Chapter 6: Fate's Cruel Plot | February 2015

Holly

It's February and the woman from whom I've sought out help with my physical recovery has advised that I—at last—start jogging again. Alex, who's been complaining about the slight bit of weight she's gained over this first year of college education, has come out with me, and we've settled on a simple route in Central Park. It's still morning, and though February has brought an early bout of semi-spring warmth, the cold of winter still hangs on in the air, and my legs, which have already fallen out of practice with exercise, are miserably stiff.

"Just be grateful you didn't pick up the freshman fifteen," says Alex as we jog along the paved way between a stand of woods and a closed-down fountain. I've been breathing steadily throughout the duration of our light recreation, but my side has been slower in adjusting, and some of the pain which has been under control for a while comes back psychosomatically as my heart thrums in my chest from the work.

"That's not necessarily a good thing," I tell Alex, not trying to suppress the minor annoyance I feel at her words, though I don't let out the full force of my disapproval. I've actually lost weight over the past year, since there were times at which I was so stressed or—after Tim's death—so sad that I would forego eating altogether. On most days, I would only give up and nibble on something when the fatigue grew so bad it threatened my sleep or my exam scores. It's not that I was starving myself, for my years spent hovering just at the poverty line through childhood have taught me how valuable food can be. Not to mention the trouble I already have accepting my body, and the fact that my mind couldn't cope with an eating disorder atop all the other trauma. It's only that over the past semesters, I've become so overloaded and distracted that sustenance had come to a point of simply not seeming important anymore, and eating would become very easy to simply forget.

"Sorry," Alex says to me through a gasp, as we continue to jog side by side, keeping one another's pace in check.

Despite the unexpected sadnesses which confronted me earlier in the year, my general level of contentment with myself as an individual, as well as with my life on a larger scale, has risen dramatically since my decision to change my major to literature—a choice influenced and encouraged greatly by Benedict.

Our relationship has progressed slowly and steadily, given that we both have very rigid schedules. But when we both find moments of freedom, that happen to align with our separate time zones (his are more complex and vary quite frequently, as he's dragged all over the world, often, for his work), we have taken to calling or messaging each other, not merely to pass the time, now, but genuinely to come to know and find kinship in one another. I am aware that such closeness can often result from sharing a specific traumatic event, which, in our case, would be the death of the boy Tim. Yet, over these months, our relationship has become more than that; a genuine understanding of each other, and an unwavering interest which only seems to grow with time, has become implicit in our now-daily interactions.

"So," says Alex, interrupting my train of thought, but seeming to have read my mind. "How has he been doing?"

Alex and Benedict have exchanged a few mild words of greeting and farewell over the phone, often when I've been on a phone call with him. I've talked to him about my relationship with her to a great extent, telling him how lucky I am to have such a great friend. She still seems dumbfounded most of the time that my connection to him is legitimate, but by now, my communication with him has been established enough that she can approach it with enough casualness for her involvement to be bearable to me.

"Come on, you don't have to say it like that," I say with a chuckle through heavy breathing. "He's doing just as fine as usual. Working on something for a certain TV show you may or may not have seen a few times..."

She reaches out and slaps my arm lightly with her hand mid-stride at my deadpan tone, and grins at me. "Don't be so harsh," she chides playfully. "But... is he, really?"

I nod my head to the affirmative, noticing a water fountain at the side of the path and internally groaning at the knowledge that it won't be in working order yet, given the season. My side has been developing a horrible stitch that happens to reside very close to the place where the gunshot wound fully healed roughly two weeks ago. And now that the pain in my side has been growing for some time, it triggers a measure of pain that originates directly from the healed wound, a memory of pain, something psychosomatic—but it doesn't help me to overcome the pain the slightest bit by knowing that it isn't real.

"Alex," I manage after a few more strides, deciding that, if I go on much longer without getting this ridiculous psychological hurt out of my head, I'll overextend and exhaust myself. "I have to take a minute," I continue, starting to slow down, but encouraging her to keep her hard-earned pace. "I'll catch up!" I assure her after a beat, and she waves her hand in acknowledgement, leaving me to lean against the dormant water fountain holding my side as she fades away down the path and disappears entirely around a bend.

I cringe privately to myself and focus my breathing, stretching out my side until I've assured myself that the pain is not coming from the healed wound at all, but a simple stitch in my side from the jogging. After a minute or so has passed, I realize that it was probably a good thing I decided to stay back, and not only because of the pain...

I have come to worry over the more recent weeks whether Alex's reactions to my closeness with Benedict border on ones exhibiting a slight jealousy. After all, she is the one who has always taken an interest in his talents and his work. I had never, before meeting her, even been remotely aware of his existence, and even after meeting her hadn't taken nearly as much of an interest in him as she did. And for me, given the circumstances, to have attracted his attention—in whatever capacity—by a series of coincidences, is upsetting to her. It's been a constant worry, especially lately, as I've begun to develop certain confusing feelings for Ben on my own, that my ever-growing proximity to him might cause my relationship with Alexandra to suffer. So, it's a good thing that I've lingered behind from her a few minutes this morning, so that I can get my own thoughts and feelings sorted out, without running the risk of stumbling upon a dangerous line of conversation with her regarding Benedict.

I'm tempted to take a moment on the park bench, to breathe and sort out the jumble of emotions feeding the phantom pain in my side. But I know that if I do so, I'll only fall further and further behind Alex, dangerously so, even. And as the thought enters my mind, I begin to worry about her. I can almost physically see the space between us growing greater and greater as she continues to jog ahead and I linger behind, and the idea of her alone in the early morning in the park, makes a stab of fear strike my heart.

Quickly my worry for her overcomes the pain—both legitimate and phantom—and I start to wring my hands slightly as I consider what can be done. I deduce in a short amount of time that, given my own physical state, and the fact that it will take me a while to catch up to her, given my shorter stature and slower speed—the most effective option will be to take the trail through the short patch of woods. If I do so, then I will reach this exact path as it loops around the woods, in under a minute. I should intercept Alex on her path almost exactly, give or take a few seconds.

So, working through the phantom pain, which intensifies every second to my severe worry, I manage to pull myself up and start walking at a manageable pace down the path through the woods. A unique breed of exhaustion crawls out to my limbs from the phantom pain in my recently healed side, and the tingling pain is so intense that I cannot help wondering whether something is wrong... But I know that if I become still, now, then I will run the risk of not being able to get through the woods at all, and if I can at least get to Alex, then I'll have strength in numbers. If the pain doesn't wear off soon, I'll have to make a trip to the doctor.

I suppose I'm halfway through the stretch of trees—garbage among the roots, amidst stretches of mud and snow—when my ears detect a sound behind me. I think extremely little of it, sure that it must merely be a shower of water droplets being shaken from a treetop as they melt, and continue on my way. But only moments later the sound repeats itself, with a varying degree of volume, and I understand all at once that somebody must be behind me. I turn my head to look over my shoulder as I slow my walking pace, sure that this someone must be simply someone passing through the trail, themselves, not pursuing me deliberately (though my pain does send my mind nearly down that rabbit hole before I pull it back).

But upon turning around I find that I was more than correct in entertaining that creeping feeling of danger. For, standing just off the pathway, half of his body concealed behind a tree, the other half exposed to me, is a man in a sweater. The same sweater which I'd noticed in the park with Benedict when we had first spoken to each other between hospital visits in November of last year.

He stares at me from beneath the hood of that damned sweater. And I stare at him, suddenly conscious of my body—its smallness, its lack of strength when compared to that possessed by a man—in a way I haven't had to be for more than a year.

"Holly," my father says. His voice strikes a chord of pain and horror deep within me, so instantly and with such strength that I find myself immediately frozen, immobile, as though I've been turned to stone. "I am very disappointed in you, Holly," he tells me, revealing himself from behind the tree, stepping toward me menacingly. I can see him grinning beneath his hood, grinning with the knowledge that he has me entirely trapped.

"Why did you wait," I hear myself say down a very long tunnel. I curse myself for attempting to accuse him, attempting to match him. But I am separate from myself, I cannot help, and yet I cannot look away, in this far off place from which I now watch my body's impending attack unfold.

This situation is all too familiar to me. It's happened hundreds upon hundreds of times before, years worth of daily physical standoffs between my father and myself throughout my childhood and teenage years, all of which have ended in failure on my part, and victory for him. And I know instantly, though a part of me wants to believe that I've gained some strength and power of will over the year and a half between my escape from him and this current standoff, that I am not going to get out of this. It's at least half a minute even at a sprint to reach the path, he will catch me if I try to run and only make it hurt more, and if I try to scream, he will do the same.

He chuckles and closes the gap further between his body and my own, and I'm forced to tilt my head back to look up at his evil face. "I waited," he says, with his general air of threatening condescension and disgusting seduction, "to drive you insane." And I know by his voice and the glint in his malicious eyes—those eyes I should have clawed out when I had the chance—that he knows just how much turmoil he's caused me by showing up that one day in the park and then avoiding me for so long. It would be a lie to claim that I haven't been kept up nights, worrying, doubting my sanity, believing so strongly that I'd seen him, but wanting to believe so desperately that it had only been a vision, the product of an overworked subconscious.

He comes closer once more and rakes his reprehensibly familiar fingers from my collarbone, down... lower and lower, pulling my shirt free from my shoulder. And I sob, shaking with all the violence of a leaf in a tempestuous wind, barely holding on. And then, when his body at last closes the gap, and his hand presses over my mouth and nose to prevent me from protesting, I force my consciousness to shut the door on my body—a practiced skill.

And with that I recede into a cold, tiny room, sitting and waiting, shaking back and forth with an uncontrollable shame and terror, wondering whether this will be the end of it all, while my helpless body is tackled to the muddy ground.

Benedict

I'm fleshing out a scene with Martin on a break when my cell begins to jitter in my pocket. I take it out, gesturing for him to continue, and glance at it, finding it odd that Holly would call me at this time, when she knows I'm in the middle of shooting. It's early there, too, so I'm sure it's an accidental call, and hang up, pocketing my cell again and returning my attention to the scene we've been rehearsing for the past ten minutes.

But, in the middle of my next line, she calls a second time, and I know in my very being that something bad must have happened. I look to Martin, who stares at my cell and gives me a meaningful look of permission to leave, if I need to.

"I'm so sorry," I say to him, a few traces of Sherlock's aloofness remaining in my tone, for the rapid switch between character and reality. "Please excuse me for just a minute." He nods his head in the affirmative, a certain quality of worry in his eyes as I stand up from my chair and move to a more private corner of the set, answering the call.

I'm huddling in a corner and preparing to say Holly's name, but I don't have a chance before the sound of her friend Alexandra, in hysterics, fills the speaker. I can't even pick out words from the jumble of worry and fear, and I have to tell her to slow down three times before I can understand a few statements, strung together by indistinct sobs and warbled syllables of grief. It takes minutes before I can help her to calm herself enough to form distinct sentences, and even longer to encourage her to tell me what's happened.

I feel all the blood drain from my head, and my hands and limbs turn cold as she tells me what happened. There are only a few sentences that I really retain: on a run... separated... found in the woods... father back... broken rib... still unconscious...

"I, um..." she says, after a few moments of hysterical sobbing have passed, and I hear her breath rattle through the phone speaker as she tries to get herself under control. If there's anything about this situation that I can be grateful for, it is that Holly has a friend as concerned and considerate as Alex at her side, since I am incapable of being present for her physically. "I... Feel really guilty about calling you, actually. She's been passed out, and I took her phone without her knowing, but... I just, needed to tell somebody who I know she trusts, and you're the only other one. I don't know if she'll talk to me when she does wake up and... Oh, God, how do I say this?"

Again I hear her exhale tearfully and the part of my mind controlling language snaps to attention after a spell of shocked, distressed dormancy.

"Alex," I say, in a tone that, gratefully, sounds steady and full of assurance, though my insides are tatters of sadness, confusion and—dare I say it—more than a healthy dose of anger. "You don't have to take care of this alone," I tell her. "I'll have to leave you for now, but... I promise you. I'll call her later today, and help all that I can. Keep me posted?"

I can practically hear her nodding her head in gratitude over the phone, and she sniffles a few times, mumbling something to herself before finally managing a distracted "Goodbye."

I echo her—or, at least, I think that I do—before hanging up the phone, pocketing it, and returning, rattled, to sit across from Martin, feeling all the time that I'm either about to trip and fall or accidentally break something.

"Something awry?" Martin asks, worried, before I can make up an excuse, or apologize for my absence.

"A mishap with a friend," is what I finally tell him. He looks at me, sensing that I'm making light of whatever's happened, but I don't return his gaze, knowing that, if I let this new knowledge of Holly's condition fully into my mind, now, I won't be able to function. I pick up my script and rifle through it purposelessly, straightening, numbing—for now. "Where were we?"

It takes a great amount of effort to get through the day of work, and only when I get back to my apartment do I start experiencing the shock of what has happened to her. Suddenly everything: my work, my thoughts, my aspirations, my past—everything, expect for Holly and her suffering, is revealed to be trivial. An intense feeling of helplessness takes over my chest one cell at a time, for my realization that she is all the way across the Atlantic and given my rigorous and set-in-stone schedule, I will be incapable of seeing her until after at least a week has passed, if then.

I decide to attempt to calm myself down before calling her, as I promised Alexandra I would. I start to worry whether she will even want to talk to me, whether she will be able to talk at all, if there was possibly trauma to her throat... whether she will have woken up yet in the first place. I mumble to myself, telling myself to get under control; it would be impossible to think it a safe decision to call her when I can't even control my own emotions in this state.

I get into the shower with the goal of scrubbing it all away, but my mind is rampant, and I can only think further about what might have happened to her. I imagine the attack without being able to push it away, in patches of intense speed, color and pain—the image of her hair whipping through the cold New York air as she attempts to flee, snagging on twigs. Her father's large, disgustingly strong hand being clamped down over her mouth... limbs struggling against the mud... and then, a moment of realization, a terrible stillness, the death of hope...

And as these terrible, vivid thoughts arrive in my mind, the water streaming down my arms and back as my hand turns to a trembling fist against the tiles of the shower... I cannot help but wonder whether Holly had been abused by her father as a younger person... as a child...

Understanding promptly that soap and water won't be the salve to this terrible issue, I turn the water off and dry myself with a towel, violently pulling warm clothes over my body and going out into the small cramped kitchen. I think about making myself some tea, and open and close a few cabinets restlessly, but in the end, I cross the kitchen area to the windows looking down onto the street, and sit down at the small table, until I work up the nerve to call.

Holly

It's the early afternoon here and almost eight at night in London when I at last manage to end the call with Benedict. Tears have been streaming down my face nonstop for the duration of the terrible, emotional conversation, and hit a fever pitch of intensity toward the end, when he promised he would do whatever he could, whatever I needed, whenever I needed it. And, truly, I had believed him, and believe him still. My face and head feel stuffy with grief and an overwhelmed heat, and I lift my hands to my eyes to wipe at the tears, there, once I've set my phone down on the hospital bedside table.

I'm surprised that in my current state—a blistering headache, half-high on morphine, with two broken ribs—I had been capable of remembering what had happened to me just this morning in such vivid detail, and had been capable of telling him the truth about what happened to me. Perhaps it is my proximity to the event which allowed me to demonstrate such honesty to him, but I can only hope that I hadn't told him too much, that he won't be too angry, won't be scared away.

In the very least, I had still kept ahold of the even more personal information about the history I have with my father. But the fact that I've withheld that from him so intentionally brings me to the knowledge, now, that I have no excuse anymore not to tell Alex the truth about that part of my life, the first seventeen years that I've kept from her with such hateful diligence since we first met.

She had to leave after a while earlier this morning, to go and take an exam—which I convinced her to leave for. Now, I have to listen to some doctors tell me about my condition, expected recovery time, physical therapy. And I also have to listen to some police officers who tell me about what has happened to do with my father. A hunt has begun already, and they hope to find him soon, but cannot know for sure where he is. In this day and age, it's possible that he could have gotten reasonably far in just the amount of time it's been since he was in Central Park, his last known location, attacking me in the woods. I thank them for their honesty. A nurse with a subdued smile and padding feet brings me a meal which I cannot eat, though I make one attempt.

When the bustle is over and people cease to check on me for a while, I keep myself at peace by imagining Ben, across the ocean, sleeping. I can only hope that he's asleep. I hope that what's happened to me isn't keeping him awake. I have to choose to imagine him asleep, at peace in his bed. If I don't do that much, at least, I know I will dissolve in my panic... I won't be able to remember, and I won't be able to forget. And I'm not ready for either to happen. Not yet.

When three o'clock rolls around, Alex returns. She sees the look on my face and she sits down in a chair at my bedside as though having been struck down physically into her chair. And then, at last, I tell her everything.

Author's note:

Well... That was very difficult to write. Hopefully not as difficult to read... I would have gone a lot more into detail with this chapter, but I really couldn't bear to, and felt that I should try to get it up here sooner rather than later. Let me know your thoughts and feelings. Again, if you want to talk about anything in this chapter more sensitively, I am fully prepared to support you.

The next chapter won't be as much of a drag! Probably back in the present (2020), maybe a little bit of intimacy... I'm not sure yet. I'll try to give us all a little pick-me-up!

Grateful for you guys!

:)

Une-papillon-de-nuit

23 July, 2020