by Bera, Ilia
Tarun looked around at the brittle old drywall he’d been assigned to remove. It was mouldy, damp, and beginning to droop off of the feeble wooden frame it had been poorly attached to.
“How sure of that are you?” Tarun said with a smile.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No, dad.”
“Is this too early for you?”
“No—I mean, yes. It’s six in the morning. Everyone else in the world is fast asleep,” Tarun said.
“What were you staring at?” Vish asked, walking up next to his son.
“Nothing.”
“That girl there?”
“No, dad.”
“She’s a very pretty girl,” Vish said.
“I wasn’t staring at the girl, dad.”
“Were you staring at a boy?”
“No! What? I wasn’t staring at anyone.”
“I didn’t raise a liar, Tarun.”
Tarun sighed and looked into his father’s stubborn beady eyes. He couldn’t help but laugh at his dad’s newfound optimism.
“Every time that girl walks past the building, you turn into Mama Mumbar’s Rice Pudding,” Vish said.
“Mama Mumbar’s Rice Pudding?”
“You are like a dog.” Vish’s accent was still as thick as the day he stepped off the plane.
“Sorry. I’ll get right back to the drywall,” Tarun said, turning back to the wall and picking up a crowbar.
“Why don’t you take her on a date?” Vish asked.
“What?”
“The girl. Why don’t you take her on a date?”
“Dad, c’mon.”
“If you don’t, someone else will.”
“It’s fine, dad. I don’t think I’m her type.”
“What?!” Vish shouted. “My son? My son is everyone’s type!”
“She’s just—She’s different. Different than me,” Tarun said.
“Ah! Difference is the key. There is no relationship without difference. There is no white without black—no day without the night.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I get it.”
“Get what?” Tarun asked.
“Too cool to listen to your father. Too hip for daddy.”
“Oh God, dad. Never say that again. Please.”
“Your dad can be cool too, you know. Your dad was very cool back in his day. You probably don’t know this, but I was a roadie for Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak. I had all of their cassette tapes.”
“Believe me—I know.”
“He was the coolest in my days. There was none cooler than Qayamat.”
Tarun laughed and turned back to his duties. He prepared to strike the wall with the crowbar.
“Just remember this: Mumbars do not settle for anything! I did not settle until I got your mother. I would not settle.”
Tarun looked over at his dad and smiled. “I know, dad.”
“Just like Jennifer Aniston! Misses Aniston waited until she found the right man! Not like those other Hollywood hotshots! George Clooney, Tarun—a real Silver Fox.”
Tarun laughed. His father walked back into the other room, humming his favourite Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak tune.
With each passing night, Brittany had gotten less and less sleep. It was her dream—it was every girl’s dream to wake up every morning next to a charming, strong, handsome man. It was something Brittany fantasized about her whole life. She wanted so badly to enjoy the moment, but her mind had no intentions of letting her relax. Every night was a gamble. Every night, Brittany closed her eyes and prayed that she wouldn’t wake up with a craving—she prayed that Kane wouldn’t clue in to her true identity.
There was a cloud of painful uncertainty in Kane’s apartment. What if Kane did suddenly find out? Would he live up to his title of vampire hunter? Or would he be able to look past it? He said “I love you,” but did he mean it?
Every night, Kane had been getting less and less sleep as well. With every new victim and every new headline, his guilt became more and more overwhelming. With each passing day, he became increasingly anxious that the police were going to find him. Kane’s spiralling anxiety was quickly pulling his attention away from Brittany. Just like his new lover, Kane wanted to enjoy their time together—but he couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he tried, and the harder he tried, the harder it became—a vicious, perpetuating cycle.
Brittany woke up early that morning as a cold draft seeped through the thin apartment wall—it didn’t help that, yet again, the Mumbars were up bright and early, renovating the empty apartments below.
The dark-skinned beauty rolled over slowly to see Kane sitting up in the bed, with his knees against his thick, scarred chest.
“What’s wrong?” Brittany said.
Kane looked down at Brittany and forced a smile. “You’re up,” he said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah—I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Because of the noise?” Brittany asked.
Kane thought for a moment. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you ask them to start later tomorrow? So you can get some more sleep.”
“Yeah…” Kane said, his mind drifting back to his propagating anxiety. “Maybe I will.”
It was obvious to Brittany that Kane wasn’t being kept awake because of the renovations. “You should try to go back to sleep—it’s still so early.”
“I might try to get a head start on the day,” Kane said.
Brittany cuddled her body in close to Kane and looked up into his eyes. “Why don’t you stay and lay with me for a while?” she asked, running the tip of her finger down Kane’s stacked chest.
Kane continued to stare blankly into space, as if his brain had filtered out Brittany’s voice. Brittany shuffled herself in even closer, pressing herself up against Kane’s warmth. “Babe?”
“Um,” Kane thought. “Sure—Just for a bit.” So preoccupied in his own mind, he was missing Brittany’s blunt signals. He looked down at his young lover and forced a smile.
“Are you going to lay down?” Brittany asked, running her soft hand along the thick muscles in Kane’s arms.
Kane’s eyes remained glazed.
Brittany wanted her man to relax—she felt that it was her duty to get his mind off of the world, even if it was only for just a few minutes. Gently with her fingers, she began to sink down low, over Kane’s hard chest and his rippling abs.
One little victory—As her sensual fingers cleared Kane’s solid abs, she grabbed on firmly, finally getting a rouse from the muscular hunter. Kane took a sharp breath inwards as Brittany playfully massaged her lover under the warm blanket.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Kane returned to the present. He looked down at the smiling Brittany, and returned the smile. He placed his hand on the side of her soft face, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. She was beautiful—in all of his anxiety and stress, he nearly forgot just how beautiful she was.
Kane sunk his body down slowly to Brittany’s level and he wrapped his hand gently around Brittany’s head, sinking his fingers into her soft hair. His other arm slipped tightly around his girl and he pulled her in close. They kissed.
Playful lip nibbling and the sensual joining of tongues sent both of the lovers far from the issues that weighed so heavily on their shoulders. Their hands moved up and down their bodies as the world around them became quieter and quieter. Somehow, in all of their light-hearted touching, wrestling, grasping and rubbing, Brittany’s panties had found themselves abandoned at the foot of the bed.
Their physical intimacy was practically an automatic series of events—so natural, so subtle, and so gentle. It was as if their bodies slowly joined together into a single entity, seemingly without thought, without effort. The partners had found themselves in the perfect position, ready for the fireworks.
Kane pushed in sharply, eliciting a shrill moan from his gentle black beauty. Brittany’s fingers clenched tight into the hunter’s muscular back. Revelling
in the moment, Kane let his face fall down over Brittany’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and turned his head towards the pretty young girl. Lost in a surge of passion, he began to suck on Brittany’s neck.
Just moments ago, Brittany was still fast asleep, dreaming of things long forgotten. The romantic foreplay lasted only a short while before their sexual desire overpowered the moment. Once the act begun, the romance began to fade away—fast.
Kane’s movements were hard and sharp—quickening and strengthening with each thrust. The once adoring moment was suddenly something else. It had become an outlet—an outlet for Kane, an outlet to release all of his stress, his anxiety, his anger and his guilt. Every hard penetration was backed with meaning—with selfish purpose.
Kane’s muscles tightened and his veins protruded out, throbbing harder and harder—faster and faster. Da-Dum! Da-Dum! Da-Dum!
“Kane…” Brittany muttered as she held on tightly to the boy.
Kane ignored his partner. Their moment had been hijacked—commandeered and repurposed. Kane was not interested in some mutual experience—he wasn’t interested in being a “lover”. This was therapeutic, and he had chosen Brittany as the victim of his aggressive therapy.
“Kane!” Brittany said sharply, digging her fingers deeper into Kane’s back, piercing his skin.
Kane lifted his head up and looked towards the ceiling. He opened his mouth and released a battle cry—a fierce, frustrated and angry battle cry. He was intensely overpowering. Each swift entry was painful, but curiously euphoric. Brittany was starting to surrender to the intense force of her boyfriend.
Their positions had become awkward, uncomfortable. The force of the act had brought them up against the wall behind the bed. The sheets, blankets and pillows were a mess around them. A simple solution was a quick moment of repositioning—but such a moment didn’t have a place in Kane’s itinerary. Stopping was not an option.
“Oh God,” Brittany cried. Her head flung back and her body became tense. She dug her nails deep into Kane, and Kane released another blood-curdling cry.
A final series of powerful thrusts, and the moment was over. Kane’s body went completely limp over his pretty young girlfriend, and his face sunk into the mattress. He didn’t mutter a word between his deep breaths.
That familiar cold breeze snuck through the thin apartment walls once again, chilling Brittany’s body and sending a tingle down deep into her spine. Something was gone, suddenly missing between her and Kane—something had been lost. All of those familiar, crippling anxieties returned to Brittany’s mind.
Would Kane stay for her? Were they in love? Was all this just stupid lust?
Kane rolled off of Brittany without a word. He went straight for the bathroom and he closed the door behind him. Neither had his anxieties hadn’t gone anywhere.
After a few silent minutes, Brittany approached the bathroom and tapped the door. “Kane? Is everything alright? Are you okay?”
There was a silent delay. “Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
There was another delay. After a moment, Kane opened the door.
“What is it?” Brittany asked.
“I don’t think we should see each other for a bit…”
“What? Why?”
Kane stared down at his feet.
“Are you breaking up with me?” Brittany asked.
“No—I just—I just need to figure some things out before we go any further with this.”
“Things? What things?” Brittany asked. “I can help you figure things out—let me help you.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Hurt?” Brittany said. Kane wouldn’t look Brittany in the eyes. “I—I thought you were done with that...” Brittany said.
“It’s complicated. I—I need to see this through, Brittany. I’m sorry.”
Kane walked into the bedroom and started to stuff his bag. Brittany watched with watering eyes.
“You can stay here if you want—until I come back. But it’s best if you stay with your family. I promise that this isn’t the end, Brittany.”
“Back? When will you be back? Where are you going?” Brittany said.
“It’s best that I don’t say.”
Within moments, Kane was fully dressed and packed. He quickly walked up to the door. Brittany looked around Kane’s room, at all of his hunting gear: that was Kane’s priority—that was the most important thing to him. Brittany was secondary, at best. Brittany was just an afterthought.
“Bye, Brittany.”
Brittany stared into Kane’s eyes, defeated. “Bye.”
CHAPTER NINETY
THE FUNERAL
It was one of those rare Snowbrooke winter days, where the sun was not obscured by the clouds, and the air was not disturbed by the wind. The weather was still cold—cold enough to kill your exposed skin if you weren’t careful. That didn’t stop the family and friends of the late Wade Fenner from braving the frigid winter day to attend the burial.
There were very few tearless eyes watching that casket as it gently swayed in the air—waiting for the cue to begin its descent. The wooden casket had already accumulated half an inch of fresh snow since being carried out by the pallbearers.
Michael stood before the crying crowd. His gut was nauseated and his heart was in a state of perpetual pain, but he remained strong for the sake of his family. If he couldn’t keep himself together, then who could? Who was left to lean on? Michael knew his father would want him to be strong—for Laura, for Cassie and especially for the very young Lily.
“Everyone knew a part of my father,” Michael said as he looked down at a written eulogy. “Everyone knew my father, the writer—My father, the teacher. People knew my father, the coach—or my father, the athlete. Some of us knew my father: the father—the dad. Everyone who knew my father, Wade Fenner, knew the wise man.
“Not many people here know Wade as a whole. Very few of you knew the athlete, the coach, the teacher, and the father. It’s hard for most people to understand that one person could be all of those things. It was hard for me, at times, to believe it. Sometimes I was guilty of discrediting my dad. I would think, ‘How do you know.’ But he did know—he knew it all. Some people talk. Everyone talks—everyone’s a talker. My dad wasn’t a talker. He was a doer. My dad had the experience to back up every stubborn fact that he ever said.”
Michael looked up at the crowd of weeping family and friends. Standing solemnly in the back of the crowd was a familiar face—his old friend and teammate, Connor. Connor stood with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching Michael respectfully as he finished his speech.
“Sure, he was a stubborn man,” Michael said. “I’ll give you that.”
Michael turned silent as he held his speech in his hands. The image of his father’s proud smile flashed through his mind. The image of his father climbing over the boards to fight a referee at a minor’s tournament also flashed through his mind. Michael laughed, lowering his written speech.
“He was a good man, my father. He was a really good man. He always meant well. Despite what people thought, he was always just trying to help. He was a good guy…”
Michael returned to his silence. He had written more, but he had said everything. The rest was superfluous—enough had been said.
“Bye, dad,” Michael said as he turned and walked back to his family. He wrapped one of his arms around his crying mother as the funeral director took the stand to finish off the ceremony.
Even the grieving have their limits. As the cemetery staff began to fill Wade’s grave with cold, frozen dirt, everyone scurried back to their warm running cars. Everyone except, of course, for Michael. Michael was prepared to stay with his father until the freezing end..
“Michael—C’mon. You’re going to freeze out here. Let’s go home,” Laura said as she wiped the cold tears from her face.
“Just a minute,” Michael said. He did not look back at his mother.
“We’ll be waitin
g in the car.”
“Okay.” Michael continued to stand and watch the dirt slowly cover his father’s casket, shovelful by shovelful.
The cold didn’t bother him. The cold only bothered the weak—that was something else his father taught him, early in his hockey career. It was in a town called Jasper, and all of the other kids were crying because the rink was so cold. “It’s just another obstacle—another thing that separates the hockey legends from the telemarketers.”
“Hey,” a voice said from behind Michael.
The tall hockey player turned around. Connor stood behind him, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
“Hi,” Michael said, turning back to his dad’s grave. “Thanks for coming out.”
“Yeah—I’m sorry about your dad. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t expect you to say anything. Just coming means a lot.”
“Yeah. Well, he was a good guy. You were right about that.”
“A lot of people thought he was an asshole. He really wasn’t an asshole.”
“I know,” Connor said.
Michael stood in silence for a moment as a cold chill swept by. “You still play? I heard you quit.”
“I’m trying to get back into it.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“You try out for any teams?” Connor asked.
“No—Well, there was this one next weekend, but…”
“Right…” Connor said, awkwardly shuffling his feet to keep his toes alive.
“I don’t know when the next one will be.”
Connor looked down at Wade’s grave. “Why not just go to this one?”
Michael turned and looked at Connor. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I feel like your dad would have wanted you to go.”
Michael’s eyes glazed over as that familiar memory replayed again—his father grabbing that ref by the collar and lifting him off of the ground.
“He probably would have wanted to try out himself,” Connor joked.
Michael smiled. “Yeah, he certainly would have… Maybe I will.”
“You should—I mean, only if you’re feeling up to it, of course.” Connor smiled. A cold breeze pierced his thick coat, reminding him it was probably time to seek warmth. Connor began to turn around to leave.