A.N. This chapter was pretty good to write for me, and as you can see from the picture, Darby's gonna be in this chapter - so I hope you enjoy reading today!!
♔ Chapter Twenty-Two ♔
The Christmas break had passed by quickly, after the realisation had hit me about Luke. I forced myself to stay in my flat, walled up tight. I didn't want to leave, to go out into the real world again. The idea of walking out the front door was terrifying, and crazy thoughts were flying around my head like hot air balloons and children's kites roaming high in the sky.
I felt like all of my confidence had faded away, abandoned me, left me pathetic and shrivelled into shadowy corners. God, I felt so fucking sick with myself. I felt paranoid, scared of every flickering shadow, and every noise in the flat. I felt like the worst kind of loser, the biggest fool in the world - for not seeing it sooner when it was staring me in the fucking face the entire time.
From the first time I met Luke, and every time after, I should have known something was up. Looking back, there were signs all over the place, double meanings in every word that left his thoughtless mouth, and basic facts that I overlooked out of some morbid fascination to save him.
It was quite funny, when I really sat down and thought about it - it was my own desire to redeem myself, to save myself, that caused me to overlook all the warning signs. Because of that, I'd never felt more ignorant, more alone, more like Tom, like Darby, or even worse, I felt like a helpless little boy all over again. A boy afraid of his own father, in denial over his own thoughts, absorbing his own self-hatred and reflecting it back on everyone else, just to make himself feel better. I recognised all these thoughts, all these feelings, because I'd had them before, growing up. It was nothing new to me.
I spent the rest of the winter holiday trying to convince myself that I was sane, despite seeing things that weren't there. I tried to tell myself that in spite of imagining a gorgeous, fucked up boy out of thin air, I wasn't crazy. Even though I'd let myself become infatuated with him, showcased all of my boyish vulnerabilities to him, let him force himself on me, and what? It was all bullshit? Fake? I wanted to find some way to explain all the memories that I shared with Luke over the last few weeks. They felt too real to be imagined, made up, all in my head. I convinced myself that my imagination couldn't possibly be that delusional, or that creative.
I remembered every touch, every word that escaped his mouth, how in control he had been that whole time, and how powerless and confused I must have looked through his eyes. In a way, I still remembered him fondly, in the beginning. He captivated me so quickly at the start. I remembered how excited I was by just being around him, acting like a lost puppy tuddling behind him. He was a stupid crush that I wished I was strong enough to forget, or smart enough to have seen through his lies.
Briefly, I let my worst feelings eat me up and consume me. I let myself wallow away in my own pity, and when the time came to get over it, I forced myself to do just that - to pull myself together, or to put on a brave face. To smile through the pain, because that is the easiest way for me.
So when my flatmates came back for the second semester of the year, I knew I couldn't stay. I didn't want to be around people, certainly not people my own age. Whether you liked it or not, there was something so inherently ignorant about most young people these days, and students especially. I could hardly stand it before, but I knew that staying would only make me worse, so I made up my mind pretty quickly.
"I want to drop out," I said, trying to sound as normal as I could, but even I knew that trying just sometimes wasn't enough.
"You want to what?" she asked calmly.
"I want to drop out," I told her, my personal tutor. She was an assigned member of faculty who's job it was to ensure that all was going well with my studies. She sat behind her desk in a tiny office at the end of a long, plain corridor in the School of History on campus.
"Why?" she asked, her voice softly berating, tiptoeing around my feelings.
"Personal reasons." I looked around the office briefly, trying to fill the silence in the room. I never liked her, but not because she was a bad person, or a good person - she was just an uninteresting person.
"Okay," she said slowly. "But I think you're making a mistake."
"I'm sure I'm not," I replied.
"Your attendance could be better, but your grades are exemplary. It would be a mistake to drop out now," she urged.
"It was a mistake coming to university at all," I admitted.
"What's wrong?" she asked, looking concerned. "If you're having any issues, you can speak to me, or make an appointment with Student Services and speak with a therapist. They're very good with grief or mental illness."
"I don't like talking about my problems," I said plainly. "I just want to drop out."
She sighed. "Very well. I'll get you the forms to fill in, if you hand them into the school office before 4:00, I'll email all the right people and get it sorted."
"Okay. Good." I stood up and turned to leave.
"I do think you're making the wrong decision."
"I don't really care."
So like that, I left university. And in the moment, I didn't care, or I told myself as much, over and over. To some people, it might have seemed like a drastic, life-changing decision, but I told myself I couldn't stay. I told myself I had to get out, to vanish someplace new, maybe even start again.
Once I left my tutor's office, I felt a sense of relief suddenly flush over me, like a weight was lifted from my shoulders. I breathed in deep in the empty corridor, my lungs expanding and deflating, and I felt slightly comforted by it. At least I was still alive, I told myself; at least I was somewhat sound of mind and body, young, healthy, and well-off - who was I to complain?
I knew the only way to get better was to tell myself I was okay, to keep myself busy, to stop my thoughts from sinking deep into the dark paradise of my mind, where my thoughts would dance around in a repetitive circle, from one bad memory to another, from one nightmare to another, unable to escape, only sinking deeper. Losing yourself to your own worst thoughts was a slippery slope, like drowning in quicksand. You had to get out fast, or you'd lose. That was usually how I'd get myself in too deep, where I'd reach some strange depressive state and I couldn't stop the tears, the fury, and I'd lose all rational thought.
By now, I had spent years trying to perfect the art of getting by, when your own head gets you down. But I was never that great at getting by. I tried my hardest to focus on my happy memories to overcome it. I remembered my mother, who was a perfect parent by every fucking standard, one of the few people I was sure that loved me unconditionally. I remembered how strongly she would worry about me, all the small things she did that made my earliest childhood memories some of the happiest I could remember. The way she made hot chocolate, the fabric softener she used on all the laundry, the loving words taken for granted, all the silly things that you never imagined yourself remembering, and surprising yourself when you do.
I had other happy memories too, and as I packed all of my belongings in my bedroom, I replayed them over in my head. I remembered throwing stones up at Tom's window years ago, in the middle of the night. I danced in the rain, soaking wet, and called him my prince. I thought of my twin brother, and the countless times that I used to look over at him and think - he is half of me, part of me, and that made me smile, but only briefly.
It seemed to me like my entire life was soaked in bittersweet nostalgia, with memories both good and bad, happy and sad, and maybe they balanced each-other out most of the time, so long as you tried to look at the bigger picture. But for me, reliving a happy memory could easily be upturned and poisoned. I'd question my mother's unconditional love, if she only knew that the baby she raised had became a killer, a sex-crazed sodomite, and now a university drop-out. Any thoughts of my twin would turn quickly to a tormented rage, when I realised that he was gone, and in some sick way I was lingering on with half of myself feeling gone too, or missing. No, just dead.
But even after realising that Luke was never real, I still had a sense that I was on the right track in finding some sort of redemption. It was a strange feeling, when you look at yourself in the mirror and recognise all of the awful truths about yourself. But doing something about it, trying to right those wrongs, that was the only way I knew I'd be able to live with myself. I knew I couldn't save Tom or Luke, but there was somebody who could still use some help, somebody who I could try and save, to bring balance to my thoughts. I knew it was selfish, seeking to help others only to make yourself feel better, to make yourself feel like you're doing something. But doing something was better than doing nothing, right?
So before I took my bags and left town, I knew there was one thing still keeping me in Cornwall, and he'd been placed in the care of a mental hospital in the Cornish capital, Truro. He was there because of me, and I promised his mother I would visit him, so I got into my car and decided to suck it up and see him.
The drive was short, but the wait at the hospital was tedious, as all hospitals were. There was a stench of bleach, or anti-bacterial hand-wash. I could never stand the smell of hospitals, even mental institutions. They reminded me of long hours spent waiting, of bad news and death.
When my name was called, I was lead down narrow corridors with yellow walls and tiled flooring, by a nurse in all-white who looked bloated, and smiled toothily. She stopped at a door and said, "The guards stay just outside this door, dear."
"Why?"
"Well, he did bite a member of staff when they brought him in, called us all unstylish Neanderthals, oppressive tyrants, and Mosquitos sucking all the fun from the room. He's an odd one, that boy."
Before she departed, I asked, "Do you know if he's any better, though?"
"When they brought him in, he was pretty hysterical. But he's calmed down, now that the doctors have him properly medicated. He's a cutie, too. He flirts with the guards every chance he gets."
I wanted to smile, but I couldn't even force it. I blinked and turned, not saying another word as I entered the room.
"Hey," I said. He was sitting at a table in the centre of the room, wearing all white. He'd only been here a few weeks, but he looked better than the last time I saw him: the bags under his eyes were fading, and his face was clean-shaven and boyish. He still looked underfed, but transformations never happen overnight.
"Isaac," he said, smiling lazily. "You came to see me."
"Your mum sorta made me promise."
"She's a stone-cold bitch, that's why," he cursed.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, approaching the chair opposite his side of the table and taking a seat.
"Pumped up on all sorts of meds, but you know me - never say no to drugs, kids."
"You look like you're doing better."
"You don't," he threw back, chuckling a little. I let it slide. Darby always did have a sassy streak.
I sighed, leaning in. "I've been... seeing things again."
"Tom?"
"No."
"Then who?"
"It doesn't matter. I didn't come to talk about me, I wanted to see how you were doing. I want to help, you know, just by being here, or talking, I dunno."
"You know, there was a time where I thought you were the one for me," he said. I couldn't tell if he was being truthful on purpose, or if the meds were messing with his head and making him loopy. All I knew, this was the first civilised conversation I'd had with him since I told him what I did to Tom. That was progress, right? "You had your problems, yeah, but when you're in love it's so easy to overlook all the flaws and dive straight in. Maybe that's why it never worked out between us. I dived straight in, but once I realised what you'd done, it changed me."
"I've changed a lot too, since then."
"I can tell," he said, with the hint of a smile. "You seem a lot more settled now, even if you're still seeing things. I still see things, sometimes. I think it's just a part of trying to remember the people you've lost. You want to hold onto them so bad, you convince yourself they've came back, and that they came back all for you. I've been there. At some point, you always get back to reality."
"I've missed talking with you," I sighed, holding my head in my hands. I felt defeated, but talking to Darby, being close to him again, made me feel comforted nonetheless.
"I think I have too." His hands reached out and took mine gently, and that tiny act meant the world to me, like an olive branch had been extended. We talked and talked and talked, after that, until visiting hours ended and the nurse came to escort me away.
"You'll come back again, won't you?" he asked. "I don't have many people visiting me. Surprise surprise, but being a cunt drives everyone away."
"Yeah, I'll come back as soon as I can, I promise."
And I meant it too. I was going to save Darby Darling, and for the first time in years, I knew I was doing the right thing.