I'd come across that unless in dreams."
"You dream about me? You get unpredictable every second."
"I didn't say your name, did I?"
"You probably wanted to."
"You wish I did."
"Perhaps."
"What?"
"Nothing."
I stare at the opposite wall, smiling. Moments later, I sneak a peek at her, her arms folded, catching a soft smile spread across her face, identical to mine.
I unlocked the door to the rooftop. The lights automatically irradiate, swifter than a finger snap. Footsteps echoing; wide, immense as eight tennis courts. Half is an interior of bean bags on a white, fluffy, warming rug, encircling a wooden table; a bar in the corner; a thousand bullets needed to penetrate and fracture the intermeshed glass walls and ceiling. The other half is an opened lounge, a fireplace, a string of incandescent lamps — a cobweb —, an aisle of flowers, an aquamarine-tinted pool, its waters flowing over the edge sharp.
Hands in the pockets of a bomber coat, I couldn't help the authentic, heart-warmed smile, watching April inhale a transfixed breath and absorb the prepossessing view. On the balcony, a cluster of pigeons startled away. She leans on the fence, excitedly grinning at the fundamental height. The full moon is in visible sight, the sun near sunset. The people, the cars, the resonances of humanity: ants.
"If you want ..." I briefly contemplated if I will regret it. I do not want another person to be lost. I am doing this so she can reflect — far, far, far from the irritating buzz of life. "You can come here as much as you want." I nod at her lanyard. "You're an important guest now."
The rooftop was my father's gift to Mum, on the night of their engagement.
The world.
That was his gift.
The world.
This was where he proposed, beneath the wishfulness.
The last time this rooftop was used was eighteen years ago, three months before she died. I come here alone to think, to admire the city my ancestor created. I would sit on the literal roof, legs dangling over the edge, the thrill so enlivening, that I craved to jump and fly. Aunt Marlene noticed the occasional visits and asked decorators to enhance the rooftop.
When I come here, I connect to the sole essence of my parents when my father wasn't a beast. If ghosts exist, theirs would dance through the light-changing neon flares, on the grass, twirling and twirling, laughing and laughing. Just them. No one else.
Just them — their world. On top of the world.
I often envied my mother. She saw Dad's high spirits, and in a way, I envied Dad for having someone like that. I want someone like that. Someone who does not see me as a prize, like how Destiny did. Someone who sees me as ... me. A simple boy living to the end.
"Why did you bring me here?" she questions.
"It's a lovely sight."
Confusion wanders on her expression. She looks back at the clusters of buildings, the breeze fluttering strands of her hair as if she is falling. "This is your city," she marvels as if it properly dawned on her. "Does it ... Does it overwhelm you?"
I recall Lin's words around the beginning of September. "Sometimes I can't believe that such capabilities exist. Truthfully, rationally and realistically, no human deserves this much power, this much money. It is the greatest serial killer."
"Do you think you deserve this?"
"No. Materiality shouldn't define us, shouldn't separate us. Unfortunately, it does." I follow her hypnotisation. "I'm responsible for what is happening in the school. More or less."
She turns, considering. "I don't think so."
"I am." I slant next to her, elbows on the robust, mahogany barricade. The wind is prickly and hissing. "Like Holden Tasse, for example."
"You're not responsible for that, Derek."
"I should've known, April."
"It doesn't matter if you don't know. You can't know everything."
"I have to."
"Why?"
Because I'm a fucking Matthews and a fucking Everston.
"You can't control those kinds of things."
"I do."
We do. This flow of life was created, programmed and expected by people such as my family. We control the media, the army, all industries, and even religion. Power and conflict are the twin sisterhood of all civilisations, from the Mesopotamian world to this postmodern world. There is one minority group that is never oppressed, never inferior — the minority ruling class. The rest of the world is classified and ranked into subordination, including a small fraction of the white race, the working-class whites, which my father was.
Every action, every word, every thought is the desired product of the system that was designed to keep the rich, rich and the poor, poor. Done to serve our interests. Stemmed from the greed and thirst to be the everlasting sovereigns. To keep the poor, poor, we create social norms and values that are socialised into children and are internalised as their culture. This consensus will be passed down from generation to generation. The poor's consensus is an alternative to the consensus of the rich. An example of a norm for the poor is that they are doomed to be at the bottom, born to fail. The rich — the world prospers for us.
The norms and values also count as stereotypes, such as the black boy dealing drugs — by the way, that is another product of the system; we purposely put them in that situation for a sense of inferiority, to establish consequential differences. Eventually, these norms become subconscious beliefs and we perform subconscious habits. That is why the rich always stay rich, and the poor always stay poor. Both classes are taught differently, raised differently, disciplined differently. You can believe the system is meritocratic, but the system was created by us. The system will always serve us, not you. You can have the abnormal trait of a genius, you can be a coloured genius, a working-class white student that somehow steps into an upper-class rank, can have the essential cultural equipment for academic and social access, but the rich always rise to the top.
People are so preoccupied with the taxes, bills, and financial issues bestowed by those linked to me, that it is hard to find at least one person broken free. Whatever creates life, whatever brews life, puts the power in the hands of humanity. We were quick to recognise it and seize it, and so we formulated the foundations of society that make all of our days a Christmas.
When I found out, when I went to Japan, the more I grew, the more I matured, a rage so powerful and vicious and fatal as a black-water tsunami developed into a driving force.
"As a person of the bourgeoisie," I mumble, "and having two incredibly-influential parents, I am responsible. Whenever I hear a person with less money than me dying, I have no choice but to accept the responsibility, because, in a way, I am."
Wealth is a determinant of life expectancy.
"The elite," says April, looking as if the word tasted odd on her tongue. "Does that mean I'm responsible, too?"
"If you're not open-minded, if you're selfish, you are responsible."
"I agree. I think it's important to be objective. Money is the biggest guilt. That's why I want to have a career where I help people," she declares. "Something to do with injustice and, well, people."
"Lawyer?" She shakes her head. "Why not? You're good at debating. Good comebacks, a good reputation for breaking noses, too. That could come in handy in the courtroom."
She laughs. "Maybe something else more interesting."
At that moment, a sudden notion hit me.
Some people are aware of how the system works and either actively campaign against it or conform. The Families, the wealthy, want poverty to exist, and want poverty to be inevitable.
Dad never had enough money to permanently end poverty (merely for twenty years). Albeit his work ethic, his increasing agenda and income and finances were loathed by powerful figures as there was a prediction that he could overproduce riches and end global poverty when the goal amount is reached.
Without poverty, inequality is impossible. It sort of threatens the value of money. A system designed to benefit us would be impossible. His life was threatened numerous times by institutions, the greatest institutions that had access to all knowledge. He had a dream of growing old with Mum, hence had no choice but to stay silent.
Now, Aunt Marlene is on their radar. Her work ethic is acute and extraordinary, better than Dad's. She grew up affluent, therefore she is aware of how life works. Dad had to learn and be accustomed. He lived two different realities — rags to riches.
What if Bodie not only wanted to expose the Families but dreamed of somehow revolt as he knew who maintained it? It is the only explanation I could fathom. If he had no connection, he wouldn't be a problem as he was working-class, and lacked a prominent reputation.
Dad worked to the elite status. The small circle didn't expect their own to reveal such truths. They knew that if Dad did, it would be a conversation lasting for millennia, an insurrection at the brink of dawn.
Time is strangely nonexistent on the rooftop. The sixteenth hour struck, the sun beginning to set. We conversed like good old friends, snuggled in our coats and inspecting the planes minuscule scraping the atmosphere, a bond generating.
She doesn't know what career to pursue. She likes art, likes to make it complex to the point a genius wouldn't comprehend. She asked me how come I want to take over the company so early. I said time is too short to waste. The sooner, the better. Like her, I want to help people as quickly as possible.
She snickers. In the glow of the cold sunlight, her eyes shimmer like a pair of jets and ambers, so outrageously exhausted and dark, so outrageously hopeful and animated. "That must be so weird."
"It is," I mutter. "I kept seeing thirst edits of my parents on my TikTok for you page."
"And of yourself," she guesses.
"The second I did, I deleted the app so quick." I scratch the back of my neck. "Also, fanfiction."
She gasps. "No."
I cringe. "Smut fanfiction of Tanner and me." She laughs loudly, covering her mouth to repress the snorts and sniggers. "Some of them were written by twenty-year-olds, and Tanner and I were, like, fifteen at the time."
She scrunches her nose. I found that strangely endearing. "Pedophilia. God, Derek, I feel so bad."
"Yet you're laughing."
She flattens a palm on her chest as if that will stop it. "Was it last year when you did that photoshoot of yourself with black eyeliner?"
I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. "Smudged eyeliner," I correct.
It was a collaboration between Calvin Klein and Bonheur, therefore the photoshoot is highly predictable. Tight boxers. It earned a lot of controversial backlash from insecure men and women of toxic masculinity and toxic feminity. Nothing is more gratifying than revolting against gender norms.
"You were practically naked."
"I consented to it," I say, forcing the blush to recede.
"I thought it was hot," admits April.
The mortification disappeared naturally, substituted by intrigue. "Really?"
Her own blush emerges. "It was ... kind of sexy."
"Why, thank you."
"I think you should do it again," she recommends.
I smiled at her enthusiasm. "Someone's eager."
"What? No." She rapidly shakes her hands in disagreement, embarrassed, and I chuckle lowly under my breath. "No. I'm just saying ..." She waves a finger up and down my body. "Your new look would make people go crazy."
"A replica of it?"
She nods. "Definitely."
I press my palms on the floor, leaning back. "You should direct it, then."
"Me?"
"No, I think the sky should. Yes, April. You should. Bonheur likes new recruits."
We decide to go inside. She flops down on a bean bag, exhaling snug. The ambience warming up, the scarf refusing to unleash. I opened a fridge cabinet at the bar, surprised to see the diverse range of food. I was almost convinced Giovanni was behind the fabulous work because whoever did this did an excellent job — bacon cheeseburger crescents, kebabs, coconut mango chicken cups, icing-melted doughnuts, chocolate cake, fizzy drinks and champagne.
"You don't believe in God, do you?"
I sit on a bean bag opposite her, placing some kebabs, Sprite cans and Red Bull on the small, folding, coffee table. "I'm an atheist. You do, yes?"
"I'm Catholic."
"Ah. We used to be enemies."
"Protestants versus Catholics. Yeah, I know. The classic enemies to lovers trope."
I snort, opening a Red Bull. "Why do you believe in God?"
She shrugs. "I sort of grew up believing in him."
"Because of your parents?"
"I guess so, yes. But then I did my own research and ... I just have faith in God."
That is credibly brilliant. "Meaning, it's a personal connection," I understand, "rather than a religious one."
"Yep. "Why don't you believe in God, or any gods for that matter?"
I consider my choice of words.
In my childhood, I prayed every morning and night at a religious shrine of a sole Cross in the Manor. I attended church twice a week. It is a custom as a Protestant, as an Everston. Tanner was an Anglican. At fifteen, Aunt Marlene advised us to conclude our faiths, as she suspected we were not fond of it. I told her I am an atheist. Tanner said he is an agnostic — he believes there is a greater power, though not the gods we acknowledge, thus he refers to the greater power as 'Universe'. She respected our decisions and never took us to church.
Lin is a Shinto — one of the main Japanese religions. Polytheistic, I believe there are about eight million gods. Shintos believe that humans are good existences, and evil is caused by malevolent spirits.
Don't get me wrong — religion is impeccably beautiful. I respect all faiths. Nonetheless, I cannot fathom an all-loving entity when this world is in utter chaos.
If God gives us free will, okay. Although, some argue we don't have free will. It is really contradicting and conflicting. If this God Aunt Marlene worships has a plan, does that mean my parents' death was fate? No matter how many believers I ask those types of dreadful questions to, the answer is always the same: 'Trust God; Trust His Plan.' It is not even an answer, just a for-the-sake-of-it response.
Another reason why I cannot believe in God is the Bible. If it is factual, it has discriminative anecdotes. Out of all the people, I thought Aunt Marlene would despise it. She told me that is not necessarily true as the Bible has been mistranslated over two thousand times, therefore the original, accurate stories have been falsified or lost. She doesn't pay attention to that side. She pays attention to the good people — the open-minded and compassionate, as only the people define a religion. However, she is not afraid to acknowledge and criticise it.
If the Bible is what it claims to be, then I suppose Jesus is the only non-problematic character. He snapped at a man to gouge their eyes due to the sin of lust and cut off your hand when it does wrongdoings — as if that won't hurt. Lovely. Perhaps Heston should take note.
Aunt Marlene believes in God as she cannot comprehend the universe erupted into existence from nothing. She has this saying that God is energy — it doesn't create, nor does it destroy; it has existed before the beginning of time. She thinks God decides who should have power, and who doesn't, and believes our brethren is one of the wealthiest families to ever exist is prophesied, whether that is accounted in the Scriptures or lost in the everlasting sands of the ancient times.
I tell April all of these reasons. "There are numerous religions," I add, "that it is hard to confirm there is only one god or God for that matter. Each religion has its own root, just as there is a reason for everything. I also did my own research, and I found that each religion is true. They are parallel, the same story but a different name."
Her eyes glisten. "I believe that. My mum agrees, too. She says there is a truth in all religions because they all originated from the same bases."
"People don't like possibilities and that's what makes them dangerous. One of our teachings is that those of other religions won't go to heaven. I despise that ideology—"
"I do, too."
"—it's sort of justifying the death and nonexistence of innocents. That was when I first deconstructed hell and heaven. I do not think you should be judged based on what you believe. You should be judged based on your morality. The twins are atheists. Ines is Buddhist. Why should they be punished for their beliefs, when truly they are incredibly righteous people?"
"But—" I take another sip of the Red Bull "—if God is real, if any of these gods are real, I doubt they are how we perceive them to be. The scriptures are metaphors. They are parables. People understand each sentence differently — their understanding determines their future. Jesus knew that, and he used it to his advantage. In fact, all the figureheads of religion like Buddha and even Prophet Mohammed apprehended that feature of human nature.
"Frankly, I know religion, or rather the people of religion, is patriarchal. Labelling God as 'God' is evident of that, regardless if Jesus was an incarnation of God."
"I keep saying that," she mumbles. "People find it offensive if I call God a woman."
"Because, even if people say God is a woman as a form of a metaphor to uphold and sustain female strength, society despises the idea of a woman in power."
My Aunt and mother, for example.
"Nothing is more arrogant than men. It's ignorant to claim otherwise. I noticed now, and even Theo admitted this and he's Catholic like you, that religion is becoming more of an industry, of an organisation, than a foundation of trust, peace, patience, faith and regarded love. Industries are male-dominated, from fashion to farming. Hence, it's predictable that some Abrahamic faiths like Catholicism refer to their creator by a masculine noun.
"I know religion is used to control society. The concentration camps in China, the Holocaust itself, the persecution of Christians in the East, the discrimination of Muslims in the West, the hatred of Jews, and the white-washed dogmas of the Dharmic religions. They are all examples. Control is likely when fear is tied. Another example is combining religion and the state. That is a form of dictatorship."
April twirls a kebab. "Do you think Jesus was a white man?"
"No. There are no white people in the Bible."
Her lips twisted downwards into an astonished, smirking snicker.
"What? It's accurate. Also, if his second coming is true, then the government will do everything in their man-made power to stop him, including the organisations that stand supposedly for him."
"He was a radical thinker."
I nod. "Exactly. He still is. His teachings are applicable to a minority. That says a lot about humanity, doesn't it?" I shrug. "I love philosophy, so maybe it's my philosophical side saying that ..."
We talk, talk and talk about our theories. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Conversing about deep shit is a whole another level of peace.
"But I do think religion is beautiful."
April grabs a can of soda. "So you bought me here to talk about philosophy."
"Philosophy is amazing," I marvel.
Something glisters in her gaze at my obsession. "We never talk, Derek. Do you want something?"
I hesitate. "Respectfully, your life is not really my business. Because of our brothers ... it kind of is?" I am one to stick to my promises, regardless if it is motherfucking Luke. "Jasmine and Naila told us." I look at her sleeves. "They told us everything."
She drops the can on the floor to her right side, suddenly not thirsty. "And?"
Notwithstanding the lack of bond between us, the lack of trust, and the lack of one-hour conversations, she is still my friend. A friend, a person, I care about. Knowing her brother, he wouldn't want his sister to suffer.
I remember Mike's funeral. I saw April crying, and saw her trying to approach the opened casket. She couldn't, as if an invisible force held her back. Tears drowned her eyes, cheeks, lips, neck, face, body. Each death releases a different pain to each person, but I knew how she felt. Hopeless. The desire of a miraculous resurrection. We would rather sell our soul to raise the dead.
People must break to get stronger. But her grief was an overwhelming devour, an overwhelming ache, restricted her breaths, short and sharp and light-headed, and when she cried into my shoulder, when she clung onto the lapels and sleeves of my suit, when her tears soaked my shirt, I knew she was truly broken.
"And I want to help you," I say softly. "I want to help you love yourself. We want to."
"I don't think I can love myself."
"You can if you give it a try. It is easier said than done, though eventually if you commit to this goal, it will be effortless."
I think it is better to learn alone. That way, you will gain more.
"How did you stop?" she asks in a mumble, unable to meet my eyes. I don't mind.
"I stopped cutting myself after my second suicide attempt when I was fifteen. I saw how traumatised my family and friends were properly for the first time."
That was when Aunt Marlene sent me to a mental health institution. It never helped. It was a horrible time, a horrible place, full of horrible people. I was sedated, locked in cages, hands bounded, isolated, treated like an outcast. Aunt Marlene never knew about their treatments. She quickly assigned me to the first hospital she could find, eager for me to get better. When she found out the malevolence, she sued them, filed a legal case, and the hospital was taken under investigation. The treatment was exceptionally horrible. I found it minor, insignificant, compared to Dad's brutality.
"That didn't stop me from finding another way to hide the pain. At the beginning of this year, I started taking drugs and started drinking. I got addicted. I couldn't stop it more than I couldn't stop cutting. During the summer, I realised the difference between existing and living, and I also realised that if you want to stop, you have to do it for yourself, not for others. Putting yourself first is not selfish."
"What I do is selfish."
"No," I reply sternly. "It's not right, but it's not selfish. It's only a chapter of our lives in which we learn and grow. Life is not a life if it is mere happiness. It has to be a balance, a dualism, of light and dark."
She snorts. "Yeah, my life is not balanced. It's always terrible."
"It gets better," I promise. "If you want me to help, April, my assistance will be trivial. At the end of the day, the only assistance that counts is yours, because learning from others is the same as learning from words, and that would do no good. If you learn from yourself, your insight will expand and will be greater than ever before."
She glimpsed at her sleeves. "Can I show you?"
I stammer, gobsmacked at the sudden inquiry, "Are—are you sure?"
She nods slowly. "I'm sure."
I smile softly. "Okay."
She pushes up the sleeves. New bandages, presumably have been there for days considering the dirt and faded colour, speckle her wrists, blotched with blood. The higher she pushes up the veils, the more scars come out to shine. Each scar whispers a different story; the cause, the meaning, always the same.
She doesn't raise her head, doesn't raise her eyes. I can sense the enthusing shame.
To make her feel better, "Can I show you mine?"
"Sure," she counters timidly.
Just two depressed kids bonding. Ironic.
I push a sleeve to my shoulder. Like severed snakes, mended wounds furnish my arms, sulking to the shoulders. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Lost count. I used to graze myself incessantly after Dad's suicide. Day by day, minute by minute, I filched a razor-sharp object — scissor, shattered window piece, knife — and slash my skin as if it were nothing.
I believed it was nothing.
I believed it was the flesh of one who never deserved to live, the flesh of a murderer.
Memories I locked at the back of my dark mind creeps to attention. The screams resonated in the halls of the Manor; Dad hung limp in his room. The first suicide, a housemaid witnessed me almost plunging a needle into an ending nerve. The second, Theo heaved a lifeless me out of the lake of a meadow, shouted, demanded, to his God for a miracle.
"There's more." I skim a hand over a range of cicatrixes. "All over my body like a bunch of tattoos but without the ink." I look at her. "Life hurts, doesn't it? It hurts so bad, it's tough and unbearable to live. Society is what makes it intolerable. Them and their doings. I think the reason why people give up is that we want a purpose. To feel important is a flame of human nature.
"We all have a purpose, and before you say you don't, you do. The purpose doesn't have to be huge and monumental. It can be small. There is a reason why obstacles are called obstacles — blockages in our path, blockages only we can overcome, no one else, and we can be successful if we try. I know you're trying, April. I know. What you don't know is that trying is the best effort to exist in this infinite universe — you are standing up, evolving, when the world, which is bigger than you could ever be, wants to push you down. We have control over our thoughts. We give power to sadness. We can control it. It is all up to you and your underlying effort. Understand that all doubts are self-imposed."
"I can't control it," she whispers.
"You can. It takes a long time, or a short time depending as we are all different, but eventually, it will be worth it. All it takes is a simple reanalysis of your thoughts, correcting that you are the one in power."
You are in control of your reality.
Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
Do not let anyone limit your freedom.
I ask for April's phone. Together we created a list of reasons why she should stay alive. Two hours. She was hunching into the bean bag, sinking in. I knew she could jot down ideas, but those ideas lacked enthusiasm for her. There is always a reason to live. It might be hazy now, sooner you will see it. I was more than delighted to list the points.
1. Animals. You love cats, right? You won't have a pet if you're gone. You won't be able to give a fantastic creature home to you.
2. You are not alone. Even if you feel isolated, invisible, in a crowd of a hundred, you are still not alone.
3. You are strong. You are a fighter. I promise you that people look up to you because of your gallant outlooks, your gallant wisdom. Because I did. I do. The world needs more personas who stand up for others.
4. Sleep. Who doesn't like to sleep? You will miss having dreams that leave you breathless, that will leave you in awe.
5. You are beautiful. Ask anyone — they'll have a tough time denying it.
6. Music. Come on, music is amazing, right? You won't be able to listen to your favourite artists if you're gone.
7. You think you know how life will turn out to be — a void of boredom, a void of despair. You're wrong. You will never know what your life will be like, and that's the excitement of it. There is so much you would miss out on, a series of paths to paths ahead. Don't miss out on that.
8. Food. I think we know why.
9. It does get better.
10. Love. Finding your ... soulmate, I guess? [She and I both cringed, and she erupted into a fit of snickers.]
11. A person's world will never be the same once you're gone.
12. Travelling the world.
13. Sooner or later, eventually, after you sailed the storms, you will dock at the shore, and you will be so glad, so proud, that you decided to keep on enduring. Look how far I have come.
14. Telling your story of a thousand stories.
15. Books. Why leave them behind? Why not read more? There are millions waiting for you.
16. Mother Nature. Waterfalls. A meadow of exotic flowers. The stars.
17. Proving people wrong when you are successful.
18. Watching movies.
19. Listening to horror stories at late-night fires and munching on marshmallows.
20. Helping others. Something tells me that's your favourite hobby, April.
21. Parties. Friends. Socialisation.
22. You could live on Mars.
"Mars?"
"You never know."
23. You could kiss your celebrity crush. [She laughed, and I had a feeling she briefly visualised it as her cheeks reddened.]
24. Snowball fights.
25. Christmas.
26. Birthdays.
27. Swimming with sharks.
28. You believe in God, right? He would want you to live.
29. Your survival will motivate others to live.
30. Snorting like a pig when you laugh. You always do that. [She rolled her eyes.]
31. Laughing so hard that your stomach hurts. That is amazing.
32. Learning about new things.
33. Bonfires.
34. Beaches.
35. Sunsets and sunrises.
36. Concerts.
37. Carnivals. Roller Coasters.
38. Watching your siblings grow. Watching your nephew and niece grow.
39. Hugs.
40. Sex.
"You might lose your virginity to a celebrity. I think you'd want me to jot that down."
She lays on two bean bags, gaping at the black marble. "Like a celebrity will notice me."
I was about to comment that I'm a celebrity, but that would be highly strange.
Fifteen to six, an indigo nirvana, lacking stars, blanketed by camouflaging clouds. Leaning on a glass wall, below us is the true beautiful sky, a mixture of colour: white, yellow, green, red, purple, pink, irregularly aligned like constellations. Millions and millions of lights, stretching to the horizons like a sea of fireflies, a sea of lanterns, captivating a particular humbleness and peace, as if divine entities are near and protecting us.
"Forty-five reasons." I give back the expensive Samsung. "Whenever you're sad, try and look over the list. It can help. Add more. Do it for yourself," I say, a little firmly. "Not for your family. Otherwise, you'd feel forced to live. That is worse than wanting to die."
Time is strangely nonexistent on the rooftop, at this moment. We conversed like good old friends. She doesn't know what career to pursue. She likes art, and likes to make it complex to the point a genius wouldn't comprehend. She asked me how come I want to take over the company so early. I said time is too short to waste. The sooner, the better.
She was comfortable not hiding her scars. She said I was the first person to see them, and I don't know if I should feel honoured. How could she trust me? Perhaps what I did insinuated it.
We fell asleep. Awakened, rain heavily streamed over the glass, stunning waterfalls. The wind cordially howling, the incandescent lamps jingling a tune, the pool's water gushing to the ground, flashes illuminate the leaden clouds, thunder rumbling in the distance. April's mother left voicemails, so did Marlene. I didn't care. She didn't, it seems, as we both knew this conversation was important for her.
I signed us out. In the parking lot, April is shivering, beads of water thrashing onto the ground through the opened entry.
I shrug off my trench coat. "Put this on."
She glances at the soft black, glances at me. "Thanks, but I'm okay—"
I gently seize her arms, dipping them into the sleeves. "Your chattering teeth will be an annoyance."
Her chest faces me, her breath misting to my nose. I tuck the scarf, accidentally tugging it down, an accidental caress across her warm skin. I freeze. A crown of red and purple claws. Luke notified a bruise but this ... this is brutal. Revolting. An unfamiliar, new surge of protectiveness rises. I hate seeing women injured. I collide our gazes, hers twinkling with fatigue.
"What?" she asks, snapping out of her zoning.
"Who the fuck hurt you?"
Her face muscles relax, realising what had happened, and she hastily batters my hand away, shoving the scarf and tufts of her dark-brown hair inside. "Boxing."
"Boxing?"
"My brother took me to his class. I ended up with a lot of bruises. I go there sometimes when I'm angry."
She seems the type. The neck? I cross my arms, not believing the bullshit for a second. It appears like someone grappled her throat a bit too tightly, too excruciatingly. I'm surprised she can speak without a crack or rasp. I think she was reminiscing about whatever it truly was — a flicker of pain flashed across her face, a flash of thunder and lightning clapping closer.
Don't ask her. She'll tell you if she wants to. In case, I mention: "I know we barely know each other, but whatever is going on, you can tell me and I'll sort it out."
The coat is oversized, sleeves flapping in the creeping breeze, nearly swallowing her head. Her eyes waver my face. Fastening on the helmet, her voice muffled, "Okay."
"I'm serious, April," I say, a bit roughly. "I know you can handle yourself. Hell, I'm a bit terrified of you—"
She flaps up the face shield. "I must be doing something right if you're terrified of me."
"Don't get all arrogant now."
"Derek Matthews," she continues in a muse, "frightened of me. Catchy. I'll be honest, you intimidate me."
I frown. "Why? I'm a good guy."
"You have your own freaking Security, probably stricter than the Prime Minister's. You probably got more money than ninety-nine per cent of society. Plus, you're ..." Her gaze involuntarily scrutinises me.
I slyly smile. "I'm ...?" She shuts the shield, too slow to veil the blush. "I'm handsome, you mean."
"You look like a troll."
"Weren't you checking me out in the park?"
The question shocks her. She didn't think I noticed, did she? "I wasn't," she says brusquely. "You're hallucinating."
"I don't think so, April. I remember it well. You were blushing a lot—" I thrice-tap the black glass "—as you are now."
"Your memory is messed up, and I'm not blushing."
"Whatever you say. By the way, the guys and I handled Thiago."
"What?" she squeaked, smacking open the windshield.
"Can you be gentle with that?" I mutter. "Jesus, you'd break it at this point."
"You confronted Thiago?"
"We had to. Consider it as another timeless offer."
"Did you hurt him badly?"
"Did you want us to?"
"Not really. I'd rather if God does that."
"He did that through Tanner." I Crossed myself into an Amen gesture. "Praise the Lord."
She giggles. "Praise the Lord."
I secure my helmet. She mounts on the MV Agusta F4 Claudio, her slim arms entangling my waist, contemplating who despises April that much, who has a monstrous audacity to hurt her so tremendously.
🌸
This chapter took so long.
but did you like it ;)
if it is rushed and not smooth, please do tell me.
also, Derek is a nice guy. where can i find one?