Anguish

by Lillie Jayne

  Sprinting back to my room, package in hand, I throw it on the bed and then get dressed and towel dry my hair. The temperature is getting colder now, and goosebumps speckle my skin, so I pull on a sweater for good measure before turning my attention back to the package.

  I stare at it. Hard.

  It’s a brown padded envelope with Finn’s name handwritten across the top in block lettering, our address missing. It feels light, so whatever it contains is tiny. I sit on my bed and wonder whether I should open it. We used to open each other’s packages as a matter of routine, but things are different now.

  Aren’t they?

  My hands are itching to just pick the damn thing up and rip into it. It could lead me to Finn’s whereabouts, or it could give me a clue when he was coming back. If I’m completely honest with myself, just knowing it belongs to Finn is like a part of him is home again, and that fills a little of the emptiness.

  I need something to mend this gaping chasm his absence has left in my chest. And while I’m looking after myself again and trying to move on, it’s still growing bigger every day with no signs of slowing down.

  I’m still only existing.

  Surviving.

  Decision made, I pick up the small padded envelope and rip the top off. In my haste to uncover its secret, a small silver object falls out and hits the wood floor with a clank. Before I can stand on it and do any damage, I swipe it from where it fell and open my palm.

  There, nestled in the centre of my hand, is a small thumb drive.

  I check inside the envelope to see if it’s come with a note or any suggestion of what it contains, but there’s nothing.

  Huh…nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose.

  I retrieve my laptop from my dresser and plug the thumb drive in the slot. Before switching the laptop on, my conscience gives me a good right hook. This isn’t mine and feels all kinds of wrong. What if the data is private and Finn doesn’t want me to know?

  I shouldn’t do it, but instinct takes over, telling me I need to see what’s on this. And what if it’s a message from Finn? I yearn to see his handsome face so much. God, I’ve missed him with a hunger I can’t satisfy. We’ve never gone this long without seeing each other, and I’m desperate for any scraps I can get, even if it pisses Finn off in the long run.

  I boot up the laptop and wait. The small icon in the window says, “Play Me.”

  I press the play button and hope.

  I hope to see Finn’s gorgeous face talking to me.

  I’m so fucking wrong.

  I instantly recognise the booth in the Red Room at BombShell and feel sick to my stomach.

  NO! No, no, no. Not that night. Anything but that.

  I watch as three men and one woman enter the booth, smiling and happy. I watch as I take my seat next to Sara, and Finn takes his next to Tom. The waitress enters with our drinks, and I watch Tom hand them out to each of us. I taste bile in my throat at what I know is coming, but I’m unable to look away.

  After lots of kissing and groping, I witness both Finn and me getting blown simultaneously. Then, I storm out as Sara follows me, leaving Tom and Finn alone. My gut churns as my eyes follow the images on the screen in front of me, daring me to look away but knowing I can’t.

  A keening sound escapes my throat, my hands flying to cover my mouth, while I witness Finn trying to get up but falling back down every time.

  Oh, God, Finn.

  Then, that goddamn bastard rearranges my best friend…the guy I love…and bends him over the couch, pulls his pants down and rapes him. That sick pervert violates him while I stand outside with his girlfriend, full of self-pity. Then, he readjusts both himself and Finn, looks up at the camera, and winks.

  He fucking winks.

  My stomach heaves, and I dive into my bathroom to throw up my juice from that morning. I continue heaving as the images replay on a loop in my head, over and over again. I cry out as my abdomen clenches in waves. Sorrow and pain pour out of me and down the drain, taking my stomach contents along with it.

  When I can heave no more, I curl into a ball on the tiled floor, my body wracked with violent sobs. If I thought knowing it happened was bad, then it’s nothing compared to seeing the play-by-play.

  What does the sadistic monster hope to gain by sending this to Finn? Is he blackmailing him? I tear at my hair, trying to feel physical pain. Anything to stop me feeling the bone-deep anguish infiltrating every molecule in my body. My chest is concave with the weight of despair pressing down on it. I curl my body tighter and tighter, hoping that I’ll disappear, and the torment will stop.

  Except it never will.

  Not while that footage is out there.

  I need to know his end game.

  I drag myself up the wall and stagger back to my room where the laptop still sits on my bed, mocking me. Approaching as if it’s a ticking time bomb, I tiptoe toward it to see if there’s anything else on that screen. I need to know.

  There are only four words.

  REMEMBER I HAVE THIS.

  * * *

  “I understand why you don’t want me to, Theo, but I really need to see that video. There may be something in there that we’re missing. Something that could help us find this guy, or at least give us a clue what his fucking end game is.”

  “Yeah, I know, Lewis. I just…it wrecked me, mate. Seeing Finn so vulnerable in that way, God, it fucking kills me. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’m glad he wasn’t here. It would have finished him. It almost finished me.”

  “Which is why I can’t ask you to watch it again, nor would I want that. But someone needs to, in case you missed anything crucial, and that falls to me. It’s my job, mate.” His reassuring tone does nothing to pacify me, but he’s right. Someone needs to go over the footage with a fine-toothed comb, in case I’ve missed something vital.

  “He’s your friend, as well, Lewis. It’ll be hard for you to watch it, but I agree with you. I was too shocked and upset to look for anything else.”

  “That he is. And I’m not saying it’ll be easy by any stretch, but thanks to my job, I’m able to distance myself somewhat. Can you drop it off to me tonight? The sooner I can look at it, the sooner I find this fucker. He’s elusive as hell.” Lewis blows out a huge breath down the phone, which echoes in my ear.

  I don’t care. I can be patient.

  I squeeze the bridge of my nose with my free hand. A headache is forming; a tight band that grips my head like a vice. “Yeah, I’ll pop over now and leave you to it, if that’s okay. I don’t want to be anywhere near that thing anymore. I don’t want it in our flat. I mean, what if Finn came home and found it? The sooner I get rid of it, the better.”

  “Okay, mate, see you in ten. Bye for now.” The line goes dead as Lewis disconnects the call. I jump up off my bed and walk to the hall, pick up my keys and the thumb drive, and leave to drive the short distance to Lewis’s house.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m back in my living room feeling irritable, anxious, and still nauseated. I’d dropped the thumb drive into Lewis’s hand like it had the plague and left with dynamite up my arse. I thought I’d settle a little knowing it’s in safe hands, but this morning has taken too much out of me.

  I consider visiting the animal shelter, but I’m really not up to playing doctor after what’s happened. I’m in no fit state, so I collect my acoustic electric guitar from my wardrobe and sit in the living room to tune it up. I haven’t played since before Finn’s assault, and I’m not sure I can play it now. I just need to do something with my hands.

  Something soothing.

  Something to connect me to Finn.

  My Fender Telecaster is my weapon of choice. This little beauty has soothed me during many a turbulent time. We have been on many a journey, she and I. My favourite pastime of all is to rock out with Finn. I remember the first song he learned to play like it was yesterday.

  Finn burst through my bedroom door, flushed and breathless, as he held his side like he h
ad been running, his guitar in his other hand.

  “Theo, bro, you’ve got to hear this. I’ve learned a whole song. Can you believe it? Mr. Rothwell is really pleased with me. He says if I keep going, I could do this professionally someday. Wouldn’t that be so cool? Maybe we could play together in a band. Can you imagine both of us playing in a rock band?”

  I let Finn waffle. I loved seeing him so excited and passionate. Mr. Rothwell was our private guitar tutor, which my mother hired for us both. We were almost twelve and felt so grown up. We had dreams of becoming famous musicians someday. Well, Finn did, anyway. I just went along with it because it made him so happy. I knew, even at such a young age, what my future held, and it wasn’t on a stage in front of thousands of adoring fans.

  I was Theodore Worthington III, and it was my destiny to take over the family business as the only son and heir. Still, my mother always encouraged us to follow our dreams, and I loved her for that. There were many things I wanted to do if I were able. All I knew at that age, though, was I wanted to work with animals and play guitar.

  “Wow, that’s awesome, bro. I can’t get past playing Christmas carols. Let’s hear it, then?” I smiled in encouragement, which he returned with fervour. I would give anything to see Finn smile. I hated the way my father treated him, and I vowed to protect him and make him happy for the rest of my life, if I could.

  He sat on my bed with his Yamaha acoustic on his lap, his fingers ready to dance over the strings. “Okay, I have been learning this one forever because I want it to be our bro song. I didn’t want you to hear it until I had it perfect.” He suddenly looked unsure of himself.

  “Finn, it’s okay if you make a mistake, dude. Don’t try to be perfect. I love you the way you are. You’re my best friend.”

  His cheeks flushed, and he nodded.

  Then he began to play.

  His long, dexterous fingers played the most beautiful rendition of “I’ll Be There” by The Jackson Five. I watched him as I lay on my bed, mesmerised by the natural positioning of his fingers, the easy way he plucked the strings, and the inherent way he strummed the chords.

  Then his voice joined the party.

  I sat up slowly, still transfixed on his hands, as he sang to me; of making a pact, being there when I needed him to comfort me, and how he would always be there. I couldn’t swallow past the huge lump lodged in my throat, and my eyes prickled with unshed tears. I was so young, yet my heart was fit to burst with love and adoration for my best friend.

  Finn’s voice melded with the sweet sound of his acoustic guitar, the two playing in perfect harmony, just for me. With a voice as magical as his fingers, I knew, right there and then, he would be a musician. He was born for it; it was in his DNA. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. I didn’t want to look stupid, even though this was Finn. I could share anything with him.

  A pact.

  We needed to make a pact.

  As he finished, time stood still, and we looked at each other in earnest. “Did…did you like it, Theo? I mean, I need more practice to make it even better, but Mr. Rothwell said—”

  “It was bloody excellent,” I interrupted, before he could be too self-deprecating. “Nobody plays as good as you, Finn, not at our age. I loved the song choice, too. It was perfect…and yes, we need to make a pact, like the song says.”

  “A pact? What kind of pact?” Finn put down his guitar, and his face lit up with excitement at my suggestion.

  “Yes, like the one in the song. That we’ll always be there for each other. Together forever. Always. Something like that, anyway.” I shook my head, feeling a little stupid as I looked at the floor.

  “Yes! Let’s do that, Theo. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. We go everywhere together, always. We do everything together, always. Except poop…’cause no offence, bro, but I wouldn’t want to be with you when you do that.” I burst into fits of laughter when he twisted his face in disgust.

  “Okay, so how about this…‘together, always’…that can be our pact. Our motto, if you like it?”

  “Together, always. I love that. That’s us, Theo.” Finn then smiled the most amazing smile; like sunshine had highlighted his face, which radiated warmth and joy.

  “It is us. I promise I’ll never abandon you, Finn, no matter what, and I’ll always protect you, too. Now, show me the chords to our new song.”

  The walls and ceiling of our living room are soundproof, even though we never plug our guitars into the amps. I don’t feel the need with this powerful instrument. She’s more than equipped to handle my heavy strumming, oozing rich, full tones from her sleek body.

  I place her on my lap and position my hands ready to create something soothing, then stop. I don’t know what to play. So many songs I had learned over the years, but now none of them fit.

  Except one.

  I gently pick the strings with my fingers and ease into my interpretation of “I Don’t Wanna Talk About It” by Rod Stewart. I take a deep breath and sing my lament to the walls of our living room. The room where we spent many times jamming together, watching TV, or just hanging out; being together, laughing together.

  My heart breaks further as I sing about my heartache at Finn leaving me. My throat clogs and aches with unspent tears, my voice cracking a little with the need to release it as I continue. I remember hugging him in this very room, on this very sofa, as he cried over soppy romantic movies, something my father had said or done to him, or even something we had quarrelled about.

  I remember how he felt as I held him in my arms each time. His warmth, his strength, his love…it all flowed out of him without effort. All for me. While I stubbornly hid my feelings and allowed both our hearts to shatter into pieces.

  Most of all, I remember his scent. Finn’s natural masculine scent is earthy, addictive, and powerful, and all I want at this moment is to wrap around him and inhale him until it surrounds me everywhere. My skin, my clothes, my soul. My voice reaches a shaky crescendo, as I sing about my heart being ripped open, urging him to listen to it. I urge the walls, the furniture, the very essence of Finn that still lingers in the flat, hoping that, somehow, he’ll hear me.

  I even continue to sing as fat, silent tears run down my face. The pain inside my chest is perpetual and profound. I have never felt pain like it, not even physical pain can compare to this. This is raw and deep; the roots anchoring me to the pits of despair. I pour my heart and soul out to our empty living room as I finish the song that says everything I couldn’t.

  But it’s hopeless.

  Finn’s gone.

  I’m too late.

  It’s almost Christmas, and I hoped he would be back to spend it with family. Our mothers were back from a trip around Europe, and I had so far avoided answering questions on Finn’s whereabouts. He hadn’t contacted them either, and Rose was going nuts not hearing from him. I fluffed my way through those conversations by lying and saying he was busy with work, but they could smell a lie like a fart in a lift.

  Swiping at my eyes with my sleeve, I place my guitar at my bare feet and pick up my phone, hesitant at first. I promised myself I would leave him alone and so far, except for one drunk text in the beginning, I’d done that. That was weeks ago, though. Weeks of waiting; waiting to hear from him in any way possible, just to know that he was still with me. Still alive, even.

  I had to try. Just once. One text message.

  I open my contacts and select Finn’s name. He’s listed as “Sunshine”…always has been since we were kids. He hates me calling him that in front of others though. It’s something else that is just ours. He’s like my very own sun. He makes me warm and happy and invigorated, so the nickname stuck.

  I look at the last text I sent him, the one from the day he left. I was a drunken mess and told him he broke our pact, but we were both to blame for that fuckup. I left him that night in the club and he left me, period.

  I run a hand through my hair and begin typing.

/>   Theo: Finn, I love you. So much. Please come home so we can talk. I really need to speak to you. I have some things I need to say.

  There, I’ve said it. He may not fully understand what I mean until he comes home and talks to me, but I still said it. I can’t make him understand the extent of my feelings over text.

  I wait for a reply, but none comes. Not even by dinnertime, when the growling monster in my stomach urges me to feed it. Not after that, when Dan calls asking if I’ll still go to the open mic night at the pub. Before I can blow him off with some lame-arse excuse, I agree to go. I’d promised to form some semblance of a life without Finn, and this will be a step in the right direction.

  As I’m leaving the flat, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Fumbling to retrieve it before the caller can hang up, I check the screen and curse.

  I swipe to answer the call. “Father,” I snip.

  “Theodore. I hope you are well.”

  I stop dead in my tracks before I can open the front door, my guard up in an instant. My father never enquires about my health. He’s up to something.

  “As well as one can expect, although you’re not one to concern yourself with such matters as my well-being.”

  “No need to be flippant, boy. Can’t a father enquire after his son, whom he hasn’t seen in months?” He tries for the tactful approach but fails.

  I’m not so charitable. “Not when it’s you, no. Now, tell me the real reason for your call. Quit with the fucking formalities.”

  “Okay, since you asked so nicely. I called to remind you of our arrangement. It’s been over three months since we spoke about it, and I haven’t heard a whisper from you. I hope you haven’t forgotten what we agreed.”

  I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve had more important things on my mind than taking over the fucking family business. I’m not telling him that, though. The less he knows about Finn and me, the better.

  “I haven’t forgotten, but you gave me six months. I still have plenty of time, and I’ve been busy.”

  “You may have plenty of time in your world, Theodore, but in my world, plans must be made. Arrangements need to be in place. There is never enough time.” I don’t like his tone. He’s getting rattled at my lack of commitment.