Author's note: Thing is, I have a close relationship with angst. Always have, always will. Read on, ye angsty souls.
Oh, by the way, I think this could be a part of my Behold Man series. I think. Been toying with the idea quite a while. So hear me out. Remember there's that storyline where Dan's writing a story about the death at a construction site of Bart's eighteen years ago and he has to bury the story or else Bass Industries would crumble? What if Bart had found out his wife was having an affair behind his back? Yes, Chuck reminds him of his wife, but what if there was added hurt as well?
HIS DARKEST DEEDS
Got a secret, can you keep it? Swear this one you'll save.
Better lock it, in your pocket, taking this one to the grave.
If I show you then I know you won't tell what I said
'Cause two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.
[...]
No one keeps a secret.
Why when we do our darkest deeds do we tell?
They burn in our brains, become a living hell.
- The Pierces, Secret
It is rumoured that last breaths hold a lifetime, that memories pelt the brain's visual theatre in a pattern that makes no sense, that there is a guiding light at the end of a tunnel to peace and repose. No one can really know until the countdown begins in earnest. Perhaps it is different for every person, too.
It all happens much faster (a split second really) than it seems, but as Bart's throat refuses to let out a godawful terrorised scream/command and his eyes lock into a dark tunnel effect at the sight of the speeding bumper that is about to crash into (Oh my God I never prayed in my adult life but I swear if I survive…) him, Bart's life does flash before his eyes at a dizzying, cutting speed. Much like the piece of metal death about to break him.
Well-buried secrets he'd buried himself and within himself.
The architect. One surprisingly sweltering May night after the workers had gone home. Blood-curdling screams haunted endless freefalling nightmares even eighteen years later. One down; cold sweat and stopped heart still persistent.
Misty. The next morning, shock and rage led to early contractions led to blood, so much blood (not on his hands but almost). A baby's angry wails merging with frantic shouts to (Please save her, please save her) and he… didn't care for the baby. Call him Charles Bartholomew. Like a sweet kiss directly after a slap in the face… blasphemy before his name. Two down; the latter not intended (though maybe). She had bittersweet, ghostly power over his nights evermore.
And papers. Burned to ashes years ago, never to be found again… unless Chuck ever ventured out into the hard heart of Chicago to find copies from the childhood friend who'd fancied himself a private eye, only to fall prey to a fire (he had nothing to do with it) shortly after the first two events. Bart is quite confident his overindulging "son" will never set foot into the harsh facet of the world.
Metal screeched, glass exploded. Black.
Lie well kept.