Madness

by J. L. Vallance

  I collapsed on top of him, my breaths leaving in quick and heavy pants. Rory’s fingers moved gently up and down my spine, raising goose flesh all over my body. I shivered, pressed myself closer to him, and felt perfectly and completely whole as he enveloped me in his thick, warm arms.

  “Tell me you feel it too, Bubbles,” he begged, holding me tighter. “Tell me you can feel that shift inside. The one that can make us both better.”

  A single tear leaked from the corner of my eye. I felt it. I loved it. I hated it. And fuck, I was terrified of it.

  “I’m giving you a chance, Rory. One I’ve never given to anyone. Don’t fuck it up,” I replied, attempting to hide the second tear that came. “You’ll destroy what’s left of me.”

  **

  I sat at Rory’s table as he unpacked the breakfast he picked up while I showered. The pancakes smelled heavenly. Of course it could have just been that I was starving considering we’d not eaten dinner the night before. We had settled for devouring each other instead.

  I watched him silently as he moved. There was a calm and quiet grace about him. It wasn’t hard to miss the slight tremble in his hands as he worked to open containers or the clouds that hung in his eyes. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to know all of his struggles, all of his pains. And God help me, but I wanted to give him all of mine.

  Fear began to settle as the realization set in that for the first time since I tried to end my life, I had met someone I suddenly wanted to share all of myself with. The good, the bad, and the broken. But more than fear of wanting to bare myself to him, I was petrified of how he’d respond. He could easily drop me off at home and never call, never stop in to creepily stalk, and he could find someone new to fill whatever need he had that required filling.

  Rory smiled at me as he put a plate on the table in front of me, along with a bottle of syrup. I fixed my pancakes and started to eat, my ravenous appetite from not five minutes ago suddenly dissolved. My mouth was dry and the food tasted like dirt.

  My stomach was filled with a million butterflies, and my heart pounded heavily in my chest. My mind flopped back and forth wondering how the next few minutes would go. I had no choice now; I had to tell him about my past. I wanted to explore a future with him, and I couldn’t unless he knew all of my secrets. He had to make the choice to embark on whatever this would be, knowing all that came with me.

  “It’s snowing again,” he said, his words reaching me. I nodded and took a sip of milk.

  “I spent some time in a psychiatric facility.” The words flowed so easily. They left me in a rush, one fluid sentence.

  The look I faced wasn’t one of disgust or even disapproval. It was one of intrigue and empathy. I was instantly grateful it wasn’t one of pity.

  “I’ll admit, Bubbles, that was the very last thing I expected you to say.”

  “I’ll admit, Mr. O’Neill, that was the very last thing I expected to ever admit to you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I expected this to end before I’d ever need to,” I admitted and he nodded.

  “Can I ask what happened?” Rory asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  “I have an illness—bipolar with major depressive disorder. I was diagnosed when I was fourteen. Besides a few bouts of promiscuity, terrible grades, and one majorly embarrassing shoplifting encounter I was good once my meds were stabilized. I always took my meds as I was supposed to and attended regular doctor appointments,” I recalled. “But, when I was in college, I started to resent the fact that I had to take medication every day. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be like every other student on campus. I thought that because I felt fine and had received my diagnosis so young, they had to have made a mistake. So, I quit taking my meds.”

  “I don’t know much about your illness, but I know that’s never recommended.”

  “No, it’s not,” I replied. “I either felt entirely too much or not enough. I made a lot of really terrible decisions and hurt a lot of really good people that didn’t deserve to be hurt. Slowly, I began to sink into a deep, dark hole. One that I couldn’t dream of digging out of. And one day, I couldn’t stomach the pain I was being crushed under anymore.”

  “You tried to kill yourself,” Rory nearly whispered. He’d dropped his fork to his plate, his hands rubbing his thighs beneath the table.

  “I almost did,” I whispered back.

  He looked white as he stared at me. I opened my mouth to say something, anything to ease some of the tension surrounding us as my phone began to ring for the tenth time since we woke.

  “You should take that,” Rory recommended, rising from the table, setting our dishes in the sink.

  “Look,” I said, ignoring him and the phone, “I spent some time in the hospital, got back on my meds, made promises to people—mainly my dad—and I have been good for two years. That is why I don’t date, why I have—had—my arrangement with Lukas.”

  Rory remained at the sink, looking out the window. His shoulders were squared, his back tight and tense as he stayed silent. Wordlessly, I begged him to say something, anything.

  “There are times that I fear my illness more than anything else in the world. It has this power over me; one that I can’t do anything about,” I admitted, my words met with silence.

  He turned, brushing past me, grabbed his coat and keys and walked to the door.

  “I. . .have to go.” I wanted him to say something, but not that. I didn’t want him to run. But I watched him go; I said nothing to make him stay.

  I sat at the table, feeling more numb than anything. Well, numb along with incredibly nauseated. Why does he always do that—run away when things got deep? Isn’t that what he wanted from me?

  And how stupid am I—giving my body and potentially more to him?

  Colossally stupid.

  Chapter 18

  I shouldn’t have run.

  I couldn’t have stayed.

  I had been barely holding onto reality before she said the words that made me crumble inside. I wanted to turn to her, pull her into me, and revel in our shared pain and desolation. I wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to make her believe that it was okay. I knew that was all she wanted. Approval and acceptance.

  But I fucking ran.

  The idea of Francesca hurting herself—of her trying to end the beautiful spirit that soared in her veins—it broke my tentative hold onto reality. Ryan flashed into my mind, reminding me he’d never really leave. He’d always be there to haunt me whenever a trigger invited him in. And fuck me, the only thing that could make it better were pills and a half a bottle of vodka. It calmed the tremors, the ones that started from somewhere deep in my chest, moving out through my limbs, and it cleared my mind.

  I left the woman I knew for a fact that I was falling in love with standing alone in my kitchen. She shared her body, her soul, her deepest secret with me, and I left her. I walked out to find solace at the local liquor store, buying a bottle of their cheapest vodka, and driving to the shop. I parked the car and swallowed a few pills with multiple large gulps of the clear liquid. It burned like fuck going down. It felt good—the pain was cleansing.

  I punched the steering wheel, releasing a freeing scream.

  “Ryan, I fucking hate you,” I seethed, staring at the hood of the car. “I hate you for giving up, for leaving me, and for killing me right along with yourself.”

  I sat idle in the car for a few minutes, sipped the vodka a couple more times, and then climbed out into the cold. I was numb and Ryan. . .Ryan was fading away. And I wanted him to stay the fuck away. That was the only chance I’d have at making it out.

  **

  “This is where that joker lives, huh?”

  I opened the door to Karleigh—hand on hip and scowl on face. She’d been sleeping when I called her and begged her to drive out of town to pick me up. It was more than uncomfortable to admit that I needed the pick up because my would-be boyfriend escaped quickly after I admitted I spent time in a psych facility
. That stung more than I wanted to face at the moment. Fact was, he’d brought me here. . .in his car. I surely couldn’t walk home in a blizzard.

  “So it seems,” I replied, forcing her to back up so I could walk out and close the door.

  “What’s it like in there?” she asked, craning her neck to see into Rory’s apartment.

  “Like a single guy’s apartment, Karls. Can we go?”

  “Your chariot awaits, princess.”

  I walked to her car and climbed in, reveling in the heat blasting through the registers. I held my hands up, hoping to chase away the chill. It didn’t work. I was chilled from deep within.

  “How long ago did he leave?” she asked, putting the car in drive and pulling out onto the road.

  “About two hours. I sat at the table, staring at the wall in shock for a while. Then I weighed out the pros and cons of attempting to walk home—one major con being the possibility of losing toes as well as frost bite on my bare legs. I figured that alone outweighed any pros, so I called you. And you took a goddamn hour to get here.”

  “I’m sorry, I was not running out in my Kermit jammies just because you were in a hot hurry to leave the scene of the crime,” she huffed.

  “And what the fuck crime would that be?”

  “Coitus.”

  “You’re such a dick.”

  “And you’re such a. . .No, you know what? I am above the name calling,” she replied, her eyes glued to the road.

  “Is this a new development?” I asked with a smirk.

  “I’ll not dignify that with a response,” Karleigh answered. “Ya know, you get some new ass, and you get all bitchy. Why the hell are you out in the snow without pants anyway?”

  I glanced down at the short-ish sweater dress and my bare, pale legs, and sighed.

  “My leggings were damaged.”

  “Mr. SexyPants got a little saucy, huh?”

  We approached the center of Cyprus where the street was littered with cars in the Business District. I could see the lit, neon sign for Mad Max O’Neill’s. My heart ached in my chest as I remembered last night—every pulse racing, breath stealing moment—and this morning. There was no way I’d been wrong about Rory. He was worth letting the walls down. Something had been hinting at that since November. As much as the idea terrified me.

  “Pull in up here,” I directed, pointing toward an empty space in front of Rory’s shop, ignoring her smartass remarks.

  “Why?”

  “He’s going to listen to what I have to say. And for his own good, he better have some words to say back.”

  Karleigh barely had the car in park when I opened the door and darted out. I crossed the space between the curb and the storefront in seconds and pulled the door open forcefully. The bells chimed, and I looked at the sign that said, “Press buzzer for service,” and mentally flipped it the bird. I gripped onto the handle of the door leading out into the workshop and opened it.

  The sound of running equipment and loud metal music filled the air. How would they hear a buzzer if one were to push it? I could barely hear the thoughts racing through my head. And there were many—too many.

  I approached a beat up looking Chevy, my eyes glued to the jean-clad legs sticking out from beneath it. I pulled back and kicked a thigh, getting only a small measure of satisfaction out of the string of curses that followed.

  “What the fuck, Rory?” A man pushed out from under the car, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to throttle me. Grease streaked his face, his hands covered completely. Mad Max, I wondered. I felt a little guilt; I’d meant to kick Rory. “You’re not supposed to be back here, sugar.”

  “Do I look like I really give a damn where I am ‘supposed’ to be? Nope, I’m here,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. “Where is O’Neill?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t you be looking for him?” he replied, sitting up on the creeper. His medium brown hair was a disheveled mess, accented with grease and metal shavings. “He’s in the back, but he’ll be no good to ya, sugar.”

  “Do I look like a ‘sugar’ to you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Last I checked, I didn’t flash my tits for tips in a seedy club.”

  “What would you prefer I call you, vinegar? Seems much more fitting at the moment.”

  “How about you not call me anything?”

  “Seems a little rude and impersonal. But, I can do whatever you’d like.”

  I started to turn from him, stopping on my heel, turning back. Why would Rory be no good to me? I asked him as much.

  “He’s fucking wasted,” he replied, throwing his arms out around him. “Like always.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked myself, out loud. “Because you fucking scared him away.”

  “I can guarantee you one thing—you had little to do with his state of being,” he replied, standing to throw a tool into the box beside the car. “Are you Francesca?” I nodded. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with—he’s damaged goods.”

  I laughed bitterly. Look that phrase up in the dictionary, find a photo of Frankie Winters. “Guess it’s a good thing I am too.”

  I turned away from Max, starting toward the back of the workshop when fingers wrapped around my wrist, halting me. I turned back to Max, took in his deep gray eyes and the painful set of his jaw.

  “He’s been a different man since Ryan’s death. Rory is the one that found him, that tried to bring him back to life. He may have lost his twin that day, but he fucking lost himself too. And now, he treats the depression and the flashbacks of seeing Ryan with the meds of his choosing. Trust me when I tell you that none of them are healthy, recommended, or legal.”

  The nausea was back. It was accompanied by a little bit of pain, right in the center of my gut. Maybe I’m developing an ulcer. . . Max’s words, the things he said, all made sense. It explained too many things and that made my head spin. Ryan wasn’t just Rory’s brother, he was his twin. They’d probably shared everything from conception until Ryan’s death. Rory found him. . .and tried to save him. The impact of all that had to be tremendous.

  “He doesn’t have to be lost,” I spoke so softly, I could barely hear myself. “How did he do it?”

  Call it sick curiosity, call it morbid fascination—I called it a need to know what Rory saw. What had he found the day that I imagine he wished he could erase from his life? I needed to know how traumatic, how horrific. In my mind, I rationalized that my ability to reach him and help him out of his own personal hell, all hinged on the way that Ryan ended his life.

  “Single gunshot to the temple.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding and ran a shaking hand through my hair. I’d be a fucking drunk too if I had lived that.

  “Has no one helped him in the past three years? What about his parents?”

  “I have tried to help him. But to be able to help someone, they have to want and accept it.” Wasn’t that the truth? “His parents are not in his life. They were barely there before Ryan’s death.”

  There was Rory, swimming out to sea, constantly fighting the current that wanted to pull him under. And he was all alone. He’d survived it for three years. How much longer could he manage?

  “Is he safe to be here, working?”

  “Not in the littlest bit. But, I was so fucking overjoyed at the fact that he actually showed up, I let him at it.”

  “I’m taking him out of here, Max,” I announced, holding my head high. “He will be here tomorrow, clean.”

  “Beautiful girl, don’t go pinning your hopes on a lost man. He’ll pull you down with him, and you’ll crash and burn.”

  “I’ve already crashed and burned, Max. I’m also the owner of no hopes,” I replied, feeling braver. “I’m just a girl with a sick mind and an empty heart. Call it fate, serendipity, or just dumb luck—but something brought the two of us together. Rory fills up that empty space, and I think I’m finally tired of being cold and hollow.”

  I strode away from him and moved
to the back, followed the sounds of tools crashing. Rory staggered around the small space, his eyes dulled and lost as he stared at the car sitting in front of him. He picked up the airbrush wand and just stood still.

  “Rory?” I called to him. His head snapped to the side, and he looked at me with a mixture of shock, confusion, and humiliation. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

  “Bubbles,” he slurred, making no movement toward me. “I have a lot of work to catch up on. Max would be pissed if I left.”

  I moved closer to him, wrapping my fingers around his hand. Rory looked down at our touching skin and then looked back up at me. My heart ached at the bitter sadness that swam in the depths of his eyes.

  “I don’t give a fuck about Max,” I said softly. “I told him I was taking you home, that you’d be back tomorrow. I told him you’d be better then.”

  “You have lunch with your mom.”

  “I’ll cancel.”

  “You have your work.”

  “It will still be there in the morning,” I returned. “Didn’t you want me to take a chance on you, O’ Neill?”

  “I’m a mess, Frankie.” He called me Frankie. My pulse kicked up, though I never would have thought it possible for it to beat a second faster than it was already.

  “You’re not alone. . .in messiness.”

  “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

  “I understand why you left. I just need to know, Rory, before I let myself go any further, are you willing to take a chance on me too?”

  He dropped the tool in his hand, allowing it to clang to the concrete floor. He turned to fully face me, threading his fingers into my hair, pressing his forehead to mine.

  “I’ll take whatever chance you will give me, Francesca. Just don’t give up on me.”

  “Then don’t give up on yourself. I can’t sit around, waiting forever while you are throwing it all away.”

  Chapter 19

  I had all the time to fall in love.