The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  The crowd in The Pit is still thick, and if anything, the blood has only riled them even more for Kyan's fight. I throw my arm around Poppy's shoulder and pull her tight to my side as we all make our way to the exit and into the alley. The door bangs shut behind us, wrapping the cold air and the smell of rotting food and piss wraps around me

  "Let's go play some Bingo," Hope says.

  I swear that girl is completely oblivious to anything that goes on.

  Poppy exhales, obviously still agitated. “I’m not in the mood for Bingo, Hope.”

  "Suit yourself. Finn, you want to go with me? It's great. You win neck massagers and—” Hope snaps her fingers beside Finn’s ear. “Hello?"

  But his eyes are aimed at a point in the alley, his posture tense. It’s when he tugs Hope behind him that every instinct I have jumps to attention.

  I step in front of Poppy and stand beside him just as a group of guys step out from the shadows and underneath the dim, orange glow of the streetlight. Josh Harmon stands in the center of his friends, who all look every bit as thuggish as him. Harmon’s lip is split, and although his right eye is swelling shut, I can still see the rage swimming in his expression. I crack my neck to the side and tighten my fists.

  "Poppy, go back inside," I say, through clenched teeth, fighting to keep control of myself until she leaves.

  "No.” Harmon leers, attempting to peek around me. “Stay, sweetheart.”

  "Don't talk to her." I'm shaking as I attempt to hold back the wall of pain I'm ready to inflict on him. I can feel the tension bristling from Finn at my side.

  Harmon laughs, and his friends join in like a pack of well-trained dogs. "I'm going to beat your arse in front of your little whore girlfriend."

  That's it. I fall on him like a damn building.

  My fist slams the side of his face three times before one of his friends jabs me in the kidney. Something in me delights at the challenge of taking on every one of them, and my little demon rises to the occasion, basking in the raw violence.

  I beat the shit out of the pair of them, nailing my knuckles against flesh and bone over and over until blood coats my hands. I'm so consumed, so blinded by the sole purpose of destroying the guy in front of me, that I'm only vaguely aware of the other two, out cold on the floor—courtesy of Finn.

  Now it's just Harmon and me. My fist and his face.

  "Brandon," Poppy shouts. "Stop it! Brandon." I hear her, but nothing registers. "Finn, make him stop. He's going to kill him!"

  "Nothing he doesn't deserve," Finn's voice is laced with the same kind of darkness that's roaring through my head.

  I hit Harmon until my arm aches and his face is a bloody mess.

  "Brandon, please," Poppy's voice hitches on a sob, and I wish I could go to her, but I can’t make myself stop.

  Something brushes over my arm, hands grabbing at me, and I swing, and at the last second, I realize that it's Poppy. I pull back the force of my punch, but it's too late. My fist collides with her jaw. She crashes against the concrete, and time stands still. The anger vanishes, and all that's left is the horror of what I've just done.

  She's sprawled out on the filthy ground with her hand to her mouth, blood trickling from her lip. Finn and Hope rush over to help her.

  "Poppy…" I start, and Hope charges me.

  Her hand meets my cheek with a resounding clap. "You’re a head case." She points a finger in my face. "You stay the hell away from her."

  "Poppy, I'm so sorry," I whisper.

  She won’t look at me, and that breaks me. I feel like all I ever do is apologize to her.

  Hope stands like a guard dog, her expression fierce when I take a step forward. "Don't you dare.”

  Usually, I'd argue with her, but I'm too ashamed of myself right now. I drag both hands through my hair and tilt my head back. "Please, look after her."

  Hope turns on her heel with a flick of her red hair and leads Poppy out of sight. Finn lingers, tentatively casting glances at me.

  I look at the unconscious bodies littering the alleyway. This is what I do. This is what I'm capable of, and I've never given a care—until Poppy stepped into the middle of it.

  My mind and body have gone completely numb, and, by the time I arrive at Finn’s place, I can't even remember getting here.

  "Here." Finn comes from the kitchen, a beer in one hand and an ice pack in the other. He tosses me the ice pack and points at my hand. I glance down at my ripped and bloody knuckles, and all I see is them coming into contact with Poppy's beautiful face.

  "I need to go to her." I start to get up, but he places a hand on my shoulder.

  "Just let Hope deal with her for now." He places an unopened beer on the coffee table, then takes a seat next to me.

  "They were just there, and she was there, and I lost my shit. I would never hurt her." But I did. I did hurt her.

  Finn sips his beer. "I know. It was an accident."

  My mind races in a whirlwind of guilt and horror while I stare numbly at the wall.

  Eventually, Finn goes to bed, and I grab my phone, staring at the blank screen before I pull up Poppy's name. It goes straight to voicemail, so I text her:

  Me: Possum, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you.

  I wait and wait but get no response. My heart pounds in my chest as a very real fear eats away at me. She's going to leave me. She's going to leave, and then what? She's everything, and without her, it's all completely pointless. She's the one person I cannot bear to hurt.

  I finish one beer, then another. I go from not wanting Poppy to leave to realizing, maybe she should. I think about the times I’ve hurt her—from things as stupid as the Barbie doll to parading girls in front of her when I was a teenager, thinking it would make her realize she deserved better. I took her virginity, then avoided her for months, not to mention, that was a secret we both kept from Connor…I left Connor. I left her, and now this—bringing her right down with me. I'm a disaster waiting to happen, a ticking bomb, and she's strapped right in with me just, awaiting the inevitable bang.

  She is my peace, but I just saw that even she can't quiet this demon inside me, which is why I decide to do the selfless thing for once in my shitty life. I don't want her forgiveness, I just want her to be happy and loved and safe. I will only hurt her, and that's not what love should be. So, I'll let her go.

  Me: I don't deserve your forgiveness, and I can't live with myself, knowing I've hurt you. Just know that I love you, always.

  52

  Poppy

  Hope takes away the icepack that's been on my face for the past thirty minutes, then tosses it into the sink. "This is what I was talking about. He's messed up, Poppy."

  "That wasn’t Brandon," I mumble.

  “No, Poppy, it was Brandon." With a shake of her head, she pushes away from the counter and comes to sit next to me on the sofa. "He's…”

  "He didn't know what he was doing." And that, I believe. "It was a reaction. I shouldn't have tried to stop him. I should have just…” My mind jumbles with excuses, but I can't help but wonder, am I justifying this too much? I love him, but am I trying to make something work that has no business working?

  "Did he mean to hit you? No, but did he? Yes." Hope places her hand on my knee. "He needs help, and you know it. Poppy, you work with these blokes day in and day out. You know what war can do to someone."

  What war can do to someone. War is death on so many levels, a poison that seeps through a person’s veins and never lets them go. It took Connor's life, and, on some days, Brandon is like a zombie, always haunted by the memories; the cruelty and gore. War sentenced him to hell, and so it sentenced me right along with him.

  "Poppy, I know you want to help him, but at what cost to yourself? You can't just—"

  "I can do whatever I want. It's my life." And it’s a mess. One I don’t want to discuss.

  Hope gives a curt nod before she pushes off the couch and goes back to the kitchen.

  I drag a hand over my f
ace. I shouldn’t be mad at her, but my emotions are so on edge. I’m still confused. “I’m sorry,” I say on my way to the hall. “I just. I think I need sleep.”

  “I understand, Poppy. I do.”

  I close the door to Hope’s spare room, dragging in an uneasy breath as I pass by the dresser and make a conscious effort to avoid my reflection. I'm in love with a man I've known my entire life, who houses darkness no light will ever find its way into. That part of him was created to survive, but now, I worry about how he will survive himself.

  The next morning, I wake with a sore face and a mind full of questions: Do I go home and pretend everything is okay? Do I leave him? But what kind of person would leave someone they love when they are at their darkest?

  Hope and I go to The Cozy Club for breakfast, and much to her displeasure, I decide to go home.

  The second I step into the bedroom, Brandon’s gaze snaps to mine, then falls to my cheek, his jaw tightening before his head drops forward. "I’m so sorry."

  There’s a gym bag on the bed with piles of folded clothes around it. "Where are you going?"

  "Away."

  "Away where?"

  When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, there's a distance in his eyes that I don’t like. "We're done, Poppy.” He shoves clothes into the bag. “The flat is paid up for the next six months, and all the bills are covered."

  Shock ripples through me. He’s leaving me?

  With each passing second, every new article of clothing he packs away, the worry and fear and confusion are swallowed by anger and hurt.

  My fists clench, my jaw tightens, then I grab a stack of T-shirts and hurl them across the room. “Fuck you!” I take a pair of jeans and chuck them at him, then the bag. "You don't get to give up that easy!”

  He hasn’t budged or said a word, he won’t even look me in the eye, so I shove my hands against his chest and push him as hard as I can.

  “Did you hear me, Brandon? You don't get to give up that easy!"

  Seconds tick by before he closes the space between us and pulls me against him. I fight his grip, but his thick arms pin me in place, making me feel unbearably broken in his arms.

  "I hate you," I breathe against his chest.

  "You should."

  My fingers fist his shirt. The thought of letting him go terrifies me. There is so much that's wrong between us, an ocean of loss and heartbreak, anger and sorrow, but I need him. I’ve needed him since I was ten years old. "Please,” I beg. “Don’t do this.”

  A small frown line sinks between his brows while he cups my face, tilting my head back until our eyes meet. "I love you, Poppy. But I hurt you, and sooner or later, I'll do it again. Sometimes love is about sacrifice."

  But it’s my heart that’s being put on an altar, and that doesn’t seem fair.

  "I told you once that I would destroy you." His thumb brushes my bruised cheek, sending a twinge of pain across my jaw. "I'll give everything I have not to."

  He kisses my forehead before grabbing the bag from the floor and zipping it, then he walks out of the room without a backward glance.

  After everything we’ve been through, he thinks he gets to just walk out? All of my life, Brandon has tried to decide what I do and don’t deserve, and I’m not letting him this time. He thinks his leaving will somehow save me when all it will do is inevitably destroy me. Rage bubbles to the surface, sending my pulse into overdrive.

  "You quit. Everything!” I storm after him, swiping at tears. “You quit the army, and Connor, and now me.”

  He stops midstride and whirls around with clenched fists, to face me. "How can you want this, Poppy?"

  "I don't want this." I take his hand, fighting the sob lodged in my throat. "I just want you."

  "Last night.” He yanks his hand from mine. “That is what I am. A ticking fucking time bomb, and babe, you can hate me all you like, I don't care." He reaches for the door again.

  "You don't just walk away from something like we have."

  “I’m doing it for you.”

  “Don't you dare say you are doing this for me.” I fight the emotions crawling and scratching their way up my throat. “You're doing it for yourself."

  His chin drops to his chest, and he rests his forehead against the back of the door.

  “You could get help, Brandon.”

  His palm slams onto the door, and he spins around, dropping his bag before he storms toward me. "This can't be fixed! It will always be there. I'm trapped in my own damn head. Day in day out, and when I close my eyes, do you know what I see?" His face morphs into something hard and vicious, his voice rising with each word. "I see Connor's dead eyes staring at me. I try so damn hard to bring him back. And every. Fucking. Night. He dies. Tell me, can they delete that memory? Pull it out of my head?" He taps at his temple, jaw set, and tears welling in his eyes, and I’m left speechless because no amount of my loving him will ever erase that from his mind.

  "No, they can’t take that away," I say. “But there's so much more to life than that piece of hell you constantly live in."

  His eyes shut on a hard breath. "There is more, Poppy. It's you. And I want more for you—” he gestures between us—“than this."

  And with that, he opens the door, and he leaves me.

  53

  Brandon

  I lean back in the office chair, staring across the desk at Dr. Watson. She's in her late thirties with a sharp, blond bob that screams, “speak to the manager.” Propping her elbows on the desk, she stares down the length of her nose at the paperwork in front of her.

  I sigh impatiently and fold my arms over my chest, wishing I hadn’t turned myself in. This is proving to be bullshit.

  Finally, she looks up at me, a small smile touching her lips. "It's been almost two years since you deserted, Mr. O’Kieffe."

  "Well done. You read my file," I say through clenched teeth. I don't like the word desert. It implies that I left people who were relying on me, and I didn't.

  "Well, that’s my job." Her fingers drum over the table. "Why did you leave your post?"

  "My post was at my best friend's side." My chest tightens with a pain so old and engrained you'd think I would be used to it by now. "He died. Job done," I grate out.

  "I understand it must have been hard to witness your friend pass away, but your job was with the military. Again, why did you leave?"

  I snort, plastering a smirk on my face as I lean forward. "I have no loyalty to the army. It's never done shit for me." I watch her watch me.

  "Why have you turned yourself in?"

  "I have my reasons."

  "You're good at avoiding questions, aren't you?"

  "Honestly, I'm just going through the motions. So why don't you just sign whatever you need to sign, and I can get out of this shithole."

  "It's not that easy, Mr. O’Kieffe. You need to understand, you committed a crime, and while I’m here to help you, I need to understand why you left, why you've turned yourself in."

  "I don't know why I left." I shrug one shoulder. "Vehicle blew up, everyone died except me. I got out, and I started walking, and I didn't stop." Until now, until her.

  She jots down something on her notepad. "Do you have trouble sleeping—nightmares, flashbacks?"

  I frown as I remember waking up with my arm pinned across Poppy's throat. I nod.

  "How do you handle those?"

  I huff a laugh. "You tell me."

  She nods. My leg keeps bouncing. I just want to get this shit over with and get out of here. I don't need her psychoanalyzing everything—things no bloody degree can give you a clue about. She can't help me. There's only one person who can help me, and I left her to come here. I swipe my hands down my face.

  The doctor opens her desk drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. She hands it to me along with a pen. "I want you to answer these questions based on your feelings over the past three months as best you can."

  I don't take it; instead, I just glare at her.

  "Brando
n, I need you to answer these so I can help you."

  I take the piece of paper and pen, glancing over the questions. Do you feel on edge? Do you feel worthless? Sighing, I toss the paper back onto her desk. "This is a waste of time."

  "Not many people willingly walk in here two years after they've deserted, so why, if you aren't going to cooperate, are you here?"

  I drag both hands through my hair and sigh. My heart thumps heavily in my chest, and I almost don't want to talk about Poppy, as though she's my crippling weakness. "I'm tired of running. Tired of flying under the radar."

  "Okay." She leans over her desk and pushes the paper back toward me. "Then fill this out."

  Fuck my life. I take her paper and tick no to every single one of her questions, then push it back across the desk. "See, I'm fine."

  "Being a smartass will get you nowhere, Mr. O’Kieffe." She sighs. Again. She does an awful lot of that.

  "Look, I turned myself in. Willingly walked through the damn gates. What more do you people want from me?"

  "I understand that, but what I'm afraid you don’t understand is that unless I can document what your reason for leaving your post was, you may very well end up in jail. Depending on whether you were someone who was tired of being at war or someone who has suffered severe mental trauma, the punishment the military sees fit varies." She arches a brow. "Greatly."

  I place my palms flat on her desk, clenching my jaw so hard it hurts. "With all due respect, doctor, until you have been in a war zone, until you have watched the only brother you ever had die, you can't help me. Your books don't even come close. The only person who can help me is beyond these walls, so just do whatever you need to do. Let me serve my time, so I can get back to her."

  "I’m doing what I need to do." She opens the drawer again, pulling out another one of those damn questionnaires. "You do what I need you to do, and I'll make sure you get back to her as soon as possible."

  "Fine." I go over her questions, answering them almost truthfully.