Author's Note:
Fair warning, this story will be dark. It will contain mentions of sexual abuse, suicide, and PTSD.
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Chapter 1: Precipice
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She found him in the cemetery.
It was a cool evening—there was a certain stillness in the air, a weight that seemed to linger upon her skin—and, considering the grim nature of their surroundings, the ambiance was rather fitting. At this late hour, it was difficult to navigate the terrain before her; most of the cemetery was shrouded within a curtain of black shadow, plunged into darkness by the waning skyline. It was thick, the blackness that hung around her, though it did not dampen her senses entirely—her vision had always been sharp, and this night was no different.
Gravestones stretched around them, an ocean of the dead, every epigraph bathed in ashen moonlight—there was a strange harmony to this place, a profound silence, and it had always unsettled her. She could feel the striking emptiness it held within—that echo of loss, a desolation that crept into her very soul—and, even if it had been the happiest day of her life, she knew the environment would have still soured her mood. She would rather have been anywhere than this wretched landscape, but it was simple concern that drove her onward, powering her every step—she had spotted him at last, and she was not going to turn back now.
Toby was kneeling before a gravestone, his head bowed to the earth, and Spencer paused; for a moment, she watched him in silence, lingering just beyond the moonlight's reach. His frame was tense, shoulders coiled taut beneath the fabric of his clothing, as if they were weighted by some invisible burden—it cast a hunched silhouette against the backdrop of night, a solitary figure amidst that endless shadow.
He was troubled by something, she knew—when he had left earlier in the evening, she had decided to follow him. He had not told her where he was going, nor did he want her to accompany him, but she refused to allow him to shut her out—his erratic demeanor had worried her, as did the dreadful shadow in his eyes, a darkness that seemed to resonate from the depths of his spirit. His eyes held a restless intensity, driven by some unknown purpose, a fire that seemed to burn through the surface; as long as she had known him, he had always been an intense person, but this was something different.
"What are you doing here, Spencer?"
As his voice drifted through the midnight air, quiet as a breeze, she drew closer—among this desolate silence, every footstep seemed so loud, ringing in a steady pattern across the soil below. Before she could reach him, he rose to his feet, turning to meet her advance-and she was struck by the sorrow upon his features, a naked shadow. It was visible for no more than an instant before his typical veneer came snapping back into place—that inscrutable stoicism, cold and detached, walls designed to conceal a tender soul—but she had seen beyond it before, and she saw beyond it now.
The glimpses of truth that he had shown her were so different from the illusion he put forth to the rest of the world; most tended to mistake his detachment for hostility, a sign of belligerence, but she knew better. It had always been a façade, an illusion to veil some deeper truth—even during their first meeting, a chance encounter that had sparked an unlikely friendship, she had pitied him. No one could hold such an abrasive suspicion towards other people without a painful reason behind it—she knew that unfortunate lesson from experience—and, though it had been difficult at first, she made an effort to befriend him.
It was very much a collision of opposites—her family was one of the town's most respected, while he had long been a pariah in their community. He worked at a pawn shop near the town's southern district—a dingy building known as the Rosewood Premier, marred with disrepair—and while the occupation alone would have given him a bad reputation, he had already cemented that. People had branded him an erratic recluse, a reputation that didn't seem to bother him in the slightest—in fact, he seemed to encourage it.
"I should be asking you the same thing." Almost instinctively, her hand had settled on his arm, pouring warmth into the exposed flesh; he was so cold, frigid to the touch. His posture relaxed at the contact, at least for a moment, before tightening once again—his eyes were darker than the shadows around them, as turbulent as a storm.
"I was visiting someone." His voice sounded raw, like worn gravel, and she glanced at the gravestone that lay beneath them—it was a simple thing, lacking an epigraph, but the name was clear enough to read. Though the stone itself was withered by age, the lettering was unmistakable—Austin Cavanaugh—and her eyes flew back up to meet his, thoughts drowned in a sudden deluge of questions. He had never told her about his relatives; for all she knew, this tomb could contain a father, a cousin, a brother.
"His name was Austin." Toby continued, as if reading her thoughts, turning away to look down at the undisturbed soil. "It's been ten years since he—" He seemed to want to speak further, but his voice faltered, trailing off in an abrupt rush; there was something he was hiding, she knew, and it made her stomach tighten with frustration.
It wasn't easy, loving someone who kept so many secrets—who was so guarded, even from her—but nothing good was easily obtained.
She had not intended for their friendship to blossom into something more, and neither had he; nevertheless, they had been drawn together, as if pulled by forces they had yet to understand. It was not a smooth relationship, that was for certain—sometimes, dealing with that innate stubbornness began to tax her patience—but he had shown her nothing but kindness, and she wanted to repay it. Some called her too empathetic for her own good, but she had long despised that statement; there was no such thing as too much compassion, and the world was more often cruel than not.
"Was he your father?" Warmth softened her voice, though she was not expecting a clear answer—much to her surprise, he decided to be forthcoming.
"My brother." His eyes fell to the gravestone, lingering, a silent regret. "I was a teenager when he was born...he should have been the one to outlive me." She could see the anger behind his eyes, too, and something broken; though what it was, she had yet to understand. Even now, she still knew so little about him—most of his life had been an unknowable secret, guarded with tight lips—but it was a lot more than most people knew, and she took it as a small victory.
"What happened?" He seemed to bristle at the question, stepping back from her touch, and that surge of frustration returned with a vengeance—how could she offer help to someone that refused to take it? More than anything, she wanted to help him, to soothe whatever darkness poisoned his spirit—but it wasn't easy to help someone who was determined to close himself away from the outside world. She knew she was going to have to fight—to overcome whatever held him back from accepting help, all those untold decades of fear and paranoia—but she had done it before, and it was nothing she couldn't handle.
"Toby, I want to help you." Spencer continued, trying to keep the insistence from bleeding into her voice—she didn't want to push too hard. It was a mistake she had made before; there would come a point when he would recoil, barring any attempts to make headway, and she would have no chance of success. "Every time I've needed you, you've been there for me...I want to do the same for you."
"Spencer, I'm fine." Toby's smile was meant to be reassuring, but it only left her feeling disappointed; it was not the first time she had heard those words. He crouched beside the grave once more, obviously trying to deter any further conversation, but Spencer was not so easily dissuaded—she knelt along with him, reaching forward to place a hand on his shoulder.
"If you don't want to let anyone in, you're only going to hurt yourself." The words were spoken softly, gentler than she intended, and he seemed to pause in silent consideration. As the pause grew longer, she didn't think he was going to speak again, but he lifted his eyes towards her own; while a small gesture, it spoke volumes to the trust he placed in her.
"He slit his wrists." His voice was solemn, barely audible. "That's what happened."
Toby turned away without another word, eyes dropping to the ground below, and silence fell upon the cemetery—a thick stillness, like heavy mist. She remained at his side, offering comfort as best as she could, a silent anchor; there was nothing more to be said.
She thought of giving him privacy, but he didn't protest her presence—and so she stayed.
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After that evening, something had changed between them.
It was a welcome change—he seemed more relaxed around her, more open—and, while she didn't know exactly what sparked it, she was grateful. They had been together for several months—a romance that began weeks after their first meeting, a night that seemed so long ago—but their relationship had developed slower than most, and she was pleased at any form of progress. Even at the beginning, she had known it would be a relationship different than any other she had experienced before—partly due to the fact that he was different than any man she had met before, lighting a fire in her heart that burned unlike anything else—but it was a contrast that she found refreshing.
It wasn't perfect—no relationship was, after all—but it was happy, bringing out the best in each of them, and that was all that mattered.
Spencer climbed the stairwell at a brisk pace, trying to ignore the tightness that coiled in her stomach as she ventured deeper into the apartment complex; some of the rooms were dilapidated, windows marred with grime and wear, appearing just as seedy as she expected from a community like this. She didn't know how Toby could live in this place—a landscape of sleazy, volatile people, unease lingering upon her like a shadow as she walked—but he probably had little options to move elsewhere.
She walked to his apartment with as much haste as she could muster—she didn't like it out here, feeling exposed, so utterly out of place—and, after a few minutes, she was knocking at his door. It was not the first time she had visited for a date; though she didn't like the rest of the complex, his apartment held a cozy warmth, a refuge from the world.
"Spencer." He greeted her with a smile, more lively than she had seen him in days, and she felt her own lips curve—she wished he would smile more often. There was a certain radiance to the expression, a light that seemed as if it could fill a room; it was certainly better than his gloomier moods. She could always tell when despair had grasped him—it would seem as if a dour blackness had overtaken his features, drowning them in shadow—and, unfortunately, his darkness was just as potent as his light.
"Please, come in." He moved back to allow her entry, and she followed him deeper into the chamber; the table was already set for two, pleasant in its simple décor.
The dinner passed in mild conversation, more intermittent than she liked, though it was just the reprieve she needed after a tiresome day of dealing with her sister—she had never been particularly close with Melissa, but now, the two had drifted so far apart they could hardly be called friends. She still loved the woman—no matter how intolerable she was, they shared blood—but her narcissism had only worsened with age.
When she told him that—she had long trusted him enough to talk about her problems, no matter how intimate—he gave her a sympathetic nod, eyes twinkling as she followed it up with a particularly comical example of her sister's vanity. Perhaps he knew what it was like to deal with irksome relatives; she did not know, and had a feeling she may never know. He was still reluctant to divulge anything related to his own background, no matter how small the detail—unfortunately, that particular habit had not waned with time.
"How are things with your mother?" Toby continued, looking as if he were truly interested, and it warmed her heart; it was nice, to have someone so engaged in the details of her life, so attentive. She wished she was able to reciprocate that interest; perhaps with time, he would open up to her further. "I remember you telling me she wanted to be a Senator, right?"
"Yeah, she just began her campaign. She's doing well." Spencer nodded, though even she hadn't been able to keep pace with most of the details—the less said about her mother's political ambitions, the better. "I'm just surprised it took her this long to get into politics."
Soon after, the conversation shifted topics once again, before eventually settling down as they finished eating-and Toby took her emptied plate, starting the gradual process of cleaning up their table. A comfortable lull settled upon the room, a natural silence, and a rather brazen idea sprang to Spencer's mind—the dinner had been pleasant, but it wasn't the type of intimacy she was looking for. Initiating a sexual encounter had always been her responsibility—he was often quite timid, when it came to that aspect of their relationship—but she didn't mind taking the lead.
She was no expert seductress, not like Ali, but she didn't have to be; the backbone of their relationship was not carnal desire, after all.
"I can stay the night, if you want." Spencer began, rising from her seat to follow him into the kitchen, and he turned to face her—it was a bold move, she knew, but she always been a forward woman. She saw no need to stop now. "I never did get to thank you for making dinner..." She offered her most suggestive smile, leaving no doubt in the insinuation, no doubt as to what it implied—sometimes, he could be oblivious to these kind of hints, but she had ensured the message was clear.
"I'd love that." Toby smiled at her, but there was a shadow in his eyes, a flash of something that he often tried to hide from her view—she had seen it before, and it made her smile waver. It was an unknown darkness, almost fearful, though she had yet to understand what it was; while she had always been good at reading people, she could decipher nothing from that inscrutable veneer.
She didn't know why anything related to sexuality seemed to make him so anxious—she had never met anyone who was so repelled by it, who seemed to regard it with caution—but it often felt as if he were doing it for her sake. He never admitted it, even when she tried to ask, but she had felt what he had been unable to hide—the way he would stiffen in response to her touch, almost violently, as if he wanted nothing more than to keep her at a distance. He would relax, after a few moments, but it didn't make her any less concerned; whenever she attempted to inquire about the subject, he was quick to withdraw.
At first, she had thought he was just nervous—perhaps due to inexperience, or some insecurity about his appearance—but her reassurances had not helped, and she began to wonder if it was rooted in some other problem. He didn't seem to get much pleasure from their encounters—as if the act of sex was something unpleasant, an ordeal to be endured—and though he had assured her otherwise, she couldn't help but wonder if he was only pretending to be attracted to her.
Her desire cooled by that particular thought, she decided to make another attempt at discovering the truth, unwilling to let the display pass without inquiry; she hadn't missed the way he seemed to shift on his heels, as if uneasy.
"Is everything okay?" Her voice was soft, almost casual, though her intent was anything but—she was not going to let him evade the question, not this time.
"Of course." Unfortunately, it was the answer she had been expecting, but it only strengthened her resolve. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Toby, I know you're hiding something from me." She sighed, crossing the few meters of distance that separated them. "Are you doing this because you want to, or for my sake? If you don't want to do this, that's perfectly fine, just...please, tell me. I don't want you to feel like you have to do something that you don't want to."
He remained silent, studying her, as if hesitant-and she continued, voicing the one insecurity that had long since festered in the back of her mind. "Does it...does it have something to do with me?"
"No, it doesn't." He looked surprised—taken aback, even, that she would think such a thing—and she felt a warm surge of relief. "It's just..." The words seemed to struggle up his throat, as if painful. "You've been the first woman that I've ever slept with, and...it's not easy for me." Spencer paused, unable to hide the surprise that flickered in her eyes; she had thought he was somewhat inexperienced, but she had never suspected that.
He was almost forty, a few years her senior—given his age, she had not expected him to have been a virgin.
"You mean a lot to me, Spencer. I just want you to know that." Toby continued, his voice little more than a whisper, and she was touched by his sincerity; it was one of the few times she felt like she had seen him, the real him, the man she cared for.
He took her hand in his own, allowing her to feel the warmth behind his touch, the gentleness she had treasured so much—heat swept through her stomach like a kindling flame, sending pleasant shivers up her skin. There was a unique intimacy, in their intertwined fingers, beyond even the closeness of sexual activity; as if two souls had become one.
If this was what love felt like, she never wanted to let it go.
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