7. Zurie

BRANCH OUT. It's easier said than done, isn't it? Seifer's advice hits me in waves, and in the days that follow, I find myself trying to figure out what it even means to me. What am I supposed to do? Where do I start? It's a weird thing to consider. I've spent so much time pining after Rinoa and going through the motions with SeeD that I haven't really given myself much thought—at least, not in a positive, maybe-try-improving-myself kind of way.

So I'm back to figuring out what I want from life. And I'm not talking about the things I want that I can't have—that's a trap that I always seem to get caught in. I need to focus on things I want that are actually doable, things that don't rely on someone else. I go so far as to try sorting it out after work one day. I put on a record (Into the Gap, if it matters), pour myself a bourbon, and sit down with a pen and notepad, ready to let my mind come up with some magic answer.

All I manage to do is write "Things I want" in the top margin. Followed by an underline. And then, fifteen minutes later, a crudely drawn picture of a man on fire. I finish my drink, glass sitting as empty as my brain. Why is this so hard? I can knock out a full report for Garden in under an hour if I'm motivated enough, but this task feels impossible, like I'm trying to force something that isn't there.

I think the problem is that all the wants I have are intangible. They come in the form of questions, but there's no answers to accompany them. Example: I want to know how to get out of this spot I've wedged myself into, because right now, I think I'm stuck. It's almost like my hands have so many blisters from climbing that damn rope. My shoulders hurt, I'm out of breath. I feel like I can't do anything but hold on to where I am.

Let's evaluate that for a second. Where am I? I've got nine months of my twenties left to go. I'm in the same job I've had since…ever. No girlfriend in the picture. Weekend custody of my kid. Living in Deling. But the where is easy to establish. The harder question is how? How did I end up here? I could reflect on a thousand different culprit moments if I wanted to, but not one ever stands up and says, "Here, Squall! This is why everything's so fucked up!" Instead, it's all patchwork, the cumulation of all the past mistakes and all the should-have-dones that dot my timeline all the way back up to the present.

I try not to dwell on the "how". I need to focus, think forward. I pour another drink and try again. What do I want? The notepad stares back at me like a taunt, the Garden emblem printed at the bottom its evil eye. I scribble over it as if the ink can somehow blind it. It doesn't make any difference. The rest is still blank, crisp and too white. I take a sip of bourbon in hopes that it'll help spark some sort of idea, but it doesn't take long before I'm just stuck with another empty glass.

I don't write anything. Not one goddamned word. Instead, I start drawing a bird's eye view of a spiral staircase, step by step, each one darker than the last. The centre is black.

—

I SPEND THE next few days trying to distract myself. Binge-watching TV shows with Quistis. An afternoon in the park with Harper. But all the while, I'm looking around me, at moms hugging their kids and friends chatting over coffees and people with dogs and couples with each other. Surely I can't be the only person in all of Galbadia who doesn't know what he wants from life? But then why does everyone seem so certain of themselves?

Maybe it's all a façade. Maybe no one ever really knows what they want, so instead they just get better at pretending like they do. Nobody ever says when they're having issues. Just look at anyone's social and you'll see a highlight reel of perfectly curated moments. Look how excited they are! Look how happy, how well-travelled. The bad times are all swept under the rug, hidden away. But I'm just as guilty. Ask me how I'm doing, I'll reply with, "Good," or something along those lines. It's not that I'm necessarily good; it's just that I don't want to explain.

And I don't fake out a good day to post online (not that I ever do that, anyway) after all the distractions run dry and I'm back to being alone. Instead, I put on a made-for-streaming movie and light up a joint. The mental fog is a welcome feeling. It makes that stupid staircase drawing next to the remote seem almost innocuous. I make sure to take a couple of really good hauls to really flatten out the world around me.

I love how the effect of pot is practically instant. I'm comfortably stoned, enough so that I can almost relax. I let myself slide down the couch just a touch and zone out on the shitty storyline playing on my TV. I don't even really know what it's about; when I'm this high, my mind tends to float off, drifting in and out as it pleases.

But just as I think I might ascend somewhere into the atmosphere, I hear the question, plain as day—"What do you want?"—and I'm thrown right back down to earth.

I hate how in movies, they always somehow manage to have this huge epiphany, like the answer is just so goddamned obvious. They want to ditch their corporate job and finally become a painter, or they want to ask the girl they've been infatuated with out on a date (and of course she says yes), or they want to finally take that getaway trip to Balamb that they've been saving for. And just like that, they're self-actualized humans. Problem solved.

I have no such epiphanies.

—

MY PHONE PINGS me on the twenty-fourth to let me know it's Irvine's birthday. I text him. It's the third one he's spent in Trabia since he got back together with Selphie for (hopefully) the last time in their on-again, off-again relationship roulette. I like to think that the move's been good for him; he's finally settled into some sort of routine, something that keeps him relatively out of trouble.

I say trouble, because there was a period where Irvine had become his own version of a disaster, too. I never really asked him why he went down that path, but I'm sure it had everything to do with Selphie. He just never managed to commit to her properly, not for years. He'd say things like he was too young to settle down, or that he wasn't looking for anything serious, or that they had the rest of their lives to be together. He'd chase other girls around, and she'd try to play it off and act cool, like she was somehow unaffected. But it wore on her—and eventually, she gave up on him and moved back to Trabia.

Irvine had taken her for granted up to that point, but after, something broke. In the months that followed, he spent his time hooking up with all sorts of girls and partying all weekend long and sometimes, he'd bring it all back to Garden. And I'm not talking about the kind of partying that people do once in awhile with a few friends. This was that hard partying everyone warns you about—the kind that leaves you stranded with a few extra vices in tow.

Let it be known that I don't think Irvine's a bad guy. It's just that we all have different methods of coping with life and trauma and all the bullshit of being a SeeD, and that was his way of dealing. Was it fucked up? Absolutely. But we all have our flaws to carry, and besides, who the hell am I to judge?

When Irvine texts back, it's well after midnight on Trabia time. "Hey man it was a fun one. Hope your good!"

I don't correct him on his use of "your" (I gave up on that several years and a handful of mission reports ago), and I don't drag him down with the incessant thoughts draining my brain. Like I said before, I don't bother with anything that requires an explanation. And besides, no one wants to hear it, not even me. My response instead is quick, easy: "That's great to hear. I'm doing well, thanks."

Of course, well is a relative term. I'm doing well compared to when I was hooked on prescription benzos. I'm doing well compared to the mission where I had to help our squad medic perform a field amputation on a sixteen-year-old kid. I'm doing well compared to the day Rinoa and Harper left.

But am I doing well-well? I think if I was, I would try to be productive: go to the gym, make myself a halfway-decent meal, maybe call up my father. I sure as hell wouldn't be lying on my couch in my sweats, getting stoned and listening to Thompson Twins again while I eat microwaved leftovers.

Still, I've been worse. And Irvine's seen it first-hand, too. The weed's got me feeling particularly nostalgic tonight; it reminds me of a specific memory, a low point in my life that stands out. Is it the beginning of my descent? Maybe. At the very least, it was directly related to the increase in pitch as I hurtled myself down a hundred floors, fast-tracking toward the bottom.

Picture this. Rinoa and Harper are gone. I'm twenty-five-years-old, newly single, alone at Garden, a total wreck. Do I try to straighten out, quit my job, chase after them, and make things right? That would've been the smart thing to do—so of course, I do the opposite.

I didn't quite know it then, but I was a match in search of a tinderbox, and Irvine, who at the time was in the throes of his own aforementioned mess, decided to strike, waltzing into my suite uninvited one evening with the declaration of a so-called boys' weekend in Deling.

I resisted at first. That's always been my nature, whether it was Quistis asking me to talk after-hours, or Rinoa asking me to take her to a concert in FH, or my father telling me to come to Esthar. But my resistance didn't last long. Part of me became motivated by the opportunity to escape, while the other part got wrapped up in the secret hope that Rinoa would appear while we were in town; that maybe she'd feel a twinge of the bond we once shared and find her way to wherever I ended up. Either way, before I knew it, we were at a hotel in Deling, pouring rounds of shots like a pair of fools intent on getting obliterated.

Zell came with, and thank fuck he did—he was a little more hesitant, more level, which was almost definitely for the best, despite Irvine's chastising. He'd been seeing this librarian named Penny back at Garden, a brand new relationship, and I think he wanted to make sure he didn't do anything to mess it up. Fair enough; if I'd had a chance to not screw up what I had with Rinoa, I would've done the same too. But it was too late for any of that, and I had nothing going on but that stupid boys' weekend—I wasn't there for half-measures. I knew if I was going to do it, I was going to do it all the way. Give me anything. I would take it. I didn't care.

Once Irvine declared our level of pre-drinking to be sufficient, we migrated to the clubs in Downtown Deling. If you've never been to one, the thing that sets them apart is that nothing sets them apart. They're all indistinct from one another, almost like clones; they all play the same house music, they all have the same type of atmosphere, and they all attract the same type of patrons.

So imagine when you combine that melting pot of ambiance with my already buzzing head. That was the haze marking the start of my first night out post-Rinoa. And holy shit, was it overwhelming—it was just all loud bass and bright flashing lights and too many people and DJs who thought they were bulletproof, and then me at the centre, shipwrecked inside my own head.

I remember trying earlier on to figure out what the hell I was even doing. I felt incredibly out of place, but what did I expect? Someone to recognize the depths of my despair and sit down to commiserate? Rinoa to show up in the way my brain kept fantasizing about? I lamented the fact that I wasn't drunk enough to turn my mind off, but there probably wasn't enough booze in the world to make that happen.

So, what the hell was I doing? At some point, I gave up trying to sort it out. We must have been our third or fourth stop of the night by then. I found a spot at the upper level bar where I could sit, away from the crowds, away from the stink of sweat and spilled beer and smoke machines. I felt bad. I wanted to enjoy myself, but I didn't know how. I tried to take solace in the fact that there was nothing here to remind me of my life at Garden; no one called me by my title, no one recognized me.

Somewhere in the midst of my pity party of one, I remember catching this girl in the corner of my eye. It was her fiery red hair that struck me first. It wasn't a natural red, either; she had this bold, almost neon dye job, the colour I thought maybe a clown would ask for. Her voice was raspy, like that of someone who spent a lot of time talking over loud music, as she ordered two tequila shots from the bartender.

She set one down in front of me. I let her know that she'd gotten the wrong person.

Her words caught me off-guard: "No, I don't."

I shrugged, threw back the shot, and quickly bit into the accompanying lime (side note, the tequila at these downtown clubs is absolute shit; the lime wedge is a must). There was no fighting off my grimace, but she seemed to down it like it was top shelf. The second thing I noticed about her was the gem in her tooth. It would sometimes catch a glint from the light show below, depending on how wide her grin would go. And she gave me a big, almost suspect smile as she introduced herself.

"I'm Zurie."

"Squall."

It's crazy how quickly my night went from finding somewhere to retreat in a place that didn't know the word solitude, to being suddenly curious about the person in front of me. How long was she watching me before she came up and bought me a shot? And why me? If she thought I was someone she could have a good time with, she was horribly mistaken. Still, I could see her eyes brighten as she observed me. She lifted the sleeve of my t-shirt, tracing her gaze along the linework of my Griever tattoo. I remember thinking she was bold, almost in the way Rinoa was bold, and my gut said I kind of liked it. But this was my first interaction with any other woman since Rinoa, and I flinched and drew away.

"Sorry." It's a word I've heard a million times in a million different contexts, but she always said it in a way that made me feel bad for making her feel bad.

I think I told her something along the lines of how I thought the tattoo was stupid, and how I was naïve for getting it. Even now as I look at it snaking down my arm, drawn in that traditional Estharii style I'd liked so much, I'm hit with regret. It's like a brand at this point, a forever reminder set in skin. The mark of a fool.

But back to Zurie. After I unloaded my thoughts on the tattoo (and probably a small amount of baggage, too), she started cracking up. The third thing I noticed was her laugh. Hers was the kind that almost caught you by surprise, like it was too big for such a small frame. And she was small, probably no more than five-foot-two, narrow shoulders, barely-there hips. But she dressed on the border of outrageous (I think maybe as a way to make up for her size): big Dr. Martens boots, shredded up jeans, an oversized leather vest covered in pins and patches. She was zero percent Garden.

Now, maybe it was the fact that I was a bit drunk already, but I remember distinctly wanting to continue this strange interaction. I heard myself inviting her outside for a smoke, and then it was her grabbing my hand. The touch came as a bit of a shock; I'd been so obsessed with being alone that I hadn't ever considered the fact that another person's fingers could thread through mine. But I didn't pull away this time. Instead, I clasped my hand around hers as I led us through the swarm of people. It felt like navigating a beehive, but having her there made it almost bearable as we weaved our way outside.

I wanted to ask this girl why she chose to talk to me, but I'd barely lit up my cigarette before Irvine came around. I think he had two (maybe three, I don't remember—he was a pig back then) women with him. Together, they'd concocted this idea that we should all leave the bar scene altogether and head to this house party happening at some friend of a friend of who-the-fuck-knew's place. I didn't really care where we went; I felt like a piece of driftwood, moving in whatever direction the tide was headed. All I knew was that I didn't want to be sober anytime soon. I had priorities.

So drift away, I did. There was no such thing as having my bearings that night. Blur forward to Irvine and nameless-not-Selphies getting Zell from the dancefloor, me asking Zurie if she wanted to join us, and then somehow ending up jammed into a couple of cabs as we headed for some shithole party house just outside downtown.

Zell tried to stop me from going further. I definitely remember that. Riding in the cab, he said something like, "We should just take this back to the hotel." He knew already that a party would be trouble, but I was drunk, and there was this girl next to me, and she was game, and who cared if nothing good could come of any of this? Nothing good ever came of anything, anymore.

"Fuck it," I told him.

We got to the house party, and I was immediately taken by how many people were there. It was obvious the moment we stepped out of the car and saw them spilling out onto the yard. It's funny how in some ways, Garden had exposed me to so much—paramagic, Guardian power, war, absolute suffering, shifts in time—but in matters of normal life, I felt like a sheltered child. Was this what it meant to be a twenty-something outside of SeeD? Boys' nights and parties at strange houses and girls with dyed red hair?

If I had been sober, I might've turned away from the musty smell of old, dirty furniture and the throngs of intoxicated humans. But I wasn't, and I can vaguely remember wondering what came next as I found a couch to collapse on. The booze wasn't enough. I needed more. Something to send me out of my stupid, messed up head once and for all.

God. Even as I'm recalling all this, I can feel my heart rate increase, and my stomach suddenly feels awkward and light. Is it dumb that I still secretly wish I could be at this stage in my life again? Despite all the damage I was doing, I'd managed to unearth a part of me that I hadn't known before: a person who actually craved new experiences, who wanted to explore a life outside of Garden. Laguna had tried to start me on this path before with his game of "what's-your-favourite", but I hadn't gotten much further than picking out surface-level things I enjoyed. I'd never gotten to the point where I could consider the fact that I could be more than just some anxiety-ridden SeeD.

So thinking on that night, imagine my reaction when in front of me were two pills with little smiley faces pressed into them. I'd taken drugs before, sure, but not like this. These didn't come in a bottle with my name on it. I can't even remember who handed them to me. I think I stared at them, small in my palm, for a good couple of minutes.

Here's the conundrum. And bear in mind that twenty-five-year-old me was not known for making responsible choices. Do I just play the night off and say "no thank you"? Or do I go all-in and hope for the best? I got my answer as Zurie plucked one of the pills from my hand and threw it back as easily as she did the tequila.

Well, whatever then. It went down easy enough. I was almost expecting to have my anxiety wash away like it did when I took a Xanax, but it didn't take long for me to realize that this was not like anything I'd experienced before. Maybe twenty minutes in, things were feeling uncomfortable. I remember thinking about how badly I wanted to throw up. My heart was racing, my palms exploded in sweat. Zell and Irvine were nowhere in sight, but I couldn't figure out how to get onto my feet to go find them.

There I was. Sitting on some gross old couch in some house with some girl I'd barely said a complete sentence to. Higher than I'd ever been before. Friends MIA. I hated it. The MDMA had all sorts of emotions bubbling to the surface in spite of my best efforts to keep everything shoved away. Under its influence, there was no such thing as control. I didn't know what to do. Laugh? Cry? Close my eyes and wait for it to be over?

I don't remember how long it took for me to come to terms with how fucked up I was, but it felt like a small eternity. But that was what I wanted, right? No half-measures? At some point, I knew I had no choice but to allow myself to succumb to it. Acceptance gave way to the subsequent flood of euphoria and panic, the rush almost frightening in its ability to overwhelm. It overtook everything: every sight, every sound. Touch was incredible, like it was elevated somehow, a sixth sense. My hands were beyond my control, roaming everywhere, running through my hair, running over the upholstery, running up and down my thighs.

Time had no meaning. Nothing did. What even was love anyways? Why did it matter? I was high enough to finally get some perspective, thirty-thousand feet above the ground; everything was infinitesimal. I didn't need the bond between sorceress and knight and I didn't need Rinoa Heartilly when I had this—I'd finally escaped. I wanted to hang onto that feeling forever.

Zurie kissed me somewhere in the middle of my mess of a trip. I only remember because I thought it was bizarre to feel so comfortable kissing a stranger. But it was okay. Everything was okay. My first kiss with Rinoa was so considered; I spent weeks agonizing over when to do it, how to make the moment just right. This was nothing like that. This was close just for the sake of close. It didn't matter who was on the other side.

I think Irvine checked in with me well after I'd rocketed off into oblivion, and which I can only recall because I remember hearing him laugh at my expense. Zell was disappointed. He tried to make his concerns more pronounced, but by the time he'd gotten to me, I was too far gone to listen. Whatever. Disappointment didn't matter then. I'd spent my whole life worried about whom I was upsetting, and for those few small hours, I was absolved of it all—there was no such thing as apprehension, no fear, no anxiety, nothing.

I wish I could find a way to untether my mind like that now, but god, there's a lot of room to fall once you hit that altitude. When I first met Zurie, I didn't give a fuck about what happened to me. I let myself go deaf to the spiral staircase groaning loudly underneath my feet, just like I blinded myself to the wood rotting and giving way.

Now, it's different. Are things perfect? Of course not. Instead of tumbling down spiral staircases, I'm drawing them on paper. I still have no clue what I want in life, no real direction.

Still, existential dread aside, it only takes looking at the photos on my walls to know I've got something here worth fighting for, reasons to actually care—pictures of Harper, aged two, three, four; a photo of me and my father together at my favourite pub in Balamb; a selfie Quistis took of us at the Deling night market last summer; a portrait of Ellone smiling from behind her desk.

Seifer's right. I do spend too much time scrutinizing the past. It's just such a hard habit to break when I have so many regrets living rent-free in my head. And what else can I do? The memories have all just piled up on me, spanning over the course of more than a decade. I can't just ignore them. Not easily.

At least I'm trying to change. That's got to count for something, right? And I'm not about to go back to the way I was; doing so would mean losing all that I've gained, those hundreds of metres of rope I've hauled myself up with blistered hands. If only I could figure out how to embrace the present, or better yet, picture a brighter future. Branch out. I've never been wired for optimism.

I pick up the pen one more time and glance over my so-called wants list. The staircase blemishes the paper, a dark mess of ink swallowing up the middle. I hate it. I rip the marred sheet out of the notepad, crumple it, and toss it in the bin. It feels good to throw it away, to start over. Even so, the fresh page underneath is left with the impression of my crude artwork, embedded several sheets deep. I trace over it with my fingertips, feeling the ridges of each step, the ghost of the spiralling centre.

I wonder if there even is such a thing as a blank slate. I try not to overthink it. The page is still white, after all, almost crisp if not for the slightness of the shadows.