Why am I starting yet another fic someone stop me
I'm really, really hoping this story will be short – 5 chapters at most – so maybe it's not so bad? If you've read my other fic Bittersweet, you may notice some similarities in the characterisation etc since this idea started out as one of its potential endings. I suppose I could even call it a spiritual sequel/AU.
But truthfully, I just wanted to make Chase suffer some more :P
After the End
Out of all the places in his world, Chase felt most alive when he was here, standing in his kitchen.
His kitchen. Some nights, he still found it difficult to believe. It had taken years to get this far, a job as an executive chef in a respectable restaurant. Years of scrubbing plates until his fingers were rubbed raw, of chopping and peeling, the most mind numbing prep work, of having to take orders and resisting the urge to bite back at the criticism and complaints. He remembered the times when he'd complain to his mentor, and the old woman would stare at him with disdain, repeating the words hard work and determination and heart. How his success would be measured on his ability to maintain all three. When he was first promoted, he hated to think that Yolanda was right, but she was. For that, he would forever be grateful.
Sometimes, he missed the Ocarina Inn. It was just a small, family owned establishment in some backwater town, but he'd learnt a lot in the five years he worked there. The restaurant could not be more different. Tucked away on the corner of a busy city street, the doors never stopped swinging with the constant stream of hungry customers looking for a good reasonably priced meal. The décor did overdo it a bit, with the lacquered walls, gaudy red furniture and low hanging lights that created a stuffy atmosphere, but what did Chase care. His place was in the kitchen.
Behind the scenes, Chase relished in the control he had. Unlike at the inn, there was no open counter and no curious customers watching his every move. No need to have to keep up a constant smile, especially when someone screwed up.
Not to say he mistreated his staff, or that his staff were incompetent. But there were standards to uphold and Chase didn't have the time for second rate dishes to be presented to him. Sometimes, the apprentices would protest, try to argue when their plates were rejected once, twice, three times, to which Chase only had one response: "There's the door." The arguing continued, the fires would flare and so would his temper, the unkind words spilling from his lips before he could stop himself. He had lost five apprentices in half as many months.
It gave him a reputation; he'd heard the wait staff whispering about it during their break. A hardass; an asshole; an unfair bastard; just a few of the tamer names he'd been branded. But gossip was gossip and Chase never paid attention to it. In the end, there were only two things that held any importance in his eyes: the quality of his food and the satisfaction of his patrons.
And considering that the restaurant never slowed down, it seemed the customers didn't care about his reputation either. Even the world renowned Gourmet Pierre sang his praises when he passed through the area a few months ago. Chase didn't particularly care for his so called prestigious title, nor had he appreciated it when the purple clad man barged into the kitchen, demanding to meet face to face. The Gourmet was nothing he expected, short, blond and baby-faced, but even so Chase could not deny there was wisdom in the other man's eyes. The gourmet could see the drive and skill within Chase, and it didn't matter that he never attended culinary school or had no degrees to his name. All it took was a glance, and he understood. That he, too, had spent every waking moment trying to achieve perfection.
In reality though, there wasn't much else to Chase's existence. The routine of the restaurant had become the rhythm of his life. Sometimes, he'd tell himself that it would have been too difficult to fight back anyway – he worked twelve hour shifts, often longer, every day, and even in his dreams he was creating and experimenting with new recipes. A workaholic, the waitresses would tease him. Yet, every time he did allow himself to wonder 'what if,' Chase came up blank. He just couldn't imagine living any other way.
When all the tickets had been filled, the stove fires were extinguished, the bench tops were scrubbed down and the plates were packed away for tomorrow; the kitchen closed down for another day. Everyone headed on home, but Chase would always linger that extra moment, just taking it all in.
And then, he would switch off the lights, step out into the night and prepare himself for the walk home.
Home was located twenty minutes away on foot, an empty, cold apartment on the third floor.
In the dead of the night, Chase headed down the sidewalk, a lone shadow under the street lamps. If not for the scuff of his footsteps breaking the silence, it almost seemed as if the whole world had been muted. He liked it this way, though. In Harmonica Town, he couldn't take two steps without someone stopping him to chat. Some of the nicer waitresses worried for Chase during his walks back in the dark. Call a cab, they'd say, it's too dangerous; occasionally, they'd even offer to drive him. But he'd always wave them off, preferring to take his chances. Nothing had happened to him yet, and nothing ever would.
On the odd occasion when he didn't walk the streets alone, it became a game. Whether it was a businessman coming home after working overtime, or a couple recovering from the aftermath of a party, Chase would meet their gaze straight on. Hold it there, begging them to look him in the eye. Just once, he wished someone would.
Tonight, like many nights, Chase saw no one.
The night air was cooler than usual, a sign that summer was ending. He pulled his jacket closer around his body, increasing his pace.
It didn't take him long to reach his apartment complex. The surrounding buildings easily dwarfed it – there were five storeys in total – and the entrance doors looked like it could be brought down with one well aimed kick, but it was close to the restaurant and affordable enough. He fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the unsteady front door and stepped inside.
Chase went to make a beeline for the stairwell, before he reconsidered, and instead took a detour over to the block of mailboxes on the other side of the room. It had been a while since he'd last checked – at least a week – and he found a wad of letters stuffed inside. With his mail in hand, he took the stairs, two at a time, shuffling through it as he went. Bills, junk, more bills – and he was barely home long enough to even use the utilities. The next envelope brought Chase to a sudden stop, mid-step, halfway up the second flight of stairs.
Not a bill, not junk. A personal letter.
He turned it over and over, looking for clues about the sender, but it was nondescript, no return address, and he didn't recognise the handwriting. Who could it be from? A select few knew where he lived now. Yolanda, for one, but she had stopped trying to keep up a friendly facade years ago – the only link that remained between them was a favour and a promise.
Chase massaged the bridge of his nose, finally feeling the effect of the late night catching up on him. Whatever; he'd look at it properly after he got some sleep. He continued on his way.
Apartment 3B, the place he called home. Chase slotted his key in the lock and opened his door. At first, the thought of living in such close proximity with strangers unnerved him – he liked his quiet time, all the time. What he didn't expect was that his neighbours would share the same mentality. In the many years that he'd lived here, his neighbours had said hello once, and that was when he first moved in. They were smart enough to stay away after that.
With a yawn, Chase placed his keys and the mail on the open counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa. His shoes were also kicked to the side for him to find in the morning. He really had to clean up some day – there were clothes, books and magazines strewn over almost every surface – but he didn't have the time. Then again, it didn't matter much. Only the kitchen needed to be kept spotless.
No one else ever visited, after all.
Chase stifled another yawn. It was about time he dragged himself to bed. But just as he stepped in the direction of his bedroom, the thought resurfaced, the curiosity, and he turned back to the counter.
There was the letter. Sitting on top of the pile, waiting for him.
Who sent it? He thought again through the list of people he knew. He'd ruled out Yolanda. His aunt and uncle would phone, not write. It couldn't be Colleen or Jake, and Maya probably had cutesy, bubbly writing that he'd recognise in a second.
It couldn't be… her. Could it?
Chase almost laughed at the thought. No way in hell.
Still, his stomach knotted together as he reached for the envelope.
No. She would never. Not after what he did.
He ripped open the seal.
It's not her. She hates me. It's not her.
A photograph slipped out and fell to the ground, face down. Just like the envelope, there was no telling the identity of the sender; no note, no marks, nothing else to be found inside. He knelt to pick up the picture, turning it over.
It was of a young girl, no older than six, seven years old perhaps, with long auburn hair and large purple eyes. She smiled up at him, one of her front teeth missing, mischief and wonder twinkling on her features.
It can't be.
Heart thumping in his chest, Chase tore his living room apart searching for his wallet. When he found it – in his jacket pocket, the first place he should've looked – his hands were trembling so much from the adrenaline in his system that he barely managed to prise it open. And there, from the deepest compartment of his wallet, he uncovered his darkest secret.
Another photograph. This one was faded and creased almost beyond recognition, from the times when he'd crushed it in his fist and held his shaking hand over the trash can, telling himself to just let go.
He never could.
There was no mistaking it. It was the same girl in both these photographs. One a snapshot of the past, the other a glimpse of who she had grown into.
But why would someone send this letter to him? Why would someone remind him of the pain he'd tried so hard to avoid all these years? Why now? Why? Why? Why?
Seven years had gone by since he'd last seen her, held her, but he could never stop himself from thinking about her. From loving her.
The biggest, the worst, the best mistake he'd ever made.
His daughter.
It was too late for dinner, too late for anything, but here Chase was back in the kitchen. How many sleepless nights had he spent concocting and creating dishes, until he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open? (Too many, especially in those first couple of years. For this reason, he always kept the refrigerator well stocked.)
Tonight, he had decided to prepare coq au vin – a chicken dish braised in wine. It wasn't the most complicated recipe ever, but it took a while to cook and would keep him preoccupied long enough to suppress those memories again. He hoped.
He could still feel her in his arms. The weight of her, sitting in the crook of his elbow, was much too heavy for someone so tiny. Holding her for the first time – any time – terrified him. He was going to drop her. Hurt her. Break her.
He'd already gone through the process of jointing the chicken and browning the pieces in butter. Then, he'd flambéd them briefly, before adding a whole bottle of red wine to the pot. Now all he had to do was wait for the pot to come to a boil.
Chase took a long pull from his wineglass, then set it back down on the counter. Two open bottles of wine sat beside the chopping board. One for him, one for the dish. Both empty. So much alcohol had made his head ache, but his thoughts grew quieter with every mouthful he drank, so he drank even more.
He'd never forget how much she squirmed and cried whenever he picked her up. Even at a week old, she was fighting to get away from him. As if she could sense he was no good.
He reached for his knife, letting his fingers wrap firmly around the handle. Onto the potato mash that would accompany the chicken; the potatoes had already been peeled and needed to be quartered. The dull throbbing in his temple pulsed in synchronisation with his heartbeat. It was strange. He'd never really noticed how heavy his chef's knife felt, sitting in his palm. The handle was hollow and filled with sand for the perfect amount of balance, and its blade made from stainless steel. Not the best brand money could buy, but close enough. It was still sharp after so many years of use.
Chop the potatoes, he told himself, repeating it over and over in his mind, a strange mantra.
But he'd lost control of his limbs. The knife moved.
Was poised over his wrist.
By the third week, he stopped going near her. "She hates me," He told her, when he was asked why, "She knows I'm going to hurt her." But it just made her laugh.
The cold metal touched his skin and he held it there momentarily. Teasingly. A test.
"You'll never do that." The reassurance came with a smile. Usually, her smiles gave him life. Usually, her gentle yet matter of fact way of speaking eased his woes and worries. Usually, she was right.
He pressed down, sliding it along his wrist. The sharp edge of the blade split the skin in two. He watched the blood bead along the cut, a thin line of red. He felt the wave begin to build inside him, the panic, the terror, the regret – oh god, what have I done – before the darkness whispered to him. It soothed him with words of freedom and escape, all he had ever longed for these past seven years.
So he cut his other wrist as well. Drip, drip, drip, an intricate web of crimson was drawn against his skin.
In all the times he imagined this, he thought there would be more pain. But he felt nothing.
The room had started to spin. Chase reached for his wineglass again; just one last drink. He missed, however, and knocked the glass with his elbow. It tumbled over the edge and fell to the floor, shattering on impact.
Both hands gripped the counter, trying to keep himself upright. When he couldn't any longer, he slumped to his knees, leaning his head against the cupboard doors.
How wrong she had been.
He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
