You often see it in the movies, or read it on the novels. The raging pain, the ancient greek play kind of despair that follows in this kind of situation. I will tell you what, with me it didn't happen like this at all.
A tragedy doesn't destroy you on the spot, all the contrary. If you expect suffering to overflow immensely, and then to magically stop, you are wrong. It never does. You cope with it, somehow, and drag it for the rest of your life. It gets bearable but never leaves. The very instinct of self preservation. Half of you wants to die but the other part wont allow it.
Cheers.
You just have to drag your ass through this limbo.
Did I feel pain? It's even hard to remember. Now, don't get me wrong. Carlos' death was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and boy, did life fuck me in every possible hole before.
But you see, I was already dead by then, in some sort. No one can go through that kind of thing and make it to the other side of the tunnel as the whole human being they once were. He changed my life and a part of me, I would never be whole again after that.
But I just had to keep going.
Sadness?
I guess yeah, it was there all the time, like an everlasting background music, playing on a loop in the back of my mind, so much that I've got used to it. I'm sorry for having nothing more than a few flashbacks to share.
It's just that every memory about that time is somewhat imprecise, or blurred. I don't remember the body count, but the public opinion wasn't my best friend back then.
I do remember one thing that was particularly hard though: waking up, that exact moment where your mind starts to be aware after sleep. For one split of a second you actually think that things are all right. Then this crawling, sinking feeling of sadness... A knot in the stomach...
He was gone. This wasn't just a god damn concept. It was a loss, a hole, an empty space I knew it couldn't be fulfilled anymore, no matter what happened from now on.
He would never be downstairs again, speak, love or breath again. We would never have a fight again, or laugh together at a restaurant. Only 32 and six feet under the earth, unaware and deaf to all that was life. And on top of that, I knew it was all my fault. I was the one who killed him, in a way or another. If I had killed Maero straight instead of wanting to making fun of him before. If I had left the gang before. What only if.
But the only thing left for me now was the Saints. I grasped on it with all my strength and tried my best to keep the business going smoothly. In the first moments the only thing that mattered for me was to get revenge and justice done. But the worst part was after I got my hands on Jessica and Maero. Only a tiny part of my fury died with them, the rest I would carry with me forever. For the first time I got it: I could kill everyone responsible for his death, from Jessica to the guy driving that truck, it would not bring him back. Nothing would. Then there was no goal left. I really started to sink.
I had nightmares. Most of them about finding Carlos' mutilated body in my bed, or in the trunk of Jessica's car. The impression of those were so anguishing that it was more than enough to keep me trying hard not to fall asleep. Sleep deprivation fucks with your head, of course. But, can you really fuck that which is already fucked?
I would smoke a cigarette in the darkness of my room (couldn't bear too much light or noise during this time), feeling like a puppet, or a marionette. Who was there, pulling my strings? I have no idea. Maybe a vague preservation device like I've mentioned before. I would talk but it wasn't me talking, was there but wasn't there at the same time.
Shaundi was the only person, apart from Gat, that had permission to enter my room. At first she would try to cheer me up somehow but I was in no mood to listen (and a couple of times even yelled the shit out of her). But she wouldn't shy away from that- she would be very understanding and would just help me around with my day. I didn't kick her out completely for two reasons. First, I knew she meant good and was truly concerned about me, I liked that she would mother me more than I cared to admit. Second, there was some reason left in me to know she was necessary and that I was no longer responsible for myself. One night I mixed Loa and scotch, so much that I decided to cool it off with a shower. Have I mentioned how the bathrooms of the hotel were under renovation? An old bathtub was still there, and the improvised hose connected to a pump that would make the meanings of a shower. I was so wasted it was impossible to take the shower standing up. I just let the water flow and fell back to relax. The thing is that I blacked out from the lack of sleep for a few minutes without realizing. Longer that I thought because the water was next to my nose when realization hit me. I tried to reach out for the hose, at least to toss it away from the tank, if i couldn't close the knob.
Except the body wouldn't follow it and I fell on my back again, water coming in everywhere, nose, mouth, ears.
Shaundi was in the bedroom and must have heard the 'thud' in the water, luckily the door lock never worked.
To cut it short, she took my head out of water, pulling it by the hair (so much she was in a hurry to save me) in time to prevent me from drowning.
Like she would say, 'good times'.
Max came to see me too. He seemed devastated for me and gave me this long and comforting hug. One that only someone who has already tasted loss in the same terms could. I politely cut our conversation short though. To be honest I never thought I deserved anything coming from someone as he. But mainly because in the back of my mind, I told myself Carlos wouldn't like him visiting me.
And Johnny… Ah, Gat. In the times of darkness even if you don't believe in luck anymore, you have to call yourself lucky if you have a friend like him.
Gat would come in, taking his lunch along with mine, and keep me company, most of the time without saying a single word. He was more than busy having to care for his and my share of the business as I found myself reduced to this, but still would show up everyday, take some microwaved crap out of a plastic bag, remove the lids and hand me a fork. I was grateful for this. His presence was never invasive on my sorrow, and acted like some sort of anchor that kept me a bit in touch with reality. At this point I don't think I would have been able to bear anyone else for long. But that was Johnny for you. He wouldn't give me crap or over compassion, we were often on the same page about everything in life. We understood each other so well, no explanations were necessary. He respected my silences, or maybe, just understood them better than others (as he lost Aisha that same year).
Then in a sign of pure friendship, he would join me for a bottle of whisky, every night from six to ten. Needless to say that was my favorite time of the day. If I could say something was my favorite then.
One time, I remember, we were sitting on the floor next to the bed, when our eyes met. It was like he was speaking to me "here we are, two poor motherfuckers who fucked up the lives of those who dared to love us. And now are dead because of us". Even if back then I was minding my own shit too much to care about anything else, I actually got out of myself for a sec to look at his pain. Poor Johnny.
I remember clinging my glass on his glass and answering bitterly:
'Yeah man. They were too good for us anyway. They are beyond pain now. At least we can give each other that. We've got what we deserved:' And then I swallowed my scotch to hide this sudden, uneasy feeling. 'We have to live with that.'
This was at the same time our only relief and a curse.
He sighed, saw his eyes get lost in a distant point while staring at the wall, then nodded back and emptied his glass in a one motion drag.
Over our heads, the afternoon rain was falling over the pipes of the underground.
How much I hated it.
Months later...
One night, I was out, as usual, to collect money from our hoods. It was half way through a 20 minute drive to the Marina district when, through the open window of the car, a buff of fresh wind hit my face. Leaves rolled carried by the wind as more and more drops of water started to hit the front window of my Bootlegger, making little sounds.
I quickly closed my window to avoid getting wet.
'Can't have it with those rainy nights anymore.' I thought, lighting a cig to distract myself.
Indeed, another storm (so common that season), was about to fall over Stilwater.
I turned on my tracks with a risky maneuver, and headed in the opposite direction. I couldn't deal staying out with that damn rain falling. It was time to go home and numb it out.
The problem was that when I drank too much, there was a fine line between fleeting relief and the involuntarily opening of the gate of everything that I fought to keep at bay.
That night, as the rain worsened, the bottle got emptier and I ended up dashing towards my room, everything in my being viscerally wishing to hide somewhere dark where no one could find or see me.
As put together all the ingredients of yet another loa n' scotch cocktail, my brain mixed stuff as well: Pain, self loath and despair. My demons started to jump out of their boxes, and man, were they good in finding a way to make me go under...
It was one of those moments of blind craziness, when you lose it and see everything dark...
I was having a little dialogue with myself that, funny enough, still remember every word of it:
'Well. Aren't you proud now? After killing him the best you could do was crushing a girl under a car.
After getting the whole gang to...
No.
Stop it.'
I needed something to divide my attention. I frantically reached for the bottle but, being brain dumb, fucked up drunk, only caused it to splash loudly on the floor.
'That bitch had it coming.
Yeah, yeah, tell yourself excuses all you want, but you know what he would think...'
I covered my ears, as if so that voice inside would leave me alone. I shifted and turned, unaware that I was now squashing broken glass under my skin.
'Carlos wouldn't approve of that.
No. For fuck's sake...!
Carlos would never had been ok with this.
Stop it, seriously. Don't go there.
Remember that look Max gave you the night you two broke up?
Yeah but don't bring it up now.
Disappointed. Changed. Carlos would've looked at you like that.
Stop. Stop. For fuck's sake leave it be.
He would maybe... stop loving you for this.
I can't take it. Anything, God, anything but that.
How sad is that you spent all of your life starving for love, finally got it, and then killed it by your own fault?
I know, I know. Now I am stuck with nothing but hate. It will be my punishment, I deserved it, and much worst!
You stupid bitch. Did you think that someone like you could deserve anything other than hate...?!'
I felt Gat's hand on my sweated hair. I shrunk tighter into a fetal position, too fucked up to care if he was seeing me wiping and sobbing like a little cry baby.
I assumed that I was speaking out loud and that he heard everything:
'Don't be stupid.' He whispered with affection, and shook his head from side to side slowly. 'Never would he. Carlos was too crazy about you, he accepted you just as you are! Just like Eesh, she accepted me.'
'But Gat, I…'
'No but. He knew you very well, Val. He loved you exactly as you are anyway.'
I sighed, convinced, and it was like the weight of a pyramid was lifted from my chest. He would have forgiven me. Yes, he loved me. After all, if I was ever loved like this that meant I couldn't possible be completely unworthy of love, in spite of of how low I've gone. All it was left now, was sadness and guilt, but it was a sweeter feeling, anyway. Like knowing you had something so good, it made me grateful despite of the pain. If anything having been loved like that gave me the strength to keep going, what we had was something I would never lose even if I lost him.
And now that the dominating insanity left, there was room to notice the the sensations on my body, and also my intoxicated state. I rushed to the bathroom immediately and vomited my guts on the toilet, it was awful but it made me feel a lot better.
When I left the WC I felt like a whole different person.
It was like I flushed a part of my demons along with that disgusting, greenish goo I puked.
Gat threw me a towel to wipe my face on, visibly relieved.
'Thanks for everything.' I said, heartfelt.
'You'll see.' He spoke from experience. 'It's gonna get better now.'
I sighed heavily, trusting his wisdom, and he concluded:
'Life still have good things in store for you, Boss.'
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I enjoyed writing this chapter very much. In fact, it was the first chapter that was ever written for this story. As a message to those going through hard times: Life still has good things in store for you! All can change in a blink of an eye, even when you are at a place where it's impossible to believe so. I say from experience. :3 Next chapter is in progress. Review!