Enjoy!


Shattered Minds

Chapter 5 Part 2

November 18th 2016 Thursday

11:45 am

Ian

The autumn temperatures kept the gym pleasantly cool and relaxed. The windows were stained by the markings of the fog outside as Ian sat in his office watching people running on treadmills, lifting weights, sparring in the ring, and so on. Chris had called earlier to inform him that he and Ashley were leaving town for awhile to go and visit his sick grandmother. Without prying too much, Ian responded like any close friend would, respecting Chris' decision, but in his head disliking the fact that he wouldn't see him in the gym for some time—meaning that he'd have to find a temporary workout partner.

There'd also been an update on James' and Cass' relationship. At around ten o'clock Ian picked up his cellphone only to hear a flustered James cursing to the high heavens about some undisclosed argument him and Cass had the night before. All there was to gain from the conversation was learning that their fondness for one another was beginning to dive, which, knowing how James operated, didn't surprise Ian in the slightest. In fact, he was almost relieved by such a turn of events, believing that James might finally wise up and stop acting like a two year old.

Other than those two things, not much was happening. Marcus and his family were coming over for dinner tonight, Trish was steadily working as a waitress and going to school to become a nurse at the nearby hospital . . . and so continued the list of regular events. Although, in the meantime, Ian had developed an interest for poetry—reading Shakespeare was a most enjoyed pastime of his. And once all the proper papers were filed for the day, he tore out a piece of paper from the binder on the shelf beside him, equipped himself with a pencil, and attempted his eagerness to write something inspiring.

The autumn gathers before me,

All ripe and imposing;

And maybe I'll find happiness in thee,

If my heart doth quit loathing.

He read over it several times, but was embarrassed to have written something, in his eyes, so messily incoherent. Though haven't all great men questioned themselves? The thought laid heavily upon Ian's mind, and he calculated that even the great Edgar Allan Poe had to have at some point despised his own work. The worst critic of any piece is the author himself. It was something he'd read in a book, something he couldn't forget. Under his breath, he spoke calmly to himself, "If I just keep practicing . . ." But was interrupted when a girl barged through the door.

Her features were easily recognized: a crooked nose, lively brown eyes, and silky hair. Ian knew immediately that it was Cass. Though he wished to greet her, he could tell by her expression that she wasn't there to make friendly conversation. Before she even opened her mouth, Ian knew he was about to get an earful about his stubborn brother.

"Cass? What are you doing here?" he asked with pretend curiosity, subtly using one arm to hide the paper on his desk. The girl gave him a long hard look, obviously deciding what words to use. She'd been awfully worked up, and it was blatantly obvious by how she walked and how her face was scrunched up as if she'd smelt something terrible.

"You know exactly why I'm here." She then plopped herself into the chair across from where he sat. "I'm here to talk about that asshole brother of yours." He could feel the rage boiling inside her. "I've been nothin' but slavin' away for that fucker!" she hollered, not knowing where to start. "Washin' his clothes, doin' his dishes, takin' care of 'im, and how does he repay me?"

Ian remained quiet, fearful that her wrath might be directed at him instead.

"He repays me by runnin' off with some dirty slut he picked up off the street! And what makes it even worse is that he tried lying about it. Tellin' me she's just a friend. What a load of shit. How can you stand knowin' you're related to that bastard?"

Shrugging, Ian slowly scooted his chair backwards away from Cass in case she decided to explode right then and there. "Well . . ." he tried. "I just work with what I got. James can be troublesome, true, but he's my brother. I'm sorry about what happened. I don't mean to doubt your resolve, but how do you know he's been seeing someone else?" It was then clear as to what James was talking about on the phone, though Ian remained unsure of the whole situation. Until . . .

"I found them in bed together."

Yikes! thought Ian, his eyes flushed open. James . . . fucking moron. No wonder she hates your guts. He won't get away with this. Marcus and I will need to have a serious conversation with him. Through all her fury and anger, there still lived a hint of sadness and hurt. The rage she was experiencing hadn't formed out of spit and jealousy, no, the fuel to Cass' tirade was a deep feeling of betrayal, and Ian truly felt sorry for her. So much in fact, he openly offered her to come by and have dinner with him and the others.

"It'll just be me, my girlfriend, and my brother's family. Don't worry, I'm not talking about James. His name is Marcus, and I'm sure you'll get along well with everyone." He smiled brightly, hoping to draw out the remaining tenseness that engulfed Cass' body.

"That sounds . . ." She tried smiling, feeling that of a calming warmth illuminating from Ian's welcoming gaze. "That sounds really nice. I'd love to come." Humor was starting to return to her, and before long she was back to laughing and joking again. "As long as James ain't there . . . I'm good for some decent folk and tasty food. Who's doin' the cooking?"

"I am," Ian answered proudly. He'd already planned the entire meal out. Grilled chicken, corn, sweat peas, mash potatoes and gravy, fried okra, and spinach. And for desert would be Trisha's mom's homemade raspberry cobbler. "Here, I'll write down the directions," he said, reaching back to the binder on the shelf. He scribbled down in detail on what roads to take and named a few well-known places nearby. One of them being a restaurant called: The Saucy Barber.

*The Saucy Barber was an old BBQ joint founded back in 1999. The owners were a sister and brother whose names were Dylan and Janet Osborne. As children, Ian, James, and Marcus would go every Sunday with either their mom or dad after church and order their favorite BBQ sandwich. Since then, the Saucy Barber had acquired the reputation as one of the best BBQ places in town.*

They talked for another fifteen minutes. One of the questions Ian asked her was: "How did you know where to find me?"

"When me and James first met," she began, recalling previous events, "I asked him what kinda work he did. Told me that he owned the only Planet Fitness in town, sayin' that you helped him out a little." Looking around the room and seeing that James was nowhere to be found, she smirked. "Looks like he lied to me again. You seem like you're the only one runnin' the place."

Ian leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Tell me about it," he replied exhaustively, pulling out the filing cabinet at the bottom of the desk where a large stack of folders was slowly gathering dust. "Do you see all this?" He looked at her with an overwhelmed expression. "He tells me to write down everything that happens. How many people attend each class, who those people are, which employees came in late, which came in early . . . sometimes I just want to tell him to do the shit himself, but no, he's off partying with some of the most despicable people I've ever met." It felt good to finally release the built up emotions he'd carried with him for the last three months. However, the last statement was accidental, and he didn't mean any offense. "Not you, of course," he quickly added before slamming shut the filing cabinet, continuing with: "I only mean most of the people: the drunks, the sluts, and the slobs he associates with. Not saying you're a slut, but eh . . ." He couldn't think of an assuring way to explain what he meant.

Cass didn't appear to care, but instead seemingly enjoyed hearing him carry on without any direction as to what should be spoken next. "It's okay," she reassured, smiling. "I know what you meant." She then glanced up at the clock behind Ian. "I think I oughtta go," she said, standing to her feet. The clock read twenty past twelve. Ian led her to the door and opened it for her.

"Going so soon?" he asked, stepping out of the office. He was tempted to walk her to her car, but believed that it might prove a little awkward. Besides, he wouldn't want any trouble with Trish if she found out. He loved her dearly, but her jealously was often aggravating.

"Yeah, I gotta get home and get ready for work. Oh . . ." She stopped walking for a moment, "Now that I'm thinking about it . . ." and reached into her jeans, greeting his eyes to a red Crimson Tide pen. Ian looked at her dumbfounded.

"You gotta be kidding, right?" He shook his head, but accepted the gift anyways.

"Well," she began to explain, "if you're gonna be writin' all day, might as well do it with your favorite team's pen."

Ian couldn't argue with her logic—if you could even call it that—so, out of the decency and natural friendliness in his heart, he complained not a word about it. He simply waved goodbye and thanked her again for the sweet gesture.

However, there wasn't any friendliness to be found in him once he called James. He'd spent several minutes staring at his phone, pondering of what to say; and every minute that passed only enraged him more and more. He knew his brother was an awful person, but what James did to Cass crossed the line. Even if Ian might not have know her for long, he still felt partially responsible for his brother's actions. I should've told him . . . he thought, not knowing what to think. He then punched in the numbers, took a sip from his mug, and waited patiently for James to pick up.

The first call went to voicemail, and Ian growled beneath his breath as he tried again. And again. And again. "What the fuck, James?" he mumbled to himself. James was a disorganized slob, that Ian knew, but he wasn't a disorganized slob who never answered his phone, which was especially strange since they'd spoken a mere few hours ago. The only possible explanation that Ian could muster was that James must've been so upset about Cass that he decided to drown his sorrows at the bottom of however many bottles he could drink.

But Ian tried calling him again despite it all; and when James still did not answer, Ian tucked his phone into his pocket, took another sip from his mug, and stepped out of his office. Paperwork for the morning was finished, and he was free to do his stretching and light cardio exercises.

He entered the closet in order to find a mat. The air inside was musty and filled with dust that caused Ian to sneeze loudly. He shifted through the old equipment, making his way down the shelves and rows until he found a small hue of blue in the back corner. That blue, he assumed, was the mat he was looking for. He pulled it out and realized it was indeed a mat but not the kind he'd be willing to use, instead it was a relic from his years as a child. The thing was ripped open from one edge to the other, and in its center was a disgusting yellow pee stain. Who made it? Ian couldn't remember; but he was partially thinking it might've been James. Ian knew Marcus wasn't the culprit because he was much too old at the time; and the fact that James always had a weak bladder only solidified the accusation. But not even those pleasant memories could calm the anger Ian held toward his unfaithful brother. In fact, after dragging out a much cleaner mat, he decided then that it would be best to call Marcus about James' behavior as soon as he finished his morning workout.


When it came to the individual discipline of the three brothers, Marcus and Ian were matched neck and neck. Both found sovereignty following the rules and staying inbound of society's norms. Meanwhile, the third sibling, James, was a free spirited, highly undisciplined character—the kind one would find in a low town bar or strip club. He acted on impulse rather than rational thought. Sex, parties, and alcohol were his life's passions, though alcohol was especially cherished, whereas parties were more of a conventional way of finding someone to have sex with, and sex was a conventional way to go to parties. All in all, James was heading downhill fast, and it was all Ian and Marcus could do to save their brother before it was too late.


Ian waited until the gym and parking lot were empty to call Marcus. Stepping outside for a couple of minutes, he dialed the number, catching a whiff of the cold autumn air, and waited for his brother to pick up. Ian knew the chances of Marcus not picking up were very unlikely.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Marcus, it's me. How are things?" Ian paused to look off into the misty horizon. A chilly wind swept across his face, and he shivered.

"You know—same old, same old," his brother's voice was calm, and Ian assumed that he was indoors somewhere. "You called at just the right time. We're still coming over tonight, right? Madison's so excited to see her Uncle Ian."

"She's always excited to see me," Ian joked, smiling to himself as he stood there on the curb. "I'm thinking about buying her a stuffed animal or something from Walmart. Doesn't she like pandas?"

"Madison loves pandas," Marcus replied. The girl was indeed a graceful creature if there ever was one. Her little face and smile showed a great deal of wonder and merriment. She had big blue eyes that were the exact replicas of her father's; glowing inside them was every curiosity befitted to that of a child. The brown curls atop her head were long and beautiful; and her plumps arms gave for the best hugs.

Joy and delight were most abundant in Marcus' household. The wife, whose name was Janice, was beautiful in her own right and looked so much like Maddie. Ian knew her well, almost as well as Marcus. The reason as to this was because, if it wasn't for Ian, her and Marcus would've never met. The story was a rather simple one: shy boy falls in love with shy girl, boy's brother helps him by talking to her, they meet, they kiss, and they become inseparable. It was a love founded in childhood and eventually matured into adulthood—love such as this was among the strongest to be had. It was the kind of pureness that Ian wished he and Trish had.

Their love was of the more common variety. A love found through opportunity. A love that wasn't of the same cloth as a childish love or a developed love. It was comprised of events that led them to agree on the terms of liking each other's company. It felt to Ian as if it was a contract. It hadn't the depth of Marcus' and Janice's love, neither did it have the innocence of what used to be James' and Cass' love. Ian never spoke to Trisha about his thoughts on the matter. In his mind, he knew that they were meant to be together, but, somewhere in the recess of his heart, he suffered greatly from one of the worst kind of demons: unfulfillment.

Unfulfillment is a common ailment to young men searching for purpose. Like the void, unfulfillment can leave a person empty and cold. For if there is so much to be desired, then not being able to seize every piece can leave you disassembled. And talking on the phone with Marcus about Janice and Madison only highlighted what Ian wished he had. So much so, that he nearly forgot the reason he called in the first place.

"There's something I need to tell you about James," Ian said after all familiarities were over and done with; and he realized himself to be very hesitant. Marcus despised cheaters. Hated them. And it could all be related back to how much he loved Janice, being simply unable to stomach the thought of ever cheating on her with another woman; and so, to see other men do it to their wives and girlfriends only fed into him like wood in a fire. "I need to know that you won't flip out when I tell you."

"I won't," promised Marcus, obviously intrigued by what his brother had to say. "It can't be that bad. We're both used to James fucking up. It's nothing new."

You say that now . . . Ian thought as he prepared his next couple of sentences carefully. "He and Cass, well, they got into a pretty bad argument. I talked to James this morning when he called me. He was shouting and screaming, cursing every other word—it wasn't something fun to listen to . . ." Realizing he was starting to get off track, Ian allowed Marcus to respond.

"That sounds like James. I keep telling him he can't win an argument against a woman, doesn't matter how stubborn he is. Did they throw punches? What caused it?"

"He, ugh . . . she—" Ian breathed out so the blush on his face would go away. "A few hours after I talked to him, Cass showed up at my office. She pretty much barged in, completely pissed. We talked for a good while, and she explained everything." He decided then to word himself in a way that would have the least amount of impact, but lost it near the end due to his own anger. "James has done a lot of shit, but I don't think anything tops this . . ." A pause. "Hate to tell it, but our brother's a fucking unfaithful, cheating bastard. She came to visit him after work and found him banging some red head who, hilariously, according to Cass, was thrown out of the house completely naked by the hair." Ian chuckled in hopes to lighten the situation. "I've always said that those southern pines aren't to be fucked with. She got him back good though, slapped him clear across the face before storming out."

"Huh . . ." Marcus took a moment to himself for reflection. After processing the information, all he could really do was sigh. Ian felt relieved when his elder brother said: "I knew something like this was bound to happen. Knew it the first day he called me about her. Damn it, James . . ." The hurt in his voice was real. Thoughts of Janice quickly entered his mind; he couldn't bear imagining her broken expression if he was ever caught with another woman, and what that would do to Madison. "Is there anything else?" he mustered, but his focus to the conversation never fully recovered.

"Yeah, one more thing. I hope you don't mind, but Cass will be having dinner with us tonight. I think it'll do her some good, and maybe we can show her that not everyone in our family is like James. I'd hate for someone to put me in the same category as him." It was around this time that Ian returned inside. "I still haven't decided what we're going to do with him. We can't let him get away with this. But the question is: what do we do?" He waited for Marcus to answer, but when he didn't, Ian asked: "Any ideas, Marcus?" He then entered the office and sat down. The poem he'd been working on remained unfinished on the desk. Not wishing to look at it any longer, he crumbled it up and threw it in the trashcan next to him.

"I got a few." In that Marcus sounded like he was trying to be mischievous—a trait hardly ever describing his tone of voice; however, he sounded completely different, like he'd changed his mind in an instant, when he continued with: "But I think think the best we can do is have a serious talk with him . . ." His sentence ended, but Ian knew he was about to say something else, and so he kept quiet to let his brother think. "There's not really much we can do beyond that. He's a grown man; it's not like we can put him in time out."

"You're right," Ian replied. It was then that they came to a decision, planning their talk with James for tomorrow afternoon, with, of course, the possibility of Cass going with them—only if she wanted to. Once the exact time was made, Ian closed the conversation with: "See you guys tonight. Also, Trish is bringing a pan full of raspberry cobbler."

"That sounds delicious," Marcus said. "I've never had raspberry cobbler before . . ." He broke off his rambling immediately so they could hang up and get back to what it was they were doing. "See you and Trish tonight, Ian. Love you."

Ian frowned. "I hate it when you say that."

"What's wrong? I'm just saying love you to my little baby brother." Marcus had to contain his laughter due to being inside. Ian could actually hear other people talking in the background. "Anyways, I gotta go now. Bye."

"Bye," Ian answered with a pause, mumbling the word, "Asshole," once Marcus disconnected from the call. Afterwards, he made his way to the locker room. His blue bag sat all alone on the wooden bench in the far corner nearest to the showers. Inside that bag was his deodorant, body and hair wash, and extra clothes. It was going on two o'clock, and all he had left to do was hit the weights. The afternoon crowd was bound to come pouring in within the next thirty minutes, so he needed to finish as much as he could before the swarm arrived.


November 18th 2016

1:45 pm

Chris

The drive to his grandmother was a long one, about five hours to be exact. They'd left a little bit before ten, having packed clothes, food, and Ashley's laptop. Basically, the plan was the following: rent a hotel near the hospital for the week, visit Chris' other family members who also lived in the area (two cousins), and, of course, spend some time with his grandmother, who, point in fact, was in critical condition. She was currently staying at the Mount Caramel Emergency Room.

During the ride there, Ashley could easily tell that the journey was beginning to tear at Chris' stamina. Droopy eyes, long, slow breaths, decreased reflexes . . . at some point she felt tempted to ask him if she should drive instead. The expressway was extremely busy, dozens of cars were laid out behind and in front of them, and the thought of Chris accidentally driving off the road was a constant fear. But, putting as much faith as she could in her boyfriend's ability, Ashley spoke not a word about it, instead she continued to manage the directions that were written on a slip of paper.

"Okay . . ." she began, looking at the signs they passed. "It says we need to take the next exit in about ten miles. We just passed exit twenty two, right?" In the background music was playing from the stereo: 103.7 Chuck FM. Ashley turned it off for the few brief seconds it took Chris to glance at her and reply:

"Yeah." It was said with some hostility, and Ashley could see his brows darken his face. "You're the one with the directions," he scolded. "Pay attention." And he returned himself to the highway, leaving Ashley to fend for herself against the irritation she'd brought out.

"Sorry," she whispered quietly so Chris wouldn't hear. An embarrassed blush then ran to her cheeks, setting them alight with red fire, and as she looked once more at the directions, she leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes slowly as Chris reached over and turned the radio back on. The song playing happened to be one of her favorites. "Wonderwall," by Oasis. Listening to it brought a small smile to her lips, and within seconds she was tapping her foot and humming along, thinking solely about the man sitting beside her. She knew that Chris' agitated state hadn't anything to do with her, but with the trip itself. The more he drove, the more she noticed his tired habits at the wheel: forgetting to put on his blinkers, not checking his mirrors, and many other worrisome trials. Again, the temptation came that she wanted to ask him to let her drive, but, similar to last time, decided it best not to, telling herself: "He's probably worked up because of his grandmother. But he can't let grief distract him from what it is he needs to do . . ." Thoughts similar to these endlessly popped into her head, causing her to finally say: "Chris," she touched his arm, "you know you can talk to me about anything. I'm here for you. Always." The sharp look he gave her bothered her not the slightest—she'd grown used to such looks; in fact, it only made her smile even more, for then came the confirmation of her theory as to what was wrong with him; and all of it was revealed through that single hard glare.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said coldly. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me, Ash." He softened immediately when he felt her trace over his shoulder with her fingernail. "You know I'm not angry at you. It's this fucking—"

"I know. I know," she spoke lovingly, bringing him beneath her spell, carefully reaching from her seat and kissing him on the cheek. They gazed at one another with warm smiles, sharing in the compassion that only two closely bonded could share, and in that sweet moment of bliss, they discovered solace in each other.


Another hour dragged by, and Ashley's legs began to ache. She tried stretching them, cupping a hand over her mouth as she yawned, but found little room for maneuvering buckled inside the passenger seat. So, it was with great annoyance that she rolled down her window in hopes of the fresh air returning to her her good spirits; and it did exactly that. For the next half hour she rested with her arm hanging freely out the window. At first, she thought little about the moist wind breaking against her skin, believing it to be a simple description of autumn; but it wasn't soon after that little drops of rain started falling from the sky as the world progressed from light to dark.

Immediately after feeling the first droplet hit her face, Ashley tucked her arm back inside the vehicle and quickly rolled up the window. Chris appeared not to be bothered whatsoever from the changing weather. Actually, when given a closer inspection to his reaction, he appeared to be almost happy, made obvious by the small smirk formed across his otherwise stern features.

"Is something funny?" Ashley asked. The longer the pause between them lasted, the more she began to notice the humor subtly spanning from his brows to the tip of his chin. A charming aura resonated from him, and she couldn't help but be drawn toward it no matter her suspicions.

Chris then smiled brightly—as bright as the sun that once dwelt in the sky—yet never looked at Ashley, even though he wanted to; but he wasn't willing to chance taking his eyes off the road during the heavy downpour that now surrounded them and the car. Every one hundred yards or so, he'd flinch when he felt the tires splurge through a muddy sinkhole, splattering the dirty water on the sides and windows of his Toyota, irritating him more than Ashley ever could at that present moment, and knowing this only made his out of place mood even more bizarre.

Her question went unanswered for nearly a full minute, during which Ashley successively came up with two more in the back of her head. "Why are you acting like a weirdo?" and: "Are you okay?" She was caught by Chris' reply as she was preparing to ask the latter.

"I was just thinking . . ." he began, after finally deciding to adjust the rear view mirror so he could see the confused expression she was giving him. "Do you remember that day me, you, and Ian went to the park, and it started raining?" He apparently remembered it quite well.

"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "Remind me." Her eyes never wandered off of him, locked in by the crevices detailing his face, as his smile faded.

"Really?" he asked with raised brows. "You don't remember?" The character in his voice was much more alive than the expressionless movements of his lip; and he spent the next minute searching through his memories, trying his damnedest to remember the exact day and month. "I think it was late September," not entirely sure, he added: "maybe early October," and then delved into the details of what happened. "You'd been bugging me the whole week about us going on a romantic picnic, and joked about how me and Ian were spending too much time together, that we were gay lovers or something . . ."

It was at that moment that Ashley remembered.


She remembered getting all dressed up in a black autumn gown, with bracelets, sneakers, and a leather jacket. She remembered how handsome Chris had looked when he stepped out of their room with his shaved head hidden beneath a classy flat cap, his hands warmly secured in a pair of thin leather gloves, dark blue jeans, shoes, and a masterfully knitted sweater (a gift that Ashley had made for him) all bundled inside an appropriately warm, black topcoat.

His towering figure gazed down upon her as if she was a child; his shoulders were wide and perfectly proportioned with his muscular arms; he would've been intimating if it wasn't for her knowing how squishy he really was on the inside. And in her moment of admiring his impressive form, he tenderly offered her his arm the way a gentleman in a movie would.

"I have a surprise for you," he had said in a quiet voice on their way out the door.

"What is it?" she asked, taking the picnic basket from the counter into her free hand. Her heart fluttered, and she leaned on him, but was stopped in her tracks when she saw a certain someone standing at the railing, smiling at them once they stepped outside.

The man was smaller than Chris in both height and width; however, his posture spoke boastfully, as if trying to make you forget about its tininess. His narrow eyes were dripping with excitement; his red lips were thin and curled into a smile that Ashley knew only one man possessed: Ian.

"Good afternoon, milady," he teased, his mouth parting as he tried to retain his laughter. He was wearing the clothes of an intellectual: a classy jacket that he'd left unbuttoned, revealing a plain black shirt and woolen scarf wrapped snugly around his neck; his dark hair was trimmed short, aligned a few inches above his thick eyebrows; and his white teeth shined like crystals beneath the dying sun. "Are we ready to go?"

Ashley couldn't deny Ian's handsome appearance, but even that wasn't enough to keep her from slapping Chris' arm. "What's he doing here?" she wanted to scream, but it came out slightly louder than a whisper.

"I invited him to our picnic," Chris replied. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

As the couple started to argue, Ian headed down the steps into the parking lot. "I'll just wait in the car," he said, but they were too lost in their bickering to hear him. Making his way there, he listened to Ashley's voice growing louder as Chris desperately tried to calm her. The whole situation was humorous, and once everyone had finally calmed down, Chris drove them to the park.

Ian sat alone in the backseat the entire time, while Ashley sat sulking in the passenger side. He'd glance at her every couple of minutes, and from where he was in the car, he could easily make out the frown on her face, which he knew wouldn't leave unless he jumped out the car door and banged his head on some telephone pole or road sign—Ian funnily thought a "Stop" sign would've been quite poetically fitting.

Other than the radio, everything was silent for the majority of the ride. Ian attempted multiple times to start a conversation with either of them, but Chris was too worried that saying something would set Ashley off, and Ashley was too annoyed with Chris about Ian that she didn't even acknowledge his existence, as if a giant glass window was built to separate the front half and back half of the Toyota. Ian looked to Chris to speak up against Ashley's rudeness, and shook his head disapprovingly when his friend didn't. Whatever . . . he thought, hanging his head in defeat, and then resting it on the window.

By this time, the sky had folded into itself. The once white rings of clouds had dissipated, and were replaced by foreboding gray ones echoing with thunder and flashing with yellow streaks of lightning. And as soon as they passed the park's gate entrance, it began to rain.

Ashley cursed, and Chris laughed as they all three sat in his car perturbed by the storm. Looking outside the window, Ian saw mothers running to their vehicles with their children securely in their arms, and smiled to himself when he saw a father carrying his two sons like footballs tucked beneath his armpits.

"Everything's ruined!" Ashley groaned, immediately glaring at Ian who remained absorbed in watching the father fumbling around with his sons. She then glared at Chris, and said, "Damn it, Chris. This was supposed to be a nice evening for us." Crossing her arms childishly, she sunk into her seat, refusing to look at either man.

It wasn't until the father and his sons drove away did Ian return to the conversation. "Why don't we just have a picnic in the rain?" The idea sounded foolproof to him, and he smirked when he saw Chris nod in agreement.

"What do you say, Ash?" he asked his girlfriend. He then reached into the basket in the floorboard. "Lemme see what you brought . . ." He counted apples, grapes, salads, a can of mixed nuts, and a few other items, none of which would be spoiled by the rain. He came up from it with a smile. "Yeah, it's perfect. No sandwiches, so we don't have to worry about the bread getting mushy . . . we—"

"Chris, listen to me," she interrupted, her eyes read like a serious script. "I don't want to eat in the rain." Each syllable was pronounced clearly and with force.

"Oh, come on, Ash," Ian chimed in lightly. "Don't be a stick in the mud."

Upon hearing him call her by that nickname, Ashley shot Ian the nastiest snarl she could. "Okay, first," she seethed, "you might be friends with Chris, but that does not make you buddy-buddy with me. I don't need you here, and I don't want you here. This was supposed to be only me and Chris. The last thing I want is some lapdog coming with us on our date, which, by the way," she turned to Chris, "is completely ruined by this fucking storm!"

"Sheesh . . ." Ian blushed, and half expected Chris to stand up for him, but wasn't really upset when he tried comforting Ashley instead. Honestly, Ian understood her reason for being so crossed with him; and a hard wave of guilt began to etch its way inside.

But through all the craziness, somehow, according to Chris as he retold the story of that night, they'd finally managed to get Ashley to agree to their terms of eating out in the rain, and, just like they promised, they all three had an amazing time. During the midst of their laughter, Ashley asked Ian to forgive her, saying that she was sorry for being hateful. And, of course, without hesitation, he forgave her, telling her that she had every right to her anger.


So, returning to the present, why was it that Chris decided to recall such a tale? Well, as he later explained to Ashley, it was to remember a time of peace and gladness, and to also explain his out of place smile and sudden change in mood. Such memories were hard to come by, and it was not only reassuring for himself to tell it, but also for Ashley to listen.

"How is Ian by the way?" she asked, as soon as Chris finished the story. It'd been several weeks since Ashley saw him last; and because Ian only called Chris' phone—and because Chris rarely talked about him—his life remained an utter mystery to her. She, however, did remember hearing about a woman by the name of Trisha during one of their last meetings—a woman, whenever mentioned, caused Ian great delight, surrendering the tone of one in love to his voice. He spoke not one negative word about her, and tried his best to describe her beauty, who she was as a person, and how they'd come to know each other. Nothing particularly interesting, but Ashley listened anyways, more intently than she meant to.

"I called him before we left." Chris wasn't aware that Ashley had lost herself in her own thoughts, and very plainly said: "He told me he's going to beat my ass for ditching him again." He chuckled as he thought about the many nights ago when Josh was arrested for fighting, and how irritated Ian must've been when he left without an explanation. "I told that asshole he can sure as hell try . . ." He paused the moment he realized Ashley wasn't paying attention. "Something on your mind?" he asked, curious, and slightly worried by the contemplative expression that had recently cast itself over her green eyes.

For a moment, she looked at him and appeared lost. He could tell she wanted to say something, but was obviously too shy to speak. Hoping to comfort her, he rested his right hand on top of hers, but he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by her beauty, so he never gave her a deserving glance, and he kept his left hand firmly on the wheel. And for some time, they kept their positions, muttering only a few words here and there, usually about what song was playing on the radio.

The silence wasn't officially broken until they pulled into a gas station right as the rain stopped. All previous grievances had been resolved by themselves, and as Chris got out of the car, he heard Ashley say: "I'd like a water, please."

"Anything else?" he asked, preparing to shut the door; and did so immediately when she explained that she only wanted the water. They were parked beside pump number five, with the gas needle in the Toyota being pinned on empty. And it wasn't until he was inside that he finally decided how much he was going to put in. Considering all factors, the remaining distance of the trip itself, how far the next gas station was, the next town, etc, etc., he gave the pretty brunette at the cash register a one hundred dollar bill, along with another dollar for the bottle of water he carried in his hand.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. He noticed that her name tag had Ashley written on it, and, for only a brief second, thought about joking about such a coincidence, but ultimately saw it as a bad idea, since he couldn't come up with anything witty enough to keep from embarrassing himself. Without much courtesy, he rushed out the door, tossed Ashley her bottle from the open window, and pulled the nozzle out from the station. After making sure the gas setting was on regular, and after checking to make sure the car was turned off, only then did he began to fill it.

The effects of the long drive could be felt as he stood there gripping the handle. He watched as the numbers on the pump's electronic screen added up to ten dollars, twenty five dollars, etc. Yet despite his attempts to distract himself on such figures, he couldn't seem to get rid of the awful throbbing that occurred a few inches above his lower back. Sighing deeply, he leaned up against the Toyota, and, thankfully, it helped somewhat ease the burden, though not completely; he still remained rigid, and it was all he could do to bend down and return the nozzle back inside the station's left slot.

Once finished, he sat back down beside Ashley and discovered her taking tiny sips from the water he'd bought her. He supposed the cold freshness of the liquid was the only thing keeping her awake; according to the black spots beneath her eyelids, she was barely holding on to consciousness. And then, only for a moment, a fleeting thought about the waters of life skimmed across the edges of his tired mind, informing him of some hardly understood connection between the water in a bottle and the water of fabled lore. It made little sense, and it began to distress him, so he quickly replaced the bad thoughts with welcoming ones, such as: how beautiful Ashley looked, and that they were almost at their destination, meaning they weren't far from a nice hotel and a nice bed—two creations of society that are often overlooked, unless, that is, they are needed; and I believe it is important that I expound upon this statement with the following:

A rich man will often discover that his high sense of taste matters little when he is truly tired and hungry. Even the most broken down, revolting hotels can look appealing after a strenuous day; and even the nastiest food can appear appetizing to a growling stomach. Of course, the rich man can often afford a more expensive room and better quality food; but, in the back of his mind, he knows that if anything were to happen to his preferred choices, that he would, without a doubt, settle for even the worst of conditions—as long as those conditions came with food and a roof over his head. And if the rich man were to lose all his money and belongings during the night of a cold winter, and be thrown from his mansion out onto the snowy streets, wearing nothing except an old jacket to keep warm, we'd be sure to see him crawl to the nearest trash fire, and from there scrounge up all the money he could, and if his earnings were sufficient, rent the cheapest room from the cheapest hotel in town. Further concluding that we take what we have for granted, even something as simple as owning a bed or renting a hotel for the night. And underneath all the fashions and materials of the world, there lies within us a savagery, a brutal truth, that, no matter who you are, people will do whatever it takes to survive; and if that means living in a gutter, then so be it.


It was a quarter past two by the time they arrived at their hotel. The parking lot was desolate—four cars at most—so Chris easily managed to find a parking space close to the front door. After taking the keys out of the ignition, he turned to Ashley, who dwelt in her own little world, and said: "Go ahead and start getting the stuff out of the trunk. I'll go and get us a room." He then exited his vehicle and hurried across the sidewalk. The Candled Suites was what the colorful sign read outside, and if the reviews on their website were anything to go by, it was the best deal available in the old shanty town of Andersdale; and once he was inside, Chris realized it to be true.

The lobby offered people all the fancies they wished were theirs: gorgeous, expensive furniture, ornate rugs, silver vases, a golden chandler with over thirty scented candles, a seventy inch flat screen television, and one equally fitted dining room where breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served daily. It was so unlike the rest of the town that Chris believed everything to be a figment of his imagination; and as he approached the counter with stars in his eyes, he was brought back to reality by the single friendly face there to greet him.

"Welcome, sir," said the handsome man. He was black haired and bearded. The nice suit he wore was the perfect frame for his masculine figure, and he stood with a dignified expression—a sternness custom to men of high society. His blue eyes expressed both patience and understanding, while the wrinkles and crevices on his forehead explained his age and experience. "Will you be staying with us tonight or this week?" Even with a face so charismatic and interesting, the man's voice sounded oddly robotic and insincere, and his lips moved as if they were controlled by a remote.

Chris halted any further observations regarding the stranger, and after matching the man's smile with his own—both which were fake—he explained that he would be needing a room for two with all the accommodations available (room service, free WiFi, permission to use the indoor hot-tub, and so on.) He then continued by saying: "We'll just be staying five days." And once he handed over his money, and was given the key to room number 125, Chris returned outside and discovered that Ashley had placed all their belongings in a cart.

"I hope we got a room," she said. "I'd hate to have to put all this stuff back." Sipping on what remained of her water bottle, Ashley smiled when she saw the key in his hand. "I hope it's nice," she said, slightly confused by the sudden mischievous expression on Chris' face.

"It's okay, I guess," he lied. "Nothing special."


There were only a few times that he'd ever lied to Ashley since they'd been together: the first time was a much more serious situation, and it occurred a year or so after the night on Blackwood Mountain. Chris had by that time signed on to join the Marine Corps; and one night he came home late after meeting with his recruiter for the second time that week. Ashley had been sitting on the couch, her phone clutched in her hands, waiting anxiously for him to walk through the door. What had originally been a small case of worry quickly turned into total terror. Every sound she heard outside struck her as if someone was trying to break in. Cold sweats hungrily ate away at her cheeks, and she remained as quiet as possible, hoping that whoever was there would go away.

Reality distortions are common factors to be included when speaking about someone who has gone through extremely traumatic events. And there are few events that compare to the utter fear to be found during that fateful night on the mountain. Images so grotesque that those afflicted by them never fully recovered; there lived a never ending nightmare inside the deepest entanglements of their minds, so severe that they were locked away to never be rediscovered. And if those horrible memories were allowed to seep out, then the results would be catastrophic.

And upon Chris' arrival, all the panic and discourse that controlled Ashley's mind lashed out by the way of a heated frenzy. "Why are you late?" she demanded. "I've been trying to call you for the past hour!" She waved her fist angrily in the air and struck his shoulder. "Chris, answer me, you son of a bitch! Where were you?"

"I was . . ." he tried answering, but was too shocked by Ashley's state of mind to say more than a few words. It wasn't until he noticed her stumbling did he take her by the hands, pressed them softly between his thumbs, and led her to the bedroom. Obviously, she was exhausted, and so he laid her down and covered her up, kissing her forehead. As he sat at her side, he continuously spoke encouraging words, and, eventually, her breathing finally returned to normal. Before everything unfolded, he'd left the recruiter's office and thought about breaking the news to Ashley that night; but the idea was instantly distinguished as he sat there, speechless, glaring hard at her sickly pale skin.

"I'm sorry," Ashley whispered weakly. "I didn't mean anything I said." Her voice only grew weaker, and her skin grew paler. The poor creature's head was burning up, so Chris ran to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel. He then laid it over her and softly wiped away the drops of sweat.

"It's okay," he said sweetly. "Don't be scared. I'm here." Smiling, he kissed her lips. "Everything will be okay, you'll see." Though he sounded sure, in reality, Chris was frightened just as much as Ashley about their future. It was then he told his first lie: "I'll never leave you. I promise." And he held her silent body in his arms.

What happened that night was never forgotten; however, the two individuals involved remembered it differently. Chris remembered it as it happened before him, whereas Ashley remembered it as innermost struggle between sanity and insanity. I, on the other, have the knowledge of both perspectives; and all I can say is that two people will always see, hear, and feel things differently. A simple explanation, I know, but an accurate one.


On our return to the present, I feel it is important that we discuss the events that have happened thus far within the narrative. Many of the details and conversations have been provided to me through multiple sources; and so I'm positive of my accuracy per which when and how the events occurred. I will start with an in depth study between Joshua Washington and his therapist Dr. Eddington; but, in order for us to come to a complete understanding of the two sirs, I must inform and discuss a few key points explaining Dr. Elijah Eddington's upbringing.

Firstly, we must note that he was born in 1954 on a Sunday during January to two parents. His mother's name was Clarice Eddington, and his father, Steve Eddington, was a well known man among the townies—word got out that he was closely affiliated with the mayor, though it was never discovered how closely. They lived in a two story house in the center of town (the town's name is not important since it no longer exists.) Not far from where they lived was the elementary school, and beyond that were the middle and high schools—another important note is that Elijah never attended them, for he was home schooled by his mother.

As a child, Elijah spent many of his days inside libraries and bookstores, always looking for that perfect book—a book that surpassed all others. And it was his passion for the search that led him to the celebration of every new book discovery. However, it wasn't until much later, at the age of sixteen, did he gain an interest in psychology; and it was all credited to a hardly known writer who wrote the equally unknown book: The Many Shattered Minds. (Yes, the book not only inspired Eddington, but this very narrative itself.) It had such an effect on Elijah that he begged his parents to let him attend prestigious universities so he could fulfill his truest dream: to write a bestselling novel on psychology.


Thus, bringing us to 2014: the year that his book Surviving the Grief was published. At long last, after many years of dedication and hard work, he had finally accomplished his dream. And that leads us to two years later, the first time he laid his eyes on the self-proclaimed Joshua Washington.

It was an interesting meeting to say the least—two different personalities clashed together often produce such instances. And it couldn't have been more obvious than by the goofy, almost dimwitted, smile that Eddington caught Josh wearing every time he glanced up from his notes. Everything about the young man's appearance appeared contrived and impersonal; it was as if Josh himself was not human, but a Yes-Man and No-Man—for every question Eddington asked him, he answered in the same lifeless manner. However, the conversation took a twist when Josh asked an unexpected question.

"Why do you have so many copies of the same book?" He pointed directly behind Eddington at the dozens of glossy hardcovers lined up on three shelves. The print beneath the title was too small to read from a distance, so Josh was unaware of the author.

Eddington spun around in his chair, excited to explain his masterpiece. "When I was a young boy," he began, settling in for the story he was about to tell, "I had an unquenchable thirst for literature." He then turned back around in his chair and faced Josh who, for the most part, remained quiet throughout. "I remember my parents taking me to the bookstore every Saturday where I'd spend my allowance on whatever book was popular at the time. Of course, I enjoyed the classics. I had a particular fascination for Russian literature. I read many pieces from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky . . . you could say that I was highly devoted to reading anything I could get my hands on. And let me tell you that throughout the years, I have gathered an imposingly large collection of stories written from all walks of life. So many, in fact, that I have yet to read them all."

"That's all very interesting, doc." Josh displayed ultimate boredom. "But how exactly does that answer my question?"

"Well, if you'd let me finish . . ." coughed Eddington angrily, detesting the rude comment to the point that the entire tone in which the story was told changed. "By my sixteenth birthday, I had become quite interested in psychology. I read and I read to my hearts content, learning about the mind, learning the personalities of different people . . . I spent so much time in my study that I often forgot to socialize, which, at the time, seemed not all that important." He paused and took a sip from his coffee cup. "I couldn't have been more mistaken. Socializing is the key to learning what it is people strive for, their needs, their wants. Indeed, I believe that experiencing the world is the very foundation which a psychologist builds upon. As I've told many of my patients: 'learning the ways of the world is a critical stepping stone towards your success.' What good is a man if he doesn't put his knowledge to use? And what good would I be to the world if I never left the comfort of my home? Let's say I knew all there was to know about psychology, how does simply knowing about it help anyone? Again, you must reveal your knowledge to the world, teach those who ask to be taught, build great things—build your empire. And never . . ." Eddington was so caught up in his story that he hadn't notice that he'd talked for the entire hour until Josh said:

"Sorry, doc, but we're out of time." He stood and held out his hand. After listening to Eddington's personal life and history, Josh felt it only right that he thank the man for his efforts. "It was a great story," he said excitedly, but you could see in his eyes that he was happy it was over. "Will you finish it the next time we meet?"

Eddington nodded his head and shook hands with his patient. "Of course, it'd be my pleasure. How about next week on Tuesday?"

"Just say the word, Mr. PhD," was the last thing Josh said as he opened the door and stepped out into the waiting room where a handful of people sat silently in their chairs. He passed by without looking at them; they were all old and smelt worse than sour milk.

At the end of the day, Elijah sorted his written notes inside the cluttered folder on his desk. It was the same folder that held every ounce of information about his patients. The crudeness of only having one folder was something that Eddington never understood; he'd been told multiple times by multiple associates to have a separate file for each patient; but Eddington continued to resist their demands, coming nowhere close to figuring that he was an utter slob—even more exposed was this blunder by all the junk he stuffed in his office's closet.

The next several months followed with the formation of a surprising friendship; though Josh would never admit it, he enjoyed the time he spent with Dr. Eddington; and Dr. Eddington enjoyed the time he spent with Josh. There's no doubt that they were different people with different beliefs and philosophies, however, despite that, they shared many similarities—more than what they realized for themselves. Like many others, they loved their families and friends; they were both arrogant in their own ways; and honesty was a major driving force whenever they considered which path to take: traits that were common among many different people, including myself.


It wasn't until recently that Josh had received the surprising message from Sam. At first, he was unsure whether or not she was being sincere with her attempts to reconnect. He and his mother entrusted such thoughts to little conversations spread throughout the day, each time discussing the texts Josh had received. Melinda encouraged her son in every possible way to the point that it became a nuisance, and Josh heatedly asked her to leave him alone.

We now move to the day Josh and Sam went to Callbe's Skating Rink. Truthfully, Sam wasn't sure how it would go. Even during their childhood, Josh had always been unpredictable; and in the back of her mind, just as they were beginning to have fun, she felt that something horrible was boiling beneath the surface; but not even all the suspicion in the world prepared her for what came next.

Josh must've punched the boy at least ten times, breaking his nose and splattering blood onto the floor. It was then Sam realized just how untamed and wild he really was. And in that moment, she contemplated running away from the scene entirely; however, such thoughts ended when she witnessed Josh being pinned to a table by some muscular black man. Out of pure instinct, she rushed to them and begged the big man to lighten up on her friend.

"Sorry," he said in a gruff voice, "but I can't do that. He's a danger to everybody here. Ain't you seen what he did to that young boy?" He then looked around with his beady eyes for someone with a cellphone, shouting repeatedly: "Someone call an ambulance!"

The cops arrived five minutes after the incident, and Josh was arrested. Sam, still unsure what to do, ran outside and called Melinda. "Come on," she mumbled, dialing the numbers, "please, pick up."

"Hello?" Melinda's tone made it clear that she wasn't expecting a call so soon; however, after listening to Sam's heavy breathing, she asked: "What's wrong? Are you and Josh okay?"

"We were skating, and we—he . . . " she tried explaining as fast as she could, but lost all her coherence in the process. Melinda was about to say something, but Sam cut her off. "The police came and arrested him! We need to hurry. Should we meet somewhere? I . . ." And so continued the conversation until it was concluded that they would meet at the courthouse.

Meanwhile, Josh spent most of his night sitting on the world's most uncomfortable bed inside the world's coldest prison; and (like I explained in Chapter 2) learned quite a bit about his cellmate, a man named Roger Elliot, who helped him discover, that despite all the evils in his life, he had to be the one to carry on, and if not for himself, at least for his family and friends.


So, it's essential that I now divert attention over to Elliot because, if we are to understand him, then his story must be told. And I will start off by posing the question—the same question that everyone whoever came in contact with him asked themselves: just who exactly was Roger Elliot? He was a freethinker, a lover not a fighter; he loved his wife and daughter unconditionally—all in all, he was a good man with a stable head on his shoulders. But that's only the surface of who he was. There dwelled within him something much more complex than simply a large, blond-headed man who wore leather jackets and worked construction. And discovering such depth would be like looking for a diamond in the rough.

To be continued in Part 3 , , ,