The Best Days of My Life
By Within A Dream
Authors Note: I am so sorry! I know I said I'd post the fourth about week after I'd written the last chapter, and it's been over a month, and I am so sorry! I was really, really sick with the flu at the first of December (had a fever of 104-- and my normal is 97!) and was sick on and off throughout December and the beginning of January. But there is good news! This fic won the award at Anne's story page for best present-time fic for December 2003. Isn't that awesome!? Oh, and another thing. I asked my uncle, who is a lawyer, and he said that it is not, "the court in now in recess" like my mother told me it was. It is supposed to be "the court is adjourned", so that needs to be changed. And if there is anything else wrong with this fic, please tell me and I'll change it. And with that said, on with the story!
Chapter 4: That Bastard; Dawson
What the hell am I do here? Was the thought that kept playing and replaying in Cal's mind. This isn't a place for me. Jail is supposed to be for crooks and thieves. People like...
"Dawson," Cal said aloud.
And no, Cal hadn't been sentenced to prison...yet. He wasn't stupid, he knew he was going to be sentenced to jail for fifteen, twenty, or even thirty years. For attempted rape and assault. Attempted rape and assault. Attempted rape and assault.
"God damn it!"
He needed cigar. And he needed one badly. He reached in his pocket knowing very well that there would not be one in there. But his fingers touched something. Paper. Cal smiled slightly as he fingered the bill. He had put it there months ago, but he didn't want to use it until he was certain. And Cal was certain. A real man makes his own luck.
"You there!" he shouted to one of the guards. The guard frowned at Cal and slowly approached the cell, eying him suspiciously.
Cal licked his lips and slowly brought out the five hundred dollar bill from his pocket. He dangled it before the man like it was some sort of treat. The guard looked flabbergasted, but then resumed to his intense expression.
"I cannot do that, sir"
"Of course you can," Cal hissed, "You hold the keys, don't you? You could let the whole fucking lot of us free if you wished."
"I'm sorry sir, but my answer is no."
Cal paused, glaring at the man and shaking his head. "You are a fool!" he spat.
The man swallowed hard and started backing up slowly, watching the cell as if Cal was some sort of mad dog. He then whirled around, obviously going to get help.
"Wait!" Cal shouted after him, and the man then turned around despite himself. The guard then slowly walked back towards Cal, frowning at him.
Cursing under his breath Cal reached in another pocket. The guard gasped when seeing what Cal held in his hand; a thick stack of five hundred dollar bills.
"Just give me the key."
"I...I...can't," the guard told Cal, not sounding very convincing.
"Just hand over the key."
"I...no."
Cal then started losing his patience. "You could buy as many fucking keys as you wanted with this much money! Tell them I pointed a fucking gun at your face, for all I care!"
The man paused. "Alright. Give it to me."
So the guard and Cal both had something in common; they were running from the law. One was short of sixty-four thousand dollars, the other that much richer, and both trying to make it to another country. Their plans were simple enough; a changed name, dyed hair, a beard, and an escape to Canada. The guard got away, but Cal...well, Cal...he didn't try.
Cal was pacing feverishly before his trusted and most loyal bodyguard. "What the fuck am I supposed to do,
Lovejoy? They are everywhere!" He stopped pacing for a moment and turned
towards Lovejoy, clenching his hands in fists.
"And they will find me.
You know that."
"Mr. Hockley, I can assure you they will not find you here. No one knows about the underground rooms in your house except you and I, and the door is impossible to find." Lovejoy then paused, looking directly into Cal's eyes, "And there are people on your side."
And it was true. There were people on his side. Whether it was for the money, or because of their loyalty, there were a total of seven people that were to be completely trusted.
"I will page those that are with us, and they will help. You will be unrecognizable, and we shall contact your pilot to fly your private jet, just like we planned," Lovejoy told Cal as he picked up his pager.
"No," was Cal's response.
"Pardon."
"They will find me. There is no escape."
"Surely you do not feel that..." Lovejoy began, but Cal cut him off.
"I need you to leave. I need time to think."
"I... Yes sir."
So despite Lovejoy's unbelievable want to stay, he was forced to go. There was no other option. He kept repeating to himself. And there wasn't. After Nathan Hockley's murder nine years ago, and it partly being Lovejoy's fault that the bullet had hit Nathan instead of himself, he always felt an obligation to Nathan's only son. Of course the man who had shot the bullet had been caught and put to death, but Lovejoy still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt that only a most loyal servant would feel. So he swore to serve Nathan's only child's every want, and protect him diligently until the end. So now he had come to a problem. He felt that he must protect Cal, and yet Cal did not want to be protected. Yes, he had come to a problem. And finally, Lovejoy came to the conclusion that he had to give Cal what he wanted. There had been no other option.
The first thing that caught his eye was the photograph. It was beautiful. Her hair was down about her shoulders and she was laughing. It had been the last time Rose had been truly happy around Cal. Her eyes clearly stated that she was thrilled; shining with happiness, excitement, and...love?
Yes, it was love. Once upon a time, when Rose was twenty-years-old, she had loved Cal. It had been absolutely perfect; two well-known actors crazy for one another. Where did I go wrong? Cal asked himself as he sat on the bed, his head resting in his hands.
But he knew exactly where he had gone wrong.
"I can't go in here, silly," Rose told Cal, hitting his arm playfully as they stood outside a popular club.
"Of course you can. You're twenty-one, aren't you?"
"Just barely. I..." Rose began as Cal dragged into the club. "Cal, no!" Rose objected playfully, obviously not meaning the words that she spoke.
So the couple shot their Ids at the man standing at the door, and walked in. Rose clung to Cal's hand as she looked around herself, at the unfamiliar setting. "Wow," was all she managed to say through the blaring music.
"Isn't it wonderful? You are having a marvelous birthday aren't you, Sweetpea?" was Cal's response before stopping a waitress and ordering two margaritas.
Rose hadn't minded, or even noticed; Cal's ordering for her. And she had happily accepted the drink, along with seven others. So needless to say, Rose had been a bit tipsy, and Cal, having ordered stronger drinks for himself, had also been quite drunk. So the two had danced, sang karaoke, and had done countless other things that they wouldn't have even thought of, had they have been sober.
The two had actually ended up in a hotel room in God-knows-where, and Rose had been giving Cal a rather obscene lap dance. Their feverish kissing had almost led into something else when Rose had said, "I don't want to do this." And, well, Cal had hit her.
He had felt awful afterwards, as he should have, and had done everything in his power to make it up to her. He had given her a heartfelt-apology, countless gifts, and enough red roses to last a lifetime of one's anniversaries. But Rose had broken up with him soon after, but they still had remained friends, or as close to friends as one in their situation. And Cal was a very loyal and understanding friend. Except, that is, when they'd go out drinking. That led him to hit Rose again. So Rose had stopped going to bars with him. And the hitting had stopped...for about a month. For Rose and Cal's friendship had been getting further and further apart, and Cal had turned to drinking. Yes, he had turned into a drunkard, and he was almost never sober. But when he was, Cal would send her millions of flowers, apologize profusely, and promise to never hit her again.
Rose hadn't believed him of course, but she was scared of Cal. Scared of what he was capable of doing. So instead of talking to him about the problem, she had just avoided him. But since they were always at the same parties it was next to impossible for them not to run into each other quite regularly.
Cal would watch Rose at the parties. He watched her long before she even knew he was there. And he would let her be until he saw her talking to another man, and then he would interrupt the conversation, glare maliciously at Rose, and she would diligently scurry away. Cal had despised any man that had come near Rose, and had been even more hateful to the one's that she had approached.
She is mine, damnit! She still is mine! He then paused and picked up the photograph of Rose. Why can't she see that? He asked quietly.
His fingers then clenched the picture tightly, causing his fingers to turn white. Delirious in his rage, he clenched the frame even more tightly, causing his fingernails to break from the pressure against the black metal. Your smiling at that fucking Dawson aren't you? Cal accused the photograph.
But Rose continued to smile.
"Well he doesn't love you."
But the photograph seemed to disagree.
"He doesn't!"
Blood ran from his fingers and spilled over the picture. Cal smiled, not noticing the pain.
"It hurts doesn't it? It hurts like fucking hell!"
He laughed maliciously as the blood covered the photo of Rose's face.
"I know it hurts! Do you like it? You caused the fucking pain, I'm giving it back!"
And with that said, Cal through the framed picture across the room, causing it to slam against the mirror above his dresser. Glass shattered and the metal frame fell to the hardwood floor with a clunk. When everything was quiet again, a gust of wind came from the open window, lifting the photograph into the air. Cal watched as it drifted towards him, and landed directly in front of his feet.
"You bitch!" Cal shouted at the picture before ceasing the bloodstained photograph.
"This is for the time you lied!" Cal said and ripped the picture in half. "And this is for the time you denied me!" he shouted and ripped both of the halves into two. "And this is for the time you told me you hated me!" Cal ripped each piece into half. "And this is for the time you that you talked to that David Calvert!" Cal shouted and ripped each piece in half again. "And this is for the time you met that fucking Jack Dawson!" Cal screamed before ripping the pieces a final time and letting them fall to the floor.
Cal just stood there for a second, enjoying the sense of power he felt.
But suddenly, Cal didn't feel powerful. It hadn't been Rose he'd wanted to hurt; it had been that bastard, Dawson! Falling to his knees, Cal scooped up the remainder of his only photograph of Rose, and in vain, tried to piece them together. "What have I done?" he asked hoarsely as tears came to his eyes. "I...I..." Cal began. "I hurt her!" he shouted before reducing himself to a sobbing heap among the blood and shredded paper.
Engulfed in his sobs, he stood up, the tears falling from his cheeks like rain, and becoming mixed within the small puddles of blood on the floor. He stumbled to his desk, his fingers fumbling with a piece of paper and a pen. He feverishly began writing, not even noticing the dried blood on his fingers that now replaced his fingernails.
He wrote three four-page letters within his last fifteen minutes of life. The first he wrote was an apology to Rose, the second, an apology to Jack Dawson, and the third, and perhaps most important, was a letter addressed to his father.
Cal had left the letters sitting upon his desk, then slowly trudged over to the sliding glass doors in his bedroom, and had stepped outside into the crisp air. The sun was setting, casting brilliant shadows upon him as he climbed up onto the railing of the deck on the fourth story of his house. He had stood there for a moment, not taking his eyes off of the beautiful pink and orange sky.
And had jumped.