Dissertation is finished. Celebratory update! Thank you for the reviews for Chapter 10, all your comments are seriously appreciated and mean so much.
In Another Life
Chapter 11
You're kept in a cramped cell over night with several other men, all of whom are either drunk or on drugs. One guy is in the corner, bundled against the wall, looking out with pin-prick eyes. You feel like the scum of the earth, and as you start to sober up your whole body feels cold and chilled against the soft breeze that blows through the cell. You've been in here for eight hours, apparently to 'sober you up,' and your hand is tangled in your hair as you rest your head back against a solid, brick wall. Suddenly a door opens and the officer that arrested you the night before walks in, his movements slow and deliberate, as if taunting you.
"Steven Hay," he nods towards you, eyes tracing over your pathetic frame, "your lift's here."
You stand to your feet, swaying slightly as the blood pours through your whole body to your feet. You see black spots. The door to the cell is pulled open and you wince against the sound- the sound of your dignity flying away. You wobble out and the officer is forced to steady you as you're slowly led through the station, to the other side. As you walk out, the bright winter sun shines down on your head and you squint against it, trying to see a familiar face.
Finally, you spot him. He's perched against the side of his black sports car, jacket pulled over his shoulders as he glances down at that annoying book he always seems to be carrying around. He looks up at you as you approach him and you feel your body wither under his gaze. He eyes you up and down, then gives a nod,
"Hey," he says, casually, as if it's the most normal thing in the World.
"Hi," you mumble, mouth dry and barely able to form words.
You can feel the silence in the air around you, the only thing audible being the chatter of pedestrians as they walk by the station. Your hands are shoved in your pockets and you try with all your might to avoid his gaze. You must look like a mess with your dishevelled clothes and tousled hair, and the way his eyes glance up and down your body only serves to prove you right. After a moment you hear him clear his throat and you glance up at him, embarrassment and irritation burning your cheeks. He's the last person you would want to see you like this.
"I guess you want to go, then?" he asks, nodding his head towards the passenger seat, "hop in."
With that he turns around and gets into the driver's seat, barely waiting for you to step into the car before he starts the ignition and pulls out of the police station like a maniac. The drive is silent as you look out the window, head burning with the hangover and shame, while Brendan's eyes remain fixed on the road. You know he's waiting for you to talk, to explain, and the thought annoys you. Eventually, you feel the need to break the silence,
"Thanks," you mumble, and the word sticks in your throat- coats your mouth like a bad taste, "for picking me up."
"No problem," he replies.
The silence returns and you can feel your skin itch. Your shoulders are tense as you force yourself to stare out the window, mouth jutted out and brow furrowed against the beating glare of the sun. It infuriates you to feel his eyes, insistent and burning on your skin. You wish he would just spit out whatever it is he wants to say.
"One question," he finally breaks the tension, and you roll your eyes because you know what's coming, "what the fuck did you do?"
There's amusement in his voice, as if he can't believe someone like you could end up in jail.
"I don't want to talk about it," you snap, eyes razor sharp as you glare at him.
"Oh come on," he goads you, "how can I not ask ye?"
"I said I don't want to talk about it, right?" you hiss, accent thick and slurred with the hangover, "just shut up."
"Now that's not very polite, Steven," he mumbles, sarcastically, "speaking like that to the man who just got your ass out of prison."
"I said thanks, di'nt I?" you snap, "what more do you want?"
"Well I think I deserve an explanation!" he says, "I'm out a hundred quid because of you!"
You turn and look at him in awe, eyes wide and lips parted.
"A hundred?" you ask, amazed, "You paid that?"
The man let's out a low hum in response, as if he's just revealed too much information.
"Jesus," you whisper, then even lower "...thanks."
"Don't mention it," he waves you away, like he really doesn't want you to mention it again, "just tell me what happened."
You push your fingers through your hair and lean your elbow against the window, letting out a sigh as you think back on the night before. You barely remember what happened through the persistent throb of your headache. You remember wandering the streets, seeing the cop car, giving him hassle, but everything is a blur in your chaotic mind. Finally, you sigh,
"I was being aggressive to an officer," you mutter, angrily.
"That all?" he asks, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
"...no," you admit reluctantly, staring hard out the window, "...I pissed on a wall, too."
The man looks at you and let's out an uproarious laugh. You've never seen him smile so much in the time you've known him and it takes you off guard.
"It's not funny," you pout, but the man ignores you.
"It is," he laughs, "it's funny, Steven."
You can't help the quirk of your lip. You hate yourself for it.
"Shut up," you mumble, knowing it's pointless.
"All right," he says, but he's still laughing and you know it's not the end, "what were you doing walking the streets drunk, anyway?"
"I went out last night," you roll your eyes, as if it was stupid, "bunch of people from work. Lost them at the club and ended up walking home alone."
"Jesus Steven," he looks at you now, eyes wide. He seems angry, "after what happened to you outside the bar? You want to get yourself killed?"
You feel something warm inside you and you cringe at your own emotions. Something about the way he looks at you, concern in his eyes along with something else...something...protective. You've never seen someone look at you like that before and it immediately makes you tense up. You realize you're staring at him now and when he catches you, you immediately fix your expression into a frown and face out the window again.
"I'm not a little kid you know," you huff, "I can look after meself."
"Clearly," he grunts.
You fall into silence.
"Got to admit, was surprised you called me," Brendan muses, "thought I'd be the last person you'd ask for help."
You think about the last time you saw him. When he fought with you and turned his back on you in the street. When he challenged you to admit to something he insisted you wanted -made you believe you wanted- then walked away when you refused. You remember the feel of his body as he taunted you, pressed his chest against yours until your breath filled your lungs to bursting capacity. Your mind told you to stand up to him, but your body betrayed you. You didn't admit it though. You didn't tell him you wanted it...at least you still have the comfort of knowing that.
You glance over at him and his eyes are on the road. You feel your cheeks burn.
"Well I don't know anyone else in Dublin, do I?" you mumble.
"What about the people you went out with?" he asks, looking at you, "couldn't they pick you up from the slammer?"
Your whole life is a joke to him...
"Yeah right," you grunt, "like I'd want them knowing. I'd be the talk of the whole office."
"You always care what people think?" he asks, and the question lies in the air.
"No," you finally respond, with little conviction, "just don't want it getting back to Amy, do I?"
"You sure that's the reason?" he challenges, but his eyes remain on the road.
"..maybe..."
"Hm," he grunts, "really?"
The silence is palpable as the unspoken lies in the air. Finally, you break it,
"When I was younger, I was an angry kid," you admit, unsure of why you're saying it but unable to stop yourself. You feel like he's judging you and the thought twists something inside you, "I used to get into all sorts of trouble...I just hate thinking people might still think it now. I hate people thinking I'm still a..."
You stop, unable to finish the sentence:
Hate people thinking I'm still a screw-up.
"Hm," he mumbles, nonchalantly.
You sit in silence, refusing to give anymore information about yourself to a man who clearly couldn't give two fucks. You wonder why he has this ability to have you spewing your guts without even angling it out of you. You recall the frequent times Amy tried, begged you to open up to her. When you were stressed or sad or upset you would always bottled up your feelings until breaking point...but this man barely says a word and you're telling him your life story. You feel weak for it.
"I was the same," he replies, after a moment of thoughtful silence.
You look at him with wide eyes, surprised at the seemingly uncharacteristic confession. Something stirs inside you at the words and you can't pinpoint exactly what it is, but it feels like something familiar. Feels like you're not alone.
"I know what it's like to be angry," he continues, eyes still stuck on the road.
You look at his knuckles and they're turning white as he clutches the steering wheel. His jaw is tense and you swear it's like he feels the same as you- powerless to stop the words falling from his mouth despite the desire to hold back.
"Why were you angry?" you ask, turning to look at him.
"No idea," he shrugs, and he genuinely looks like he doesn't have an answer, "guess it was just in me."
You silently face forward and stare with blank eyes at the passing cars and pedestrians. The whole World feels busy, but inside the car there's only silence. You feel yourself nod in understanding, even though he can't see you. You furrow your brow and the words repeat in cycles, over and over in your head like a mantra. You know what it's like to have that feeling of anger inside- that feeling of wanting things to be different yet barely having the self-control to make it happen. You also know the guilt of those feelings; of having everything you want and still believing it's not enough. Will never be enough.
"Me too," you mumble, staring out the window at the passing streets.
You're not sure if he heard you, but something in your mind tells you he did. You feel his eyes burning into the back of your head, but you don't turn. All you can think about it how you got to this moment -in this car- being driven away from a police station by a man who makes you question yourself to the point of insanity.
"We all do things we regret, Steven," the Irishman says finally, turning to give you a brief smile before putting his eyes on the road again.
You spend the rest of the journey in silence.
Xoxox
Later, when you're back at your hotel room, you take a shower to wash the remainder of the night off your skin. You walk into the bedroom, towel around your waist, and pick up your phone.
5 missed calls: Amy.
You sigh and sit down on the bed, then press the 'dial' button and wait for her to answer. The response is almost immediate as the phone clicks and her worried voice calls down from the other end.
"Ste?" she asks, voice ragged, "I've been worried sick!"
"I'm sorry," it falls from your mouth immediately, "I swear I meant to call."
"Ste, this is ridiculous," she hisses, voice frantic and raw as she shouts at you, "where the Hell have you been? Don't give me any of that 'work' crap!"
You close your eyes, heart dropping in your chest. You know she's right.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, and it's pathetic but it's all you have.
"What's going on, Ste?" her voice sounds fragile then, breakable, "please tell me."
There's silence on the phone and you can feel your cheeks burn. You open your mouth, try to find the words, but nothing comes. You can't form anything coherent. You can't tell her you were arrested and spent the night in jail. What could you possibly say?
"Is there someone else?" she asks.
You freeze at the words and immediately your heart is pounding in your chest. Your whole body feels like the air has left you and suddenly you wonder how she knows. How can she know? You feel paranoid, like there's cameras everywhere and they're all watching your every movement. You know it's irrational, but it makes your skin prickle with worry. You open your mouth, close it, swallow down the fear. You calm yourself and try to remain cool.
"No," you snap, as if it's ridiculous, "of course not, why would you say that?"
You feel yourself getting angry now. Defensive. How dare she question you; when have you ever given her any reason to believe that you would do something like that?...only you have done something like that, haven't you? Have had thoughts about someone else, have been with someone else, have dreamt about someone else. Your whole mind is encompassed by thoughts of someone else.
Your mind skips back to the night in the cellar -before that, even- when you were wiping down the table and he'd walked up behind you. You remember the heat spreading through your body, the primal desire, and the memory of the blood boiling in your system made you feel alive. You remember turning into him, the smell of him and licking your lips at the mere possibility...the mere possibility of what could happen if you just gave in. The fear that encompasses you right now at that thought, that memory, is almost too much for your heart to take. You shake your head and try to drown out the voices of doubt. You tell yourself it's not your fault. That thing with Brendan...it was a mistake. You swear it was. You told him it was.
"How can I not say that, Ste?" she asks, flustered, "when you're acting so...so..."
"What?" you snap.
"So distant!" she groans, "So gone! I know you're in Dublin but it feels like you're gone."
"That's ridiculous," you mutter, but you close your eyes and press your hand to your forehead, "I'm not cheating, Amy."
"Well then what's going on?" she shouts down the phone at you, "I have to know!"
"Nothing!" you finally scream, unable to keep your emotions to yourself.
Suddenly you feel the pressures of the week weighing down at you, suffocating you until you feel like your windpipe is being cut off. There's silence on the phone.
"Now stop calling me," you mutter, eyes hard as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You can't stop yourself, "I'll be back on Friday."
With that you hang up, ignoring her as she calls your name over the phone. You close your eyes and you can feel the hot swell of tears pricking your lids. You wipe away the errand tears with the back of your hand and sniff, overwhelmed by the tidal wave of emotion you experience as it threatens to take you under. The Irishman's face flashes into your mind and you feel once again like he's the only person you can turn to. You ask yourself how it's come to this, you needing answers from a man who continuously confuses you and makes you doubt yourself.
When the feeling of drowning becomes too much, you pull yourself from your seat and grab your coat. You need to find him. You need to ask him why you're like this. Why you feel like this. You don't know why you think you'll find out from him, but it feels like he's the only one who might know.
You walk briskly down the hotel staircase, heart racing as you get closer. Behind the bar you spot Brendan's sister, head of blonde hair pulled back as she let's out a loud laugh at a tipsy customer. You march over and ask her where Brendan is, to which she distractedly replies,
"He's in his office, love."
She continues speaking, but you have no time to chat. You immediately round the corner and walk through a door at the end of the bar which proclaims Staff Only in sharp lettering. You walk in through the door and freeze at the sight before you.
You see Brendan pressed up against the far wall, while Vinnie stands close-by with his hands on the Irishman's blazer. You feel your whole body stiffen at the sight as your knuckles whiten on the door handle. Brendan looks up at you, and his eyes widen as he glances between you and Vinnie. The room seems to go silent as the blonde turns his head and stares at you, eyebrow raised like he's questioning your very existence.
"Steven," Brendan says, surprise and shock lacing his voice.
You don't respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm away as fast as your feet will carry you. Your blood is pumping through your system as you tear out of the bar, teeth clenched as you walk across the road and back into your hotel. You can hear the Irishman behind you the whole way, calling out to you as his footsteps pound along the pavement behind yours. You remain silent, ignoring him as the rage flows through you at an alarming rate. You've never felt this angry, this...the word betrayed springs to your mind and you immediately shake it out. You don't feel betrayed, how can you? Betrayal implies there's something there to betray and there's nothing. Nothing.
So why does it feel like your anger could bring down the building?
You finally get to your room and you can feel him gaining speed on you, until finally he is right behind you, pressing against the door as you try to shut it on his fingers.
"Steven!" he breathes, voice ragged, "for fuck's sake, what's the matter with ye?"
The question only serves to fuel your rage. He knows why you're angry, must know, why else would he be here if he didn't? You only wish he would have the courtesy to explain to you why you feel this way. The rising emotions are so powerful, so unlike anything you've felt before, that they confuse you to no end. You try to keep him back, but he's too strong for you and eventually he bursts in through the door and into the room. You slam it shut and march in after him, movements fuelled by pure anger and rage. You can barely see him, all you can see is red.
He breathes in and out, eyes locked on you, expression confused.
"It was nothing," he shakes his head, not even waiting for you to have the first word, "nothing happened."
"Who do you think you are, eh?" you bark, body fizzing with restrained emotion.
"Steven, just listen-"
"No, I won't listen!" you cry, barely able to contain the swell of anger coursing through you, "You should be ashamed, ya know, getting with another guy's bloke!"
"What?" his eyebrows shoot up, like you've just slapped him.
"Don't play dumb, right?" Your eyes narrow on him, finger pointing to his face accusingly, "you know that Vinnie is seeing the guy in the deli, but that still wouldn't stop ya, would it?"
"Douglas?" he seems incredibly perplexed now, as if he didn't know that's the whole reason you're so furious, "didn't know ye's were so close."
His voice is laced with a tinge of bitterness.
"He's a decent bloke," you fold your arms, "and you have no right doing that!"
"I didn't do anything!" he glares at you.
"Right," you snort out a laugh of contempt.
"I didn't," he says, through gritted teeth, "I'm no liar, Steven."
"Look, I told you it doesn't matter, all right?" you snap, barely able to hide your emotions, "if you want to get it on in your office with an ex-boyfriend, that's none of my business."
"He's not an ex-boyfriend," the man snaps.
"Come off it, Brendan!" you hiss, "you told me yourself he was!"
"He's not! I said he was an ex," the Irishman insists, "he's an ex-something. Ex-fuck, ex-pain-in-the-ass, but he's not an ex-boyfriend."
"Certainly didn't look like he's an ex-anything from what I just saw," you hiss, eyes fixed sharply to the floor.
You have no idea what's prompting you to say these things, but it's like you can't keep them to yourself. It feels like the words are coming from somewhere deep inside that you can't control- instinctual. He stands up straight, head cocked and eyes staring into your very soul. You shift uncomfortably, but your anger still burns low in your stomach.
"Why do you care?" he finally shrugs, shaking his head in annoyance and confusion, "why are ye so angry?"
"Because!" your eyes are wide, your hands thrown out like you can't believe he's asking, "because it's wrong, all right?"
"What's 'wrong'?" he asks, "nothing's 'wrong,' nothing even happened! I told ye!"
"You fucking annoy me!" you burst, overcome with so much fury and frustration that you've just uttered something incredibly inarticulate and stupid.
"I annoy you?" He exclaims, outraged, as if it's a joke, "they make headache tablets for dealing with people like you."
"Very funny," you huff.
"Hey, you have no right to be angry!" he finally barks, while his lips pull back in a sneer.
"I'm not angry" you protest, trying feebly to seem nonchalant.
"A blind man could see it, Steven," he snorts.
"'ere, the only reason I'm bothered at all is because I came in to try and talk to you and I saw you about to get it on with another bloke's boyfriend," you step forward and point at him, face contorted in an angry glare, "all right?"
He stops, eyes scanning yours for a truth you're not sure if he can see or not. You feel the urge to look away, to protect your thoughts from whatever it is he can see in them.
"It was nothing, Steven," he finally says, unexpectedly, "I swear on my life."
You look up at him. Your eyes widen and you swear it's like he's trying to reassure you.
"Didn't look like nothing," you mutter, voice menacingly low, only to increase in volume as you speak, "for someone who claims it's an ex he's always around a lot!"
"Look, it's..." he pauses, trying to think of the words, "it's complicated, OK?"
"I'm sure it is," you smile, a bitter twist of the lips.
"I thought you said you weren't angry!" he snaps.
"I don't know what I am, OK!"
The comment hangs in the air and you immediately want to cover your mouth and put it back in. Your heart is hammering as you stare at him. Brendan's eyes are wide with surprise. The silence seems to go on forever, until finally the Irishman speaks.
"Vinnie," he mutters, voice stuttering as he tries to find the right words, until eventually he gives up and sighs, "nothing happened, Steven, I swear. I told him to get lost."
"Whatever," you practically spit the word, "not like it matters."
"Doesn't it?" he asks, mirthlessly smiling.
"No," you huff, mouth jutted out in a pout.
The silence that follows fills every particle in the room, fizzing with raw energy.
"...what were you wanting to talk to me about?" he asks, abruptly changing the subject.
"What?" you hiss.
"Earlier, you said you wanted to talk to me," he reminds you, "about what?"
"...nothing," you reply, internally reprimanding yourself.
Whatever it was you wanted to ask him...the moment has gone. He looks at you for a long moment, then shakes his head and rolls his eyes. You let out a sigh of relief that he's dropped the subject.
"Look, Vinnie came on to me," he seems flustered, one of the rare times you've seen him look anything other than stoic, "you don't have to worry about Douglas."
You stare at him and the look of sincerity in his eyes is undeniable. You feel your anger subside and as it does you find yourself wondering why this man cares what you think. Why he even gives you a second thought at all, when he owes you nothing. You find your eyes travelling over his face, and you notice that it looks tired and worn and deflated.
"I didn't want it," he says, eyes glancing over yours.
You feel like you're not breathing and suddenly you get the impression that you're not talking about Doug anymore. Don't know if you ever were. Your heart is beating in your chest and once again you find yourself being pulled towards him. Your skin prickles with anticipation. Your remember this feeling all too well, the last time you were alone with him, and you feel your heartbeat quicken. Inside, your mind screams at you not to submit.
Is there someone else?
Amy's face flashes into your head and you suddenly remember why you're doing this. Why it's imperative that you stay away from this man, because he makes you feel careless. Like years of resisting this urge have been worthless. You have responsibilities, you can't afford to give everything up...not for this.
No. There's no one else.
"You have to go," you finally mutter, "now."
"Steven, look-"
"I said now," you snap and walk over to the door, opening it for him to leave.
You movements are tinged with urgency, and you're not sure if he knows that the urgency comes from not trusting yourself. He walks past you, confusion and anger whirling behind his blue eyes. You feel your insides cramp as he leaves, and closing the door behind him feels like it takes all your energy.
When he's gone, you pull your phone from your pocket, tears rolling down your eyes and write a message:
To: Amy
I'm sorry x.
You click send, then turn over and press your face into the pillow of your bed.
