PailyIsLove (Guest): Many, many thanks, friend.
Plamin24: Hated to do it, but all shall be well. (I think.) To make up for the delay, I made this bad boy incredibly long. Enjoy.
L (Guest): Hahaha. Well, I certainly appreciate the gesture, but I am (unfortunately) not him. Lol. But I'm most grateful for your kind words, and hope to not disappoint.
Yesni83: I hope she can do it as well. Yes. Yes, he did.
ponderhouse: I'm always most grateful to see you pop up in the reviews. And more importantly, I appreciate that you'd take the time to realize what I've been trying to convey and eloquently put that realization into words. As always, your words touch my heart, and I hope not to falter in this story.
Author's Note: All right, people. This originally started out as a single chapter, but the idea of a nine thousand-plus word insert made me cringe. So, in accordance, I have split this into two. Both are uploaded, and so I must ask that you continue onward after reading the first. And as always, your kind words warm my heart. Many thanks.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of the show's characters.
I've often heard that death comes like a thief in the night. Quickly. Without warning. Gutting its victims from the inside out, leaving behind nothing but hollow remains.
Gathered round a hole in the ground, we, those dressed in black, appear as the night. As Bobby's once wily body is swallowed by the earth, it becomes difficult to feel as though we haven't been robbed. Of a life. A spirit. The calming voice that whispered when everyone else insisted on yelling.
Complications. This is what the nurses and other medical professionals chalked his passing up to. Physical remnants of his destructive past coupled with a piece of once scorching metal lodged too close to his heart. Here and gone in a matter of days.
I firmly clutch Paige's hand as she stands silently amongst the group of about twenty. She doesn't wear a coat, despite the cold, but allows it to hang loosely over her arm. Instead, she's opted for a tie-dye arrangement. Black pants, Converses, and a multi-colored tank top. Bright apparel does nothing to shadow her saddened disposition. The way she feverishly gnaws at the inside of her cheek. Tears that slowly stream down from each eye.
I've seen pain. I've seen anguish and turmoil and desperation. This is by far the utmost, most agonizing combination of the four that I've ever witnessed.
The chaplain drones on and on about spirits being laid to rest, earthly temptations, worldly vices, and the redemption we receive from somewhere in the sky. I almost expect Paige to start laughing. To call bullshit and rant on about the absurdity of it all.
She doesn't. Her teeth merely rattle against the utter silence.
The procession ends as quickly as it began. People pass underneath a tent, hugging Bobby's mother's neck. Patting his brother's back. Whispering words of condolence before continuing on and out of the funeral grounds. We stand at the line's end, just behind Dr. Evans.
It's nerve-racking, but when our time finally comes, Paige takes the reins. And by taking the lead, I mean that she clears her throat before saying, "I, uh—" Swiftly and without warning, she then doubles over into his mother's arms, continuously muttering, "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
This takes a while, but she eventually emerges, sniffling and wiping at red, sunken eyes. I can do nothing but aimlessly follow where she may wander. Around the grounds. Up and down the occasional beaten path. Everyone's long cleared out when we double back around, wordlessly approaching a fresh lump of dirt. The place in which our friend will forever lay at rest.
Paige tilts her head before referring to her jacket. From its inside pocket, she retrieves a pint-sized plastic bottle. Brown liquid sloshes violently in the container. "So here's what I'm thinking," she mutters, unscrewing the white cap. "You and I hang around, get totally shithoused drunk alongside our buffoonish friend, and see where the afternoon takes us."
Who am I to ignore the pleading in her tone? Who am I to deny her request for a final hoorah? Who am I to abandon Paige in her time of need? But who am I to allow her such a risky indulgenced?
Conflicted, that's who.
She's finally asking for help, after all this time, and it soon breaks my steely resolve. It aches my heart, much like these past two weeks have. But I've also promised Paige and myself to stick by her side, no matter the circumstance. And so, as she stares blankly at me, urging that I stay and make sense of our messy situation, I say, "That sounds perfect."
We each sit on either side of the headstone, one that reads of Bobby's full name, beginning and end date, and a sincerely-worded epitaph. Paige remains silent, gulping from the harsh liquid before passing it over. I do the same. We hardly glance at each other, but instead opt to stare above into the blue abyss.
After the shortest of whiles, after roughly one-fourth of the pint has been consumed, Paige clears her throat. "Dumbest thing he ever said to you?" she offers, head remaining tilted upward.
This is how she recovers, I think. Go along with it. "That I couldn't fix you," I too quickly return. "That I'd just have to love you and allow you to figure out the rest."
"That is dumb," she says, chuckling and shaking her head.
I cough after another swig. "You?"
"When we were working on those admissions essays," she begins, propping two folded hands behind her head, "he said that he was envious of what we had. I thought he was just talking about vaginas, but then he went into some long spiel about caring and compassion and acceptance. A whole lot of bullshit, really."
"Too mushy, huh?"
She grins from ear to ear. "The squashiest thing I've ever heard."
And so it goes. The air grows harsher with every passing second. Paige finally decides to put her jacket on, and it isn't until her hands freeze over in the mix of passing, chugging, and passing that I grow irritated. At why she insists on suffering. Why pain is the only option that she has no trouble in deciding upon. How she can be so blind as to not see that when she struggles, I struggle.
"I still can't get over what you did. What you tried to do," I finally admit under the shelter of a tingling body and slightly impaired speech. When we've each consumed a fair amount of beverage. When internal rage becomes too much to handle. "Kind of hard to move on when you can't fathom where you began, much less where you'll end up."
Paige nods sullenly, only to begin thumbing the bottle's rim. "Neither can I," she mutters with an air of disbelief. "But if it serves as any consolation, the entire experience was a weird one."
"Weird can be a good thing. At least, in this respect," I agree. We then exchange hands twice, both sipping down the vile liquid, before I muster the courage to ask, "Just what was going through your head, anyway?"
At this, her eyebrows knit inward. Her body cowers. She squints and frowns and swallows as though she's being force-fed a cactus. "Fear, I guess? Like, I was looking for Bob, sure, but there was something else. An almost crippling sensation," Paige admits in one long breath.
"Nausea?" I ask like the drunken idiot I've become.
"Like paralysis," she corrects, annunciating the middle syllable. "A sudden realization that maybe dying wasn't the best idea."
I cannot suppress the giggle that breaks free. "Maybe."
She reaches across, nudging my arm. "Yeah, well, maybe a little more living is in order then, huh?"
"Maybe," I mumble.
Paige grunts, but in a playful way. The way your great uncle might amidst a heated conversation over your own hard-headed nature. She then struggles to her feet, meanders around, and finally settles onto the ground next to me. "Any chance I could score just a little understanding?" Paige breathes, taking firm hold of my hand. "You know, before lightning strikes us both down?"
We share a great deal of laughter over this. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the dusk. Maybe it's the way the sun falls just slowly enough to be appreciated. Whatever the case may be, our exchange suddenly feels somewhat protected. Like it's just between the two of us. Well, and hundreds of dead people, but mostly us.
Which might be why I confess, "It terrified me to no end, the thought of losing you. Either of you, really; but you, especially." Our breathing then manages to fall in tandem as Paige leans against me mid-sentence, fingers interlocking with mine. All resolve is officially broken when she gives a light squeeze. "But if you're intent on sticking around this time, then I could be cool with the idea, too."
"Good," she says, quickly coming upright. "Because now, the elephant in this room must be tranquilized. Or something like that." Her body twists to face the gray, protruding stone. I can damn near feel the pain in my own bottom lip as she clenches down on her own. A few moments pass as she coughs, tilts the plastic bottle upright, wipes her mouth, and coughs again. Then, through misty eyes, she says with extreme difficulty, "I really loved you, kid. Really. And I probably always will. But that's not something to be taken lightly, either." Her eyes cut to me for the briefest of seconds. "There's no room for guilt, or shame, or regret."
All while she speaks, and all while detouring around an inebriated, fuzzy rationale, I find myself secretly wishing to be in BHB's position. Not physically, but as the recipient of her heartfelt words. Such an odd sensation, I think, longing to be loved by Paige.
These hopes are quickly diminished when she finishes with, "So what do you say, guy? Am I forgiven? Send a breeze if yes; send one million dollars if not."
We again wait. And somewhere in between the internal wanting and drunken stupor, I become fully aware of the girl who sits closest. One who probably feels the same as I in regards to contacting the deceased. In seeking their help. But me? I'm currently doing no such thing. I'm simply hoping for like recognition on her part. Wondering if she could possibly be experiencing the same unexpected yet gratifying swell of emotion that fills my own empty void. An unnamed, tingly feeling.
At some point, the gentlest gust of wind begins to flutter against the trees. It trickles across our faces. Through our hair. Envelopes and chills us.
Doubled with the smile I can no longer stifle, the scene begins to quite possibly top the list of my personal favorites. And the best part is that it absolutely confuses the hell out of me. The raw emotions that keep me in place. The fullness of spirit and heart that stills my body. That glues it into position. Most importantly, though, is that each combined factor leaves me silently hoping that our time together never ends.
And judging by the arm that drapes across my shoulders; judging by the head that rests itself atop mine—well, I'd be damned if I say that Paige isn't feeling it, too.
Making our way home was the most difficult part following our graveside soiree. When the sun had fully set, leaving nothing but moonlight to accompany us in the cemetery, Paige asked if my mother's previous offer still stood. I agreed, and after careful consideration of the empty liquor bottle, we quickly deemed walking too strenuous. That was when Paige stole my phone and chose a random contact to drunk dial. The exchange ended with her saying in a sultry tone, "Fields and I need a ride. By the way, what are you wearing right now?"
Spencer showed up promptly, slightly agitated by the hour. She was even more perturbed, though, that it was our first time having seen each other after my return. I tried explaining myself, but Paige was too busy fiddling with the vehicle's interior. Leaning in from the backseat and turning on lights. Flipping the windshield wipers into gear at every free moment.
"Isn't this a bit counterproductive to…you know," she suggested, sounding far too judgemental.
Paige slurred under her breath, "You're a little counterproductive." And when my childhood friend refused to respond, my more recent one went off on this whole "I know you are but what am I?" tangent whilst simultaneously keen on destroying the car's intricate gadgetry.
Needless to say that when Spencer becomes ruler of the world, she'll undoubtedly make it her first declaration to see that Paige is shipped off to some faraway island.
This morning, I peer through swollen, crummy eyes. To my right, a shirtless Paige is sprawled out face first. We both appear as though we've been stranded in the wilderness for days, and I personally feel as though I've been hit by a train.
And to make matters worse, footsteps sound from the hallway. I quickly duck underneath the bed sheet, eliciting a groan from Paige. Seconds later, light fills the room. My father stands in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Christ, man," Paige calls out. "What time is it?"
"Six o'clock," he sternly answers.
She gasps like a madwoman before grumbling, "Were you raised in the jungle? Leave me be."
"In the evening," Dad quickly corrects, approaching the bedside. With what little energy and sobriety I still possess, I instinctively beeline up and across the room. Paige isn't nearly as fortunate, for just as soon as my father fits two hands underneath the mattress and lifts, her body goes toppling to the ground.
Less warm than the wake-up call are my parents' demeanors when we finally stumble into the kitchen. The smells of food are sickening. But if there's one thing that I've learned about these two, it's that there is no possible way of escaping reprimand. In illness. Wellness. Their wrath does not discriminate. So I fall into the seat nearest Paige's, grit my teeth, and wait.
Like clockwork, Mom asks, "Scolding now or later?"
"Now," I mumble.
Paige, who's stuffing her face with spaghetti, ignores the entire ordeal. That is, until my father slaps a firm hand nearest her plate, sending the arrangement clattering. And instead of showing necessary bewilderment, she merely cocks a challenging eyebrow his way. Oh, boy, is all I can think.
"I didn't think we'd have to address the issue," Dad begins, "but after last night's episode—"
Paige interrupts with a dismissive wave of her fork. "I know where this is going, and I already have it one thousand percent figured out," she explains, still chewing. "We move Emily downstairs. The sofa, perhaps? I'll take her room, and that way, no one's tempted. Everyone survives, clothes intact."
Cue the awkward, confused stares. "What are you talking about?" my mother eventually asks.
"Wait, what are you talking about?" Paige returns, only to emit a hefty sigh upon realizing something that I'm not entirely sure of. "Oooooh. That. Right. You'll have to forgive me for last night. My grandfather was a sailor. An Irish sailor, at that."
Dad and Mom grunt at the same time, and it takes every ounce of my being to not smack Paige. For a reason that I am most grateful for, though, my mother places a gentle hand to Dad's tensing arm. To soothe him, undoubtedly. In a steady tone, she then says, "Let's see that it never happens again."
"No need to fret, Captain and Missus Captain," my counterpart returns. "As of today, Fields and I are flying the straight and narrow. Cleaning up our act. The whole shebang."
However, where this girl goes once we're upstairs is an entirely different story. Because just as soon as I go to collect my backpack for tomorrow morning, Paige instantly rips it from my hands and chunks it across the room. "No need for that," she says, digging into her pocket and producing a wadded sheet of paper. Messily written is a list of sorts, in a scrawl that I recognize as BHB's. "Found this pile while we were cleaning up Roberto's pile. We're taking a field trip."
"The last time we did something like this, you were locked away in a basement for three weeks," I sharply point out.
"And hasn't everything just been uphill from there?"
"Not helping."
"We're going," she insists rather confidently.
"To school, yes," I breathe, growing increasingly agitated by the second. "You know, that place with the books? The one that lessens our likelihood winding up homeless?"
As circumstance should have it, Paige begins laughing at my apprehension. "GOD. BLESS. AMERICA," she says. "How is it that someone can be so hot, yet be so terribly boring?"
Biting back a groan, I say, "Responsible, Paige. Not boring, just responsible."
"Speak another word and I'm setting you on fire," she returns in a rather menacing way, grinning all the while. "Now get your non-fun-sucker shit together, Fields, because of the things to be tested tomorrow, my patience is not one." And I would refute further if she didn't kiss me, turn my shoulder, and pat my butt, insisting that I march.
We're positioned in the back of a lowly city bus when I finally get a chance to fully look over the list from last night. Numbered at the side, it consists of twenty-eight activities that sound eerily similar to goals. A bucket list, if you will. "French kiss Alice Pemberton?" I read aloud in reference to item number seven. "Take Tommy on a Ferris wheel ride? Who in the hell is Tommy?"
Paige, who's been inspecting her teeth with a spoon from my parents' kitchen, says, "Little Bobby."
"So Bobby's Tommy?" I offer.
She burps. "And Tommy's Bobby."
"And Who's on first, What's on second, and I Don't Know's on third, yeah?"
We both laugh at this.
The ride's a bumpy, uncomfortable journey, but we eventually arrive at what I believe to be our destination, per Paige's excited gripping of my forearm. She yanks and pulls upward well before the vehicle even comes to a complete stop. We're then standing in a school parking lot, a place equipped with a jungle gym in the rear and plenty of activity in the front.
In the front office, Paige casually leans against the reception desk. She then requests one Thomas Bernstein, an act that earns the oddest of looks. The squishy-nosed one. But I'm starting to gather that Paige is somewhat accustomed to being viewed in the light of a mass murderer, for she's adopted an air of indifference when it comes to handling these situations. "I'm his aunt, lady," she says. "The gold-digging one."
The clerk, a woman of over fifty with too red lipstick and painfully curly hair, gazes at Paige with the kind of awe and reverence that a young child might upon first meeting their hero. "You're also not on the list," she says, snapping out of the momentary trance. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but—"
Paige chooses to lean further over the barrier, whispering something that only the older woman can hear. It must be terribly amusing, for she begins giggling as Paige flashes a thumb my way. Eventually, though, after a deep smoker's breath, she explains, "I'm deeply sorry, but without proper go ahead, my hands are tied."
The woman seems sincere enough, but Paige is having no such act. She merely scoffs and gesticulates wildly throughout the small area. "I trusted you, Bernice. I trusted you, and you've failed me."
It isn't two seconds after the words "My name is Kathy" are muttered that my arm is grabbed and we're marching into the foyer.
"Another day," I suggest.
"No time like the present," she dismisses, clicking her front teeth together. "Gandhi said that."
I don't have time to explain that those words didn't once fall from the ancient philosopher's mouth on account of the twisted expression her face takes on. The light bulb practically surfaces out of thin air. Her eyes flash toward something on the wall. A sickening feeling settles into the pit of my stomach, and no sooner than I can mutter, "Don't you dare," Paige's hand meets a small red box. Even more quickly, she tugs down on its white handle and an ear-shattering alarm begins to sound.
THE CHAPTER'S CONTINUATION CAN BE FOUND WITH A CLICK OF THE ARROW THINGY, OR WHATEVER. ONWARD, MY CHILDREN.