Addict: Ayyy...this is for MademoiselleEtincelle for winning second place in the War of the Ships. And, yes, this is the second time I've written it, but I had some help!
Drumroll please! Zentanglebubblegum0624! Give her a round of applause, people! This was our collab project, but seeing as how I messed up the first draft...or whatever, Zen volunteered to help me, and she did some editing, and stuff.
(Yeah, so I haven't even read this, just copied and pasted! Hopefully its good! )
Zen: *giggles* I hope so too.
Addict: Don't worry. I'm sure you just made a few changes, right?
Zen: *smiles innocently* Right!
Addict: On with the story!
It had started with a few drops.
Now, it was a downpour.
He bored his eyes into the seeming sheets of grayish water falling to the cold, hard asphalt far below. Stopping his rhythmic, robotic walk for just a moment, he listened with a twisted sort of relish as the beats of water fell upon his hair. Listening was good. Because then, he wouldn't have to open his eyes.
But closing his eyes to reality released them to the corruption of his mind. He couldn't tell which was worse.
Because his mind? That's where she resides.
His desperate, crinkled, desolate soul screamed out to him—Can I make it? Can we make it?
Without her?
He whispered back to it—Stop being pathetic!
It just wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity. He was the martyr Kabra, the one to spread the Lucian glory. He was supposed to be strong, had to stay strong, had to stay loyal to the branch, had to marry that horrific daughter of some dutch back in London.
But in his heart of hearts, he knew that he couldn't. That was why he was outside in the rain, knowing that his suit was getting splattered with small drops of filth. He adjusted his hair a bit, then continued to walk down the street.
He was in Boston. And he didn't even know why.
He was falling, sinking. Lower, faster, Ian Kabra was plummeting, cascading down the hill that was his own helplessness, stacked up brick by brick, stone by stone, falling endlessly until he finally dropped onto the fissures of relentless pain that waited for him down below—
Just like the rain.
He was full of grief, of sorrow, of hurt and pain and guilt—he was helpless against the stupendous power of—
—Heartbreak.
He was not the ideal Lucian. Not the martyr Kabra. Not the perfect boy everyone thought he was.
Not without her.
He remembered the moment he'd seen her collapse, her small, frail body, weakened by the weeks of darkness, living as a hostage to a bunch of lunatics. Remembered the spasms of electricity that had cascaded throughout her, and the little spurt of shock in her eyes. And all of a sudden—
—she was dead.
He'd seen her last moment. Seen her absolute triumph. Seen the way she'd smiled at him. Seen her eyes, so similar to his, glint in her own self-indulgence, her pride. Ian, they had whispered. Look at me.
He had crouched by her body, his eyes blurred by tears. The tears that, for once, were not reluctant. Or fake. Or anything but genuine.
He regretted the times he had made fun of her, the times he had ignored her, the times he had secretly thought to himself that she was nothing but a spoiled brat. Less intelligent, more irrational, less calculating, less than him.
Because even though she was respected, envied, desired—albeit resented—by the world, she was neglected by her very own family. The ones that were supposed to be loving or supportive or—
There was plenty a time where she had just wanted attention.
Attention, such a petty thing, which he had not given her. He had pushed her away, shoved her into a corner, and now it was all he could do to not scream in anguish, rip his cheeks open with his clawing fingers until blood flowed down his sorrowful face.
He had once read about a dystopian world, one in which you could transfer your pain to somebody else. That was the norm. And he had spit out a small supercilious laugh, thinking about how pathetic that was. Back then, he was living in an illusion—an illusion of painlessness, one of unfeelingness. Transferring pain? That was for the weak.
How ironic, he thought, his mouth twisting, because that is precisely what I would like right now.
There was no one to share his pain with. He was alone, living through a ghost, a shell, a mere image of his past self. Even he didn't recognize Ian Kabra.
He looked down, and found that he had unconsciously sunk down to his knees. The asphalt stung. He didn't mind.
The rain drummed against his face, and he was glad that nobody was there to see him. He would have looked like a raving lunatic.
And maybe he was.
"Natalie." He murmured, his face twisted in pain.
Then his voice changed, from grief to desperation—maybe a small hint of insanity painted among its tresses.
"Mum!" He called, swallowing. Because there was a chance—there had to be a chance of her coming, somebody had to be coming—
Tears welled up in his amber eyes, and he choked on a sob. "Mummy!" He cried. He was crying to nobody. There was nothing. Nothing out there in the rain or anywhere else, no one he cared about. He hardly noticed the rain piercing through his clothes, hardly noticed the fact that his hair was being absolutely ruined.
He placed his face in his hands, not knowing what else to do. "Mother! Father! Natalie!"
A pause.
"I miss you."
He missed his family. He loved them. But they was gone.
Isabel had died the very moment she had taken the Lucian serum. Maybe even before then. And he hadn't even seen her. He hadn't even said goodbye.
And Vikram…he was long gone. Who knew where that twisted man was. Hiding out in Australia, or in the Bahamas, leaving his children and wife to deal with their lives.
Because he couldn't care less.
Ian stood, leaning against a nearby tree. His lashes were wet with tears, and deciding he didn't care, scratched his face in desperation. He thought momentarily—ludicrously—of Saladin, the Cahills' horrific cat, and the time he'd scratched some of Natalie's Louis the sixteenth furniture. She had been livid that day.
This fleeting memory incased him in nostalgia. It didn't make him feel any better, because somehow, thinking about them was even worse.
He stood there for a while, occasionally whispering the names of those who were long gone. Then he would lapse into near silence, with tears falling down his broken, bleeding face.
His breaths came in short gasps, and his face was twisted with sorrow. If only he had known, if only. If only they were here.
He couldn't believe that he was acting so deplorable. He tried to replace his grief with anger, with resentment, but he couldn't. He couldn't do it. Because as hard as it was to admit, he was helpless. And nothing could replace that.
There was no one there for him. Even Amy…she had been different ever since Korea. She was probably off somewhere with her newfound boyfriend, Jake, or reading some dusty book.
It hurt him to see her with that boy. When she was with Jake…it seemed as if no one else mattered, that he was just a character in the background. He was hidden in the mist of unrequited emotion.
It hurt him more than he liked to say. Oh, of course he would like to say that he was annoyed, or disdainful, even jealous, but it wasn't any of those.
It was hurt. Nothing more, nothing less.
If only he had known, his life would be different. He would have spent time with Natalie, he would never have accepted Grace Cahill's challenge—even though he would've been in the wrath of his parents. His parents, who were no more.
He would have taken the million dollars easy, even though it was such a small sum. He would have been punished. And he wouldn't have cared.
Because there is no punishment more despicable than this.
He was living in a common apartment—horror of horrors. He had a lavish home, yes, but couldn't return to it. Everywhere he looked, the Kabra Mansion would have hints of his family. Oh, he had went once, and was faced with monstrosities in all directions. Look one way, he could see Natalie's portrait, her smirk that would rival even his, her beauty that was admired and resented by girls all over the world, the dramatic hairstyle that was swept up over the side of her face. Glance another direction, and he saw the door to Vikram's office, the door hanging slightly ajar. And in the air, the smell of Isabel's perfume still lingered. They are there, ironically there, even when they are gone. Finished. Dead. He had fled the house, fled the memories that were threatening to choke him. But if Natalie was there, he knew he would be fine with it. Maybe she would have been frightened, maybe she would force him to open all the windows to let the perfume float out, but still.
They would be together.
She would, of course, be complaining about the lack of shopping, but he would gladly take her somewhere that would suit her tastes, even though he'd probably scrape out the last euros of his bank account. She would no longer be able to call others 'peasants.'
But still.
Sick of crying, he stepped out from under the tree that was giving him slight protection from the rain.
It poured heavily onto his already sopping face, washing away his tears. His face stung where he had scratched it vehemently. Momentarily comforted, he stood there, relishing the coolness of the rain, completely forgetting about his Armani—which was sure to be ruined after this whole affair.
But then, the rain stopped. It simply stopped. He opened his eyes, wondering if rain was capable of ceasing so abruptly, and was slightly startled by the green.
The bright green of what could only be an umbrella.
oO0Oo
Amy stared at Ian. He looked truly awful. Heartbroken. Maimed. His face was scratched, and the amber eyes that had once haunted her were clouded over. He didn't look even slightly surprised by her sudden appearance. He only stared at her, yet she knew that he wasn't taking her in. He was in another world. A world in which his family resided.
There's no shadow behind your empty eyes.
"Ian?" Amy asked. There was a small note of hope rubbing against her voice. No response.
She could feel his pain from where she stood, and her face fell. She could hear his pleads for help, although he was too proud to say it. Amy, he was screaming. Help me! Help me, please!
She reached forward and touched his face. It was cold and wet. Colder than it should be.
She winced at the blood that wasn't washed away, mixing with the water he had been standing in. Suddenly—irrationally—she pulled him into a hug, and he breathed out. A sigh?
oO0Oo
He hadn't even realized that he had been holding his breath. Why was she here? Why was he here? Why was he in Boston anyway?
Then he realized—to see her? What was wrong with him? What was right in this goddamned world anyway?
oO0Oo
"Ian," she whispered. "What's wrong? You can tell me."
He pushed her away, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Doubt? "No," he said. "I can't. I can't." Then his resolve weakened. "I miss my family." He said this plaintively, looking into her eyes. "Don't you understand?"
Amy was stunned, and didn't know what to say. She had never seen him like this, never even imagined him removing his masks and veils of impassiveness. How could he have deteriorated so quickly? Ian, the supposed leader of his branch. Ian, who had been taught to be haughty and proud. Ian, the boy with tears and blood streaming down his face. Then she looked away, not able to meet the eyes that so squarely met her own. Instead, she pulled him into another hug. "So do I," she murmured.
Ian glanced down at her, as if he had forgotten that she too had lost both of her parents. Then suddenly, foolishly, he realized that Amy was hugging him. Hugging him! Not Jake…him! He knew how childish it was for him to think of something like that, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
Touché. He let the ends of his mouth go up a bit. I thought that I didn't care at all anymore.
He looked down at the top of her head, his tears momentarily forgotten. A quizzical look was spreading across his face. She was hugging him. She's hugging me. Somehow she cares. Maybe…maybe…others care as well? His thoughts became a mix of jumbled incertitudes.
He stared at Amy, and suddenly knew that if she was there for him, if she was there to hold him, wipe away his tears, he would be all right.
"Amy?" He asked abruptly, pushing her away. "Will you...will you…"
Amy looked up at him. Ian Kabra...at a loss for words?
Unable to choke the desperate words from his throat, he reached into his jacket pocket for a small black notebook. He instead scrawled the message with his immaculate cursive—Will you help me?
She took the small notepad, and smiled. "Yes. I will."
Thus began a healing friendship.
Will you help me?
Will you listen to me?
Will you talk to me?
Will you understand me?
Will you like me?
Will you cry with me?
Will you laugh with me?
…Will you marry me?
Zen: Okay, not only did I, like, make the whole thing about 2 times longer than the original, I changed the location in its entirety because I thought it would be romantic if Amy shielded him with an umbrella…WHY AM I SUCH A CLICHE PERSON AUGHHHH! XD
Addict: WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY PIECE OF WRITING!?
Zen: *grabs all her pencils and notebook and runs away*
Addict: Hey!…Hey! COME BACK!
Zen: I'm sorry that I completely changed iiiiiiiit!….*voice fades off into the distance*
Addict: Well, review, people! *glares playfully*
Zen: *suddenly popping up beside her* Yeah! Please review! Because I spent about half an hour working my butt off for this. And since I'm planning on leaving, this is my last piece of memory I'll hold on this site.
Addict: *bows dramatically*
Zen: *tries to copy Addict but ends up looking like she's doing the 'tuna' right side up*