The End of All Things Beautiful

by Nikki Young

  I can see the tent from where I park my car. A blue plastic tarp draped over a metal frame that is swaying precariously as the wind from the storm blows once again. I wonder what would happen if the tented frame blew away? Would the people stay and grieve for the one who died or would they flee from the rain, more concerned about their hair and makeup, wool suits and designer dresses? I like to believe that people are innately good, but it’s a lie.

  Ever since the accident my thoughts have become disjointed and strange. No real link to anything of purpose and maybe that’s so I never think too deeply about anything.

  I watch the tarp flap and the metal frame move with the wind, again wondering if it’s anchored to the ground and wondering just what it would look like if it took flight.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Opening my glove box, I find a tiny umbrella. I slip off the cover, open my car door, and pointing the umbrella out, I open it.

  Part of me is grateful to have the umbrella and another part thinks I should sit in the rain, like it will wash away all this ugliness. That if I just wait long enough, that if I let it cover me, I’ll finally be clean of what I can’t rid myself of.

  I find a bench far enough from the gravesite that I won’t be noticed but close enough that I can watch. Even that thought is morbid and strange. Do I really want to watch his dead body be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, only to know that eventually he’ll decompose and there will be nothing left?

  I watch the funeral procession arrive, black as the sky, a line of cars driving slowly like the passage of time doesn’t matter and in a way it doesn’t. He’s already dead.

  I pull my umbrella down, shielding my face, but I still watch. I watch Samantha and Thomas climb out of the hearse and he raises his face to the rain, opening his mouth and dancing a little. He doesn’t understand. This hasn’t affected him, lost in that invincible child’s mind where people don’t die and happiness is everywhere and finding fun is only a few steps away. Tommy and I were him once.

  And it was beautiful.

  As the mourners leave their cars, a sea of colored umbrellas moving as one, as they make their way to the tent. The women’s faces are scrunched and they teeter on the tips of their toes, their heels sinking into the soft ground. This is what they’re concerned about, but I’m not surprised.

  To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others.

  A quote that to me is bullshit at its best. It’s a way to defend self-righteous behaviors, to not feel guilty when you realize you’re an egomaniac. It’s the way the world works, but it was never the way our world worked.

  Sam used to pick all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms for me, presenting me with the bowl and a huge grin on his face. I watched Benji, when he thought I wasn’t looking, hug Kelly after she failed her driver’s ed. test for the second time; his hand stroking her hair as she sobbed into his t-shirt. It was all the little things, but it was all the big things too. Those moments, that without each other we would have never endured. After Benji’s parent’s divorced, the five of us spent a week sleeping in a tent in my backyard because he just couldn’t handle being home. Or when Sam’s dog died and we buried him in the backyard despite the protests from his mother. And when I fell ice skating and broke my ankle, Tommy was the one who carried me home. It was always us.

  Each one of us more concerned with each other than we ever were with ourselves. And maybe that’s what made us different, what allowed our friendship to remain solid despite all the disappointment that existed. But the accident was the one thing that tore us apart, the one thing that broke our bond. The moment we left Sam, dead and bleeding, we left our concern for each other. When push came to shove, we chose selfishness. We chose ourselves instead of each other.

  It was the beginning of the end.

  The last breath of our dying friendship.

  I felt it that night and I still feel it today. It never fades.

  Before I even realize it, the ceremony is over. The crowd has dissipated and all that remains is the priest and the cemetery caretakers. I take it all in, this is the part that no one sees and it’s rather anticlimactic, yet harrowingly disturbing.

  The crank is being turned as the casket is lowered into the ground, and I guess I always thought it lowered it the full six feet. But I was wrong, because I hear a muffled thud as it drops below the surface. The priest bends down, scooping up a handful of dirt, he tosses it into the darkness of the hole. A few seconds later there’s a small bulldozer dumping dirt over the top. And like that it’s over.

  The priest walks away, wiping the dirt from his hands and instantly the lyrics to the Beatles Eleanor Rigby pop into my head.

  No one was saved.

  I stay longer than necessary, the bench wet and my pants now soaked to the point where they are heavy against my body. And when I stand it actually feels more difficult to walk than before.

  The reason I’m still here an hour after it all ended is because saying goodbye means letting go. It means forgetting.

  I find myself standing in front of his grave, no marker or headstone yet, but I know it’s his. I watched them bury him. And then without warning, I’m on my knees, the wet ground sinking around me, my pants clinging to my skin.

  “You’re laughing at me,” I say out loud, speaking to no one, because he’s dead. “Watching me on my knees, crying into the dirt of your fresh grave.” I swallow as I choke back the sob that has formed in my throat. “You know I don’t believe in this shit, but here I am.” I feel stupid talking to nothing. I always thought people who did this had to be crazy. The person is gone. And then I realize that maybe I’ve been crazy for the last nine years.

  I fall silent, staring down at the ground, as my thoughts become a mass of confusion, of feelings I can’t sort out or that I don’t want to sort out.

  “Why?” I ask, like he can hear me, like I’ll get an answer from the wind, some epiphany or a sign from a god I don’t believe in. I find the letter in my purse and watch my name bleed into the envelope as a drop of rain hits it.

  “This,” I say, angry, holding the letter out over the grave. “This was never supposed to be your goodbye. You weren’t supposed to leave me. We lost so much, all of us and right now I hate you. I hate you so much.” The last line comes out as a strangled scream. I’m sobbing, deep, heaving sobs until my body aches and I can’t catch my breath.

  And in this moment of weakness, I rip open the envelope, shielding it from the rain under my umbrella.

  The letter is folded in my hand, I want to crumple it up and throw it as far as I can. I want to burn it and watch it turn to ashes, but it’s all I have anymore. This and memories.

  It’s folded in thirds and I lift the first part, exposing only the first few lines of his letter, taking in his handwriting, seeing my name written by him. But after I read that first line, I’m broken. I scan the next few and that’s enough for me.

  And then there were two.

  Campbell,

  This letter will end the same way it began.

  I love you.

  Chapter Seven

  I want to say I read the letter, but I didn’t. I still haven’t as I sit on the couch in my house; the TV on, but I’m not watching. A bottle of wine sits on my coffee table, the glass in my hand because classy girls get drunk off wine and wallow in their own self-pity. Crazy girls drink several bottles and cry alone in their house. That’s me.

  I don’t have to be alone. I choose to be. Carson has sent me multiple text messages that I’ve left unanswered. The most recent coming in just seconds ago.

  Carson: Campbell, will you please answer me. Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you.

  Fuck him and his attempts at self-preservation. He doesn’t care about me; he doesn’t even know me. But the last thing I need is for him to show up here and see me clinging to this letter like it’s my only savior, drunk and crying. The explanation needs to remain hidden, bec
ause I can’t even begin to process any of it. Returning to that day, even if it is just through memories, is far too disturbing.

  I text him back, vague and formal.

  Me: I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  But I won’t. Ideally, at this point, I’d like it if he just disappeared without me having to deal with the repercussions of being in a relationship with him for the last two years.

  I knew it was wrong at the time when I accepted a date with him. It was one of those chance meetings, a fluke, something I thought would never amount to much, yet I still said yes. Looking back on it now, I think I was just looking to feel normal again. I thought if I fell in love, gave my heart away to someone else, what I had lost would return. But my heart was never mine to give away; it belonged to someone else. It always has and it always will.

  I put back the last of the bottle, leaving everything where it is; I head to bed, only to be plagued with insomnia. Before finding out about Tommy’s death, I had been sleeping fairly well. Averaging about six hours a night, which for me was stellar. I struggled to sleep for years after the accident, all of it replaying in various forms coming as nightmares that made sleeping almost impossible. Sometimes everyone died but me. Other times Sam survived but we didn’t know that until after we left him there bleeding and near death. There was also a reoccurring one where I relived the accident in full detail, yet my mind filled in the missing pieces. Graphic. Horrible. Traumatizing. It was far too realistic, and the fear of nightmares haunted me every time I laid down.

  So far the nightmares haven’t returned, but sleep has eluded me and it’s beginning to grow old. I’m exhausted and beyond drunk, yet I still toss and turn. My body finally gives up somewhere around two a.m. and while I’m grateful, my sleep is restless and unfulfilling.

  I wake before my alarm, my head pounding and my eyes stinging. The whole thing only intensifies when I sit up, and then I realize I have to go to work today. If I ditch another day, Jack will be even further up my ass than he already is.

  I haven’t even looked at my emails or my calendar since Jack sent me home and I can only imagine what I’m going to walk into today.

  Despite waking up far earlier than normal, I’m running late. I missed my train and then I flagged down a taxi that manages to get stuck in a slew of traffic. It all brings on a bought of morning rage that coupled with my epic hangover, has me swearing and telling the driver to pull over. I stuff ten bucks through the opening in the window and hop out, still at least three blocks from my office but not giving a single fuck. Maybe the cool fall air will clear my mind and help subside this hangover before I make it to the office.

  As I’m navigating the crowded streets, some asshole slams right into me, his coffee dumping all over the front of my coat and spilling down into my shoes.

  “Motherfucker!” I shout out loud and a few people stop and take me in.

  “Hey, sorry,” he mumbles, before leaving his cup rolling on the ground as he walks away.

  By the time I arrive at work, I’m not in the mood for small talk. I buzz by Claire’s desk greeting her tersely, “Claire,” I say and then I close my office door with more force than necessary.

  I toss everything onto my desk and in doing so, my purse turns over, scattering everything all over my desk and onto the floor. I fall back into my chair, a deep groan leaving my mouth on an exhale as I lean forward to begin cleaning it up. But as I do, there it is: the fucking letter.

  I pick it up and I’m immediately hit with a million emotions and the first few lines replay in my head on a continuous loop. I know I need to read it and while my office isn’t the place for it, I can’t help but pull it from the envelope. My day has been shit already and it’s only eight a.m. I might as well push it right over the edge. So that’s exactly what I start to do when my office door is flung open and Jack is standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips.

  “Jesus, fuck,” he says as he looks me up and down. “You look like shit and we have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  “Get out,” I respond not caring at all that he’s my boss as my tone drips with disrespect. I push back from my desk, pointing a finger at the door, but Jack doesn’t move. “I’ll be at the meeting,” I tell him hoping it appeases him.

  “Campbell,” he says softly and I want to punch him in the face. The pity I hear is sickening. “If you need more time off to deal with…” he trails off and shakes his head before continuing. “Whatever it is you’re dealing with, you just have to say it.”

  “I’m fine, Jack.”

  “Yeah, you’ve told me that already.”

  “Well I am.”

  “Fine,” he simply states, and then adds, “Be in the conference room in ten.” His posture and tone returns to the formality I’m used to and for some reason I find it comforting; far more so than his ill-fated attempts at soothing me with pity.

  I step into the conference room not a second sooner than Jack requested. Normally I’m not like this, but I’m suddenly consumed with an insane amount of bitterness over everything in my life. I guess I never realized it, but while I have not forgotten the accident and I never will, my efforts to keep the memories at bay were clearly somewhat successful. I was able to function on a pretty even keel, but with the letter and Tommy’s death and the funeral, meeting his wife and seeing his kid, it has forced everything to the surface and it’s ugly.

  I greet everyone in the room and Jack begins the meeting while I zone out in the chair across from him. I’m not thinking about anything in particular; I don’t really think in complete thoughts anymore. I hear a few bits and pieces of the conversation, but I have yet to interject, which is highly unlike me in this type of environment. This is the kind of thing I think about. Work. It’s the one thing that blocks my mind and I can usually focus on it without too much effort. But today is different.

  I hear Jack, but I don’t comprehend. I catch the tail end of his sentence… “beginning to bring in temps and have started the process to outsource, but it looks like this might be a loss on our part. Campbell, what do you think?” he asks and I quickly look over at him. He widens his eyes at me, awaiting an answer. And while I haven’t heard the majority of what he’s just said, I can dig myself out of this without a problem.

  “The Wright Group was purchased at a loss. I’ve been saying we should look into selling it off piece by piece in order to recoup some of what has been invested. At this point in the proceedings, we are too far gone to turn it around and need to look at possibly unloading it within the next year.” I take a breath and lean back in my chair, as Jack seems to settle down. “While it was a poor investment in the first place, it’s not a total loss on our part. There is a marketable solution to this, liquidate what is not in the red and what is, sell at wholesale and then work the numbers to find out where we can make up for the loss.”

  “Thanks, Campbell,” Jack says and I immediately go back to half listening to the conversation.

  The day finally ends and I’m exhausted. Secrets and lies take commitment and I’m finding it harder to be around people, afraid I’ll slip up. But there’s hypocrisy in it all. I ran because of what we had done, attempting to hide the truth and thinking that if I wasn’t surrounded by it, I could forget it. Yet now, the only thing I want is to be immersed in it, to find peace in Tommy’s death and stop running, but I can’t even figure out where to begin. I’m scared and unsure, the reality of it too much, but at the same time possibly exactly what I need.

  As I leave my office, I find myself wondering what I’m so afraid of. I lived through this whole thing once already, experiencing the accident, Sam’s death, Kelly’s suicide, and now Tommy. When looking at from a distance, it all hits me and I begin to wonder just why it happened to them. What makes me different? Why am I still here and will I be the next to lose everything because of this accident and what we did?

  It’s what drives me to read the letter. I arrive home with my heart racing in my chest, my palms sweaty. Nothing we
ighs as heavily on you as a secret—crushing, an impossible burden that can only be carried for so long. It eventually wrecks you, shards of your former life crumbling all around you, loud and clear.

  A glass of wine in hand, because fuck knows I’m going to need it, I sit down on the couch with the letter burning in my hand. Hot and sticky, the envelope is stiff and my name written in ink on the front is feathered from the rain.

  I take in one long, deep breath and open the envelope once again. This time more prepared for what I might find, less angry, but the hurt is still thick in my chest. The longer I wait the more my uncertainty grows.

  I chew the inside of my cheek hoping the tears will be kept at bay. But of course I’m wrong. All it takes is seeing his handwriting again, my name, and the words, And then there were two.

  I know I need to finish this and although, my eyes are blurred with the tears that continue to pool, I move forward, re-reading what I already read and forcing myself to continue.

  And then there were two.

  Campbell,

  This letter will end the same way it began.

  I love you.

  I’m sorry I failed you. No matter what I did I couldn’t overcome the demons that plagued my life. What happened to us is something I will never forget. But this letter isn’t about me; it’s about you.

  Campbell, please don’t lose what we once had. At the heart of it all, life is good and we were good people, who made a poor choice. I need you to do something for me. I’m not asking you to solve what we created; it’s too late for that now. I’m asking you to repair what’s broken, to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives and end this cycle of death and depression we’ve all found ourselves in.

  Find him and make us whole again.

  I love you.

  Tommy

  While I thought reading this letter would be the key to finding out what exactly happened to him, it isn’t. I can only speculate and that’s the last thing I need to be doing. My life since the accident has been a fucked up series of speculations, each one worse than the next.