Apathy and Vigor

by Faye Hall

  Tristen stirred from his sleep early the next morning, a loud knock on his bedroom door dragging him from his drug-induced stupor. Lifting his head, he tried to focus on where he was laying. Why am I on the floor? Pushing himself to a sitting position, he struggled to clear his senses. Again there was a knock on the door.

  “Enter!” he yelled, his head pounding.

  The door slowly opened, and one of the servants stood before him, his hat in his hands.

  “What do you want?” Tristen asked.

  The servant just stood there, his fingers crumpling his hat as he shifted from foot to foot. The bleakness on the man’s face filled Tristen with dread.

  “What has happened?” he asked, a lump in his throat.

  The servant shuffled his feet. “There was an accident bringing some families across the Burdekin River last night,” he said, his words breaking from obvious distress. “The boat capsized.”

  Remembering that his parents had gone across to Inkerman last night on business, Tristen held his breath. “Where are my parents?”

  Tears began to overcome the servant as he shook his head. “They went down with the boat, sir. They tried to save them, but the tide took them down river. Search crews looked all night. The bodies were finally found early this morning.”

  Tristen reached for the bottle of whiskey that lay on the floor near his leg and threw it in the direction of the servant. It hit the wall beside him, narrowly missing his head.

  “Get out!” Tristen yelled.

  He reached up to the drinks tray on his desk and pulled down another bottle of whiskey. Grabbing the heroin bottle on the floor near his feet, he opened it and poured out several tablets. Placing them in his mouth, he washed them down with the harsh, brown liquor from the bottle.

  He was tired of this life. Tired of the pain. Tears consumed him as he rolled to the floor, curling himself into a ball. He had lost everything—everyone he’d ever loved was gone. Shutting his eyes, he prayed for eternal sleep to take him so he no longer had to feel the loss he was being forced to know.

  Darkness engulfing him, his thoughts drifted back to another time and place where he knew no pain. All there had been was happiness and passion. Passion? He needed Amalie there with him now. If she were there, then he would be able to cope with anything.

  Feeling soft, feminine fingers stroking his cheek, brushing his hair away from his face, his eyes shot open. “Amalie?” he asked, trying to focus his sight. He needed it to be her, kneeling beside him, promising to stay with him always.

  When finally he focused his gaze, he saw that it wasn’t his love returned to him as he ached for. Crouched beside him was one of the maids.

  “Sir?” her silken voice asked. “What has happened to you?”

  Her words should have soothed him, but they didn’t. Instead they angered him as nothing else could have at that moment.

  “What are you doing in here?” Tristen asked, struggling to sit up. “I never asked you to come in here!”

  As he lifted his hand to push the woman’s caressing hand away, he moved toward her, causing her to lose her balance and fall backward away from him. When she screamed, his gaze quickly went to her, and he immediately noticed that she was holding her bloodied hand, shards of glass protruding from her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized as he stumbled toward her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She backed away, leaping to her feet and running from the room.

  “Argh!” he yelled into the emptiness around him. He seemed to keep hurting everyone who got close to him. No more. Dragging himself to his feet, he staggered to the door, went into the hallway, and bent over the railing. “I will receive no one!” he yelled down to the servants below, who were tending to the injured maid. “And no one comes to my room unless I send for them!”

  He returned to his room and slammed the door shut behind him. Walking over to the drinks tray, he reached for a bottle of whiskey, and lifting it to his mouth, he drank heavily from it, the brown liquid warming him. This wasn’t the life he wanted, and he would do anything to escape from it. Tripping on the smashed pieces of his bedside table, Tristen fell to the floor, curling himself up in a ball. Sorrow overcoming him, he closed his eyes and wished for death.

  * * * *

  When Tristen woke up, still on the floor of his room, he immediately looked around at the broken glass covering the floor and knew he had not yet been spared the pain of living. Turning toward the window, he noticed the sun was still quite high in the sky. He needed to get out of this room and clear his head.

  He crawled over to the desk and pulled himself up, suddenly feeling very weak. Leaving his room, he walked to the rear of the estate and the garden outside. He sat down in one of the garden chairs, his head buried in his palms. The pounding in his head was so intense he ached to cut it open and remove the offending part.

  “I’m assuming you’re responsible for the young woman now leaving with the doctor?” he heard a familiar voice ask him.

  Tristen lifted his head, squinting at the glaring sunlight. Finally, his eyes focused on the man who dared to intrude upon his solitude. Bastian Tanner.

  “What are you doing here?” Tristen asked, his tone harsh. “I left strict instructions no one was to be allowed into the estate.”

  Bastian took a seat on the chair opposite him. “Losing your fiancée, friend, and parents in a matter of weeks is a tragedy beyond most. But surely you must know that locking yourself away won’t bring them back.”

  Tristen turned away from him, his gaze focused on a spot on the ground in front of him. “I have lost no more than any other,” he uttered softly, not really wanting to engage in any amount of conversation with this man. How could he, knowing that he had taken his place in Amalie’s life?

  “When I heard about your parents, I insisted Amalie come and pay her respects to you, but she refused,” Bastian said.

  That made him look up, his gaze meeting the other man’s. “Why did she refuse?”

  Bastian leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed against his chest. “Surely you must understand that despite whatever friendship you once had with her, Amalie wouldn’t want to see the man who murdered her brother.”

  “What?” Tristen asked, confused by what he was hearing. “You mean she actually thinks I was the one who lit the fire that killed Jacob and Amanda?”

  “It is what most people assume in the town,” he replied. “Why else would you have been out there with Jacob at that time of night if not to catch him and Amanda together?”

  Tristen didn’t miss the smug look on Bastian’s face as he stood from his seat.

  “Any man would have been furious to discover that his best friend and fiancée were having an affair, but to kill them?” Bastian continued. “Such an act is really unforgivable.”

  “I think you should leave now!” Tristen insisted.

  “By the look of that scar on your face, I’d say the gods have already repaid you for the evil you have done,” Bastian stated as he went to walk past him.

  Tristen stood, reaching out for the other man. Grabbing him by the shirt, he dragged Bastian toward him. “Why did you come here?” he demanded. “To belittle me?”

  Bastian shook his head. “I came to tell you never to seek out Amalie again. She can’t bear the mere sight of you, nor shall she ever be able to forgive you for taking her brother away from her. You go to the Fergus estate again and you will be shot on sight.”

  Tristen let him go, throwing him back away from him in the process.

  “Get out of here!” Tristen spat the words at him, his emotions in turmoil at knowing that he now had no chance to rekindle things with Amalie. Still, he kept his emotions in check. He refused to show weakness in front of this man.

  Tristen watched Bastian turn and leave the garden before falling back into his chair. How could Amalie ever think he would have intended to kill Jacob? Did she really think so little of him? His fingers went to the scars on his cheek
. It was no wonder Amalie could no longer bear the sight of him. Still, he’d hoped that after the intimate past they’d shared, she would at least allow him to explain his side of what happened the night her brother died. Apparently, his hopes were in vain.

  Looking around him at the vastness of the property that now belonged to him upon the death of his parents, Tristen knew he would surrender it all if it meant he could have back the people he had lost. Forcing himself to stand, he walked into the house, his steps heavy as he made his way up to his room. He wanted to just hide away from the world and the cruelty it had dealt him. He didn’t want to exist.

  He stepped toward the drinks tray, wanting nothing more than to drown himself in the bottles until death consumed him. He picked up the container of heroin tablets and poured several of them into the palm of his hand. His fingers had just wrapped around the neck of one of the bottles of whiskey, ready to wash down the opioid, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Go away!” Tristen yelled, knowing he certainly wasn’t in the mood for seeing anyone.

  The door opened despite his order. Turning to see who might be brave enough to disobey him, Tristen’s gaze rested on the figure of his father’s lawyer, Douglas.

  “I made it quite clear that I didn’t want to see anyone,” Tristen roared, turning away from the intruder and back to the task at hand.

  “And I promised your father I would protect his assets, including you,” Douglas said, stepping into the room and approaching Tristen.

  Douglas tried to grab the bottle and pills from him, but Tristen put up a fight. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was no match for the lawyer. No sooner had Tristen thought to find another way to handle this matter than he felt the sharp pain of a fist in his gut. Falling to his knees, he gasped for the breath that had been forced from him.

  “You selfish, little bastard!” Douglas spat at him, reaching for the bottle and pills that had fallen to the floor. “You think I will let you throw away everything your father worked so hard for?”

  Tristen coughed, struggling to stand. “What I choose to do with my life is none of your business.”

  “Oh yes, it is!” Douglas rebutted. “Your father made me a lot of money over the years, and I intend for that to continue. I won’t watch his only heir drown himself in a whisky bottle because things got difficult.”

  Finally getting to his feet, Tristen rushed toward him, his anger fueling him. “You have no idea what I’ve been through!” he yelled, charging at him.

  Douglas knocked off his attempts of attack with ease. “What you have been through?” he asked. “Do you have any idea what your father went through when he came to this country, you ignorant bastard? He certainly didn’t sit and wallow in a corner every time things got hard.”

  Tristen stepped away from him. “I am not my father.”

  Douglas shook his head. “No, you aren’t, but nor are you a fool. Look around you. This is all you have left in the world, Tristen. If you’re smart, you will keep the business running, even if it’s just so you can have a roof over your head.”

  He studied the lawyer. What he said held some merit. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. “I will sign whatever I have to. You ensure there is enough staff to run that station out there, and you take care of any business meetings that are needed.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Douglas explained. “You can’t just not show up at meetings. People will not do business with a ghost.”

  “Nor will they do business with a monster!” Tristen yelled. He breathed deep, knowing he had to steady his anger if he were to convince this man to do what was needed. “I will pay you thirty percent of all profits if you handle the meetings and anything else that requires someone to be there in person.”

  Douglas stared at him for a long time, and Tristen was certain he would be called a fool. Finally, the other man nodded.

  “I will do this for now, but sooner or later you will have to leave this house. You can’t wallow in your grief and self-pity forever.”

  Tristen turned away from him and poured himself a drink. “My parents are dead. As too is my best friend.” He turned to face Douglas. “And I have just been told that the woman I was sleeping with is engaged to Bastian Tanner and refuses to see me because she believes me to be the monster who murdered her brother. I am positive that gives me the right to disappear from the world if I so choose.”

  Douglas studied him. “I will come and see you every Friday with the papers that need to be signed.” He turned toward the door. His hand on the handle, he stalled, turning back to glance at Tristen. “There is more to the engagement of Amalie and Bastian than I think you realize. It certainly isn’t a love match.”

  Tristen downed his drink in one gulp. “She refuses to see me, so it seems what we shared held no tender emotion either.” He poured another drink. “I shall expect those papers in a few days.”

  Taking that as his dismissal, Douglas left the room, shutting the door behind him. What if Douglas was right and this engagement had been arranged for another reason...like money? Tristen rushed to the door and flung it open.

  “Douglas, wait,” he yelled. “When you come next week, bring me a list of properties Bastian owns and what businesses he deals with.”

  The lawyer nodded before continuing on his way.

  Returning to his room, Tristen went to his desk and sat down. He knew what kind of businessman his father had been. Ruthless to a fault. Was that what he was to become now? He didn’t know how to though. While his father was alive, Tristen had sat with him during business meetings and went with him to sales, but he was the first to admit he didn’t pay anywhere near enough attention. Now he had to figure it out for himself and hope he didn’t make a mistake.

  * * * *

  “Tristen!” he heard through the fog in his mind, followed by a stinging pain across his cheek. “You sanctimonious little bastard! Where the hell were you this morning?”

  Struggling to open his eyes, he looked back at Douglas. “Is it Friday all ready?” he slurred.

  “The funeral for your parents was today,” Douglas reminded him. “Why were you not there?”

  Tristen shook his head, his hands pressing hard against his eyes as his emotions were stirred. “I couldn’t go. I couldn’t bear yet another reminder of all the people who have been taken away from me.” Squinting from the offending light, his hands fumbled around, looking for his bottle of pills.

  “You need to stop this,” Douglas chastised him sternly, moving them out of his reach. “This stuff is dangerous. Do you want to die?”

  Tristen slowly, but fully, opened his eyes. “Yes, I do. Without Amalie, this station, the money, everything, it’s worthless.”

  “I won’t let you do this,” Douglas insisted. “If I must do business with you, then you will have to have a clear mind.”

  “You can’t stop me,” he slurred, reaching for the almost empty bottle of whiskey.

  Douglas went to him before he could grab it and, placing his arm around him for support, helped him to stand from where he sat at his desk. “Are you so arrogant that you think you’re the only drug addict I’ve ever had to deal with?”

  He didn’t reply immediately, instead thinking on Douglas’s words. “I’m not an addict,” he finally said. “I can stop taking those pills anytime I like.”

  Douglas directed him toward the door. “And you’re going to do exactly that right now.”

  Once out of his room, Tristen looked around at the servants standing along the hall. It looked like they were all there, and they had been waiting for him.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, suddenly fearful of what might happen to him. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to either help you or kill you,” explained Douglas. “We should know in a few weeks which exactly it will be.”

  Walking Tristen into his father’s old bedroom, Douglas sat him on the bed.

  “Where are the curtains?” Tristen asked. “Wher
e are all my father’s things?”

  “You can have them back when I can be certain you are no longer a danger to yourself,” Douglas replied. Walking to the door, he stopped beside the servants waiting there. “You are not to open the door to him for any reason unless I am here. Do you understand?” Waiting until they nodded obediently, Douglas turned back to him. “I will be back later to check on you.”

  “You’re leaving me here?” he demanded to know. “What the devil for?”

  “You may not want to live, Tristen, but there are still people in this town who care about you and depend on you. For that reason, I will make sure you beat this addiction before it finally succeeds in killing you.”

  Douglas stepped out of the room. “Lock the door,” he instructed the servants.

  The door shut hard, and hearing the key turning in the lock, Tristen rushed over to it and tried the handle. Nothing. Running over to the one table in the room, he opened the drawer. Nothing. The entire room was bare except for a bed, desk, and chair. There was no alcohol, nor any heroin. Hurrying to the windows, he noticed immediately that they were barred.

  “Argh!” he screamed out into the emptiness around him.

  * * * *

  Hours turned into days. Days into what seemed a lifetime for Tristen. At least twice a day, Douglas came to check on him, his visits short. His meals were passed through a locked flap in the door. There was a commode for his personal routines. Other than that, all he had to occupy himself were his own thoughts and memories, both good and bad.

  As the days passed, he wished for death. There was incessant nausea, as well as joint pain so severe he thought he were a cripple. He felt constantly weak, one minute suffering from extreme sweating, the next chills covering his body as if he were in the Arctic.

  Never before had he gone through what he was feeling trapped in this room all by himself. Not even after that tragic night did he remember a pain like this.

  With each passing day, his memories from the night of the fire became clearer, and he began to recall everything he’d seen that night. He also remembered his meeting with Jacob just prior to his death. Someone had sent him a letter asking to meet with him, pretending to be Tristen. Who would have done such a thing? Maybe if he could find who sent that note, he might get closer to finding out who had lit that fire.