Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
PLEASE NOTE:
This is the intended ending. An alternate ending is posted as Chapter 6b; feel free to skip for the "happier" ending. Final notes regarding the story: Thank you, to readers and reviewers. The support has been a motivating factor, and I'm more than pleased to finally complete this :) Thank you for hanging in with me, and a special thanks to those who left feedback. It was fun trying out Numb3rs in a fic ;)
I felt out of control. I was breathing numbers; calculations and symbols and shorthand – it was all pouring from the fast-drying marker tip, and for a brief, beautiful second I felt alive. Alone. Just the finite majesty of equations and solutions and variables and the entire process, alone with me, in my hand, on the wall, everywhere. And it was quiet, just for that long second. But then everything started again, and the numbers had jumped halfway around the room and suddenly it wasn't light outside anymore, suddenly the numbers on the glass were backlit eerily with flashing lights that gave me a headache. Suddenly. Suddenly. Sudd-
I heard, "Charlie… Charlie, you're scaring me!" from the door and the sounds of someone attempting to break in, their shoulder forcing itself against the heavy wood.
I wanted to finish. All I wanted was to finish. "WORKING!" I screamed at him. Thump-thump at the door, but the dresser pushed against it hardly budged. The work stretched over the window to the wall, to the mirror, to part of the closet door; its first tottering conclusions had been doodled on the back of my hand and part of my arm. I liked it, being part of the work. I felt dangerous. I felt surreal.
The battering had stopped. Megan was there, though I couldn't hear what she was saying. Don shouted something. I felt like my crowning achievement, my life's work, had been transferred to this room, to these barriers. It was like, the thoughts… they had been moved. Transplanted. Everyone could see, couldn't they? Everyone could see it now. I had gotten it right this time. I had to have gotten it right. The numbers were always right.
Though dimly aware, I realized I was in the corner, knees drawn to my heaving chest. All done. The end. All finished. "Don, I finished. I'm finished, Don," but I thought I was choking on the words and forgot to breathe and strangled myself. Fingers scrabbling at my throat. The marker lay used and forgotten on the floor, not even staining the rug. It was dry. And I was dry too, though I felt like crying again, felt like letting the tears just drain me completely. There was no more Charlie to go around. No more Charlie to share. All gone. The end. Sorry, Don.
The integral sign leaked blood. It registered somewhere that maybe I shouldn't have opened the new box of markers in the bathroom, shouldn't have thrown the empty packaging away, shouldn't have picked up the razor blade Don had replaced last night and forgotten to throw away. What was I integrating again? But I need a marker, Don. I needed the marker. I couldn't reach the one on the floor, and this equation… this part right here… it's missing a variable. I need to fix it.
Dying wasn't supposed to hurt like this. Like what, then? I was dying, wasn't I? I was doing something wrong again, and I was making a mess, and someone was knocking on a door somewhere but I couldn't pinpoint exactly where because the corner was a small corner and I couldn't tell anymore if I'd left the light on or accidentally turned it off again or if it had never actually been on at all and it was only the slit from under the door that illuminated the room from the hallway. The ink in this marker smelled funny. Dreaming again. Why is the dresser dancing? I shut my eyes. So tired. Sleepy time. Lights? No, no. Hello, there. Don't be scared. Dark in here. Cold.
Good night, Don.
-
I felt wholly responsible, with the weight of the world – my world – crashing into me very suddenly. Colby dropped the crowbar and David leapt the dresser, shoving the huge piece out of the way for the gurney. "Charlie," I said, but it sounded too matter-of-fact, and I abruptly needed to know when the dresser had been moved and why I hadn't heard it and where had I been, you bumbling idiot? Where were you when this was happening?
So I replayed it in my head and ran down the hallway after the gurney and bounded into the ambulance still thinking about everything and clutching his cold hand. But I couldn't think past the couch, and the awful look on his face. Hurt and lost and confused and ready. Goddamn resigned for something. Then… then I had called Megan. I had called Megan and told her I was scared.
"I'm scared, Megan. He's- I need him on watch. I can't do this."
"He's not alone now? Don, calm down. Don, listen to me-"
Don, Don, Don, but what about Charlie? Charlie. Charlie, for his sake. For my sake. For the whole world's sake. You can't die, Charlie, I'm sorry, Charlie, but you can't die. It's my fault. You can't die. But he wouldn't move and then he wouldn't breathe but the EMTs were moving so fast it hurt to watch and god, Charlie, but why did you write on yourself? Why did you do that? Why did I let you?
Why are you so cold?
And I could see it, the prologue, months ago when Dad died and how terribly I'd treated Charlie. I remembered his daily offerings that would appear unbidden: sandwiches and sports clippings and a pair of beaten slippers and the daily paper and coupons he'd found in the Sunday paper, as if by trying to channel Dad he could lessen his guilt. Old photographs, water-damaged magazines, chipped mugs – my kitchen counter was cluttered with junk. Charlie's junk. And they spelt, HELP ME.
"I'm sorry, Charlie. God, I'm so sorry, Charlie."
I felt so broken up inside, worse than when I'd found him, worse than waiting to hear if he had lived, worse than when I'd brought him home and discovered that he couldn't fix himself and I couldn't either. I felt so bad. So deep and dark and lost and cold, so damn cold, like I would never really feel the sunlight again, just walk amidst the bright rays like some sort of intransient ghost. But I just wanted Charlie. I just wanted Charlie.
He arrived dead.