Charlie was in a kitchen. He thought it to be a restaurant or café kitchen rather than domestic; there were gleaming metal work surfaces, large gas stove tops, a huge number of pots and pans, as well as industrial ovens and fridges and freezers.
Charlie was having an argument with an enraged man that he couldn’t recognise. His face wouldn’t settle properly, even though everything around him had abundant clarity that almost felt real.
There was another man there too, seemingly the focus of Angry Man’s rage. Charlie was between the two, trying to protect The Focus. Charlie was saying as much as Angry Man, but Charlie couldn’t hold on to any of the words and was completely unable to understand what they were arguing about.
As the argument went on, it got more heated, Angry man’s rage building ever more. After a short time, without warning, he grabbed a large knife from a counter and moved to attack The Focus with it. When Charlie tried to get in his way, the blade was swung at him and he only just managed to duck and avoid it hitting his face. In retaliation he thrust his fist into his attacker’s stomach, driving it hard.
Not hard, enough, however. Although Angry Man had seemed incapacitated by the blow, it was only temporary. He quickly struck back, a left hook that made Charlie’s world shake and his vision turn blotchy.
And then he was staggering backwards, a burning sting in his chest. As his sight returned to normal, Charlie looked down. The knife was protruding from his body, forced under the ribs and into his right lung. It had not penetrated all the way; more than a few inches of shining blade could be seen before it turned into a black handle. It really was a large knife.
Charlie’s movement backwards had shifted the knife, and a trickle of blood ran down the blunt side and was dripping off the handle.
He tried to take a breath, but it was like trying to draw twenty gallons of water from a well with one pull, yet somehow ending up with only a glassful when the bucket reaches the top.
When he exhaled, blood sprayed from his mouth. He could taste it.
He could taste it.
The other men were shouting, yelling, their arms waving. Angry Man seemed horrified at what he had done. His expression was one of contorted regret as The Focus screamed at him. How could Charlie know a facial expression without being able to discern an actual face?
Charlie still couldn’t hear a thing. But he could feel. His lungs were filling with blood. Each difficult breath brought more to his mouth, spilling from his lips. He was feeling faint, and sank to the ground.
The Focus dropped to his knees and reached for the knife. Charlie saw the lips of Angry Man shouting no, but without pause the blade was quickly withdrawn from hid body.
Charlie coughed, more blood spraying from his mouth. There was blood running freely from his wound now, making his shirt wet and heavy. Angry Man grabbed a cloth from the side and thrust it into The Focus’s hands, saying something. The Focus quickly pressed the cloth to Charlie’s chest, hoping the pressure would help stop the bleeding.
Angry Man had pulled his phone out and was talking quickly, presumably trying to call an ambulance. When he was done he knelt down in front of Charlie. As hard as Charlie tried to look, he still couldn’t identify the face of the man who had stabbed him. And yet, he could make out lips regretfully mouthing apologies. He knew there were tears streaming down his cheeks, even though he couldn’t truly see them.
Charlie’s eyes kept closing. When they opened, he could see how worried the two men were. He wondered how long it would be until the ambulance arrived. Too late, he thought. He could feel himself slipping away. It was like falling asleep and into a dream.
He gave one last cough, and a splutter of blood.
Charlie woke up. He could breathe again. In fact, he was close to hyperventilating.
Frantically, his hands searched his torso, trying the find the wound he could still feel open and achingly painful. He could still feel the wet on his body.
But he could find nothing with his groping. No blood. No gap in the flesh under his ribs. He realised that as he was breathing his mouth wasn’t filling with blood, either. And yet could still taste it, coppery and disgusting on his tongue.
He leapt from his bed and ran to the bathroom, where he put his lips to the running tap and rinsed his mouth out. He spat repeatedly, attempting to remove a taste that couldn’t possibly be there. Indeed, when he realised the futility of this, it disappeared completely.
Feeling foolish and confused, Charlie splashed water on his face and looked up to stare at himself in the mirror. Water dripped down his creased forehead and lined cheeks. He certainly didn’t look like he had slept well.
You look like shit, he thought to himself. You’re a fucking mess.
He stared for a while longer, though without really looking at the reflection before him. He was thinking about the dream.
It must have been a dream. He had woken in his bed where he had fallen asleep. He was uninjured. He was alive. The experience had felt so real, though. It was like he had been there in that kitchen. Even though he had been unable to hear even himself speak, he remembered that he’d felt his tongue move as he spoke, his vocal cords vibrating in his throat. Not to mention that agonising sensation of being stabbed. The dragging, rattling feeling of taking breaths with a punctured lung. It had all felt so very real to him.
With great effort, Charlie tore his gaze away from the mirror. Suddenly realising the strain being felt by his bladder, he evacuated its contents into the toilet.
Becca visited again that day. She rang the doorbell to let him know someone was there, but used her key to let herself in immediately. She knew he wouldn’t answer the door.
She called up the stairs, without reply. Checking downstairs, she refilled the Boopers’ water bottle and food bowl before heading upstairs. Both had been neglected since her last visit.
Like last time, Becca felt some apprehension when climbing the stairs in search of her brother. Once again, she was worried about what she might find.
“Charlie?” she said when she reached the upstairs landing. Still no reply. She wondered if he was asleep.
I’ll check if he’s sleeping, she thought, and if he is maybe I’ll just fix up the house a bit and come back later.
The bedroom door was open, the room cloaked in semi-darkness. On entering, she saw Charlie in bed, wearing the same shirt he had been wearing when they had gone to the police station together. His eyes were closed.
Becca watched him for a few moments, thinking. She reached out to take hold of the door handle, but just as she started to pull it towards her Charlie said her name. It came out as a barely discernible croak, so at first she wasn’t sure if he’d really said anything. She looked back towards the bed.
His eyes were open now, looking at her. They were bloodshot, with deep bags underneath.
“Charlie,” Becca said. Her brother really looked terrible. She wondered if he was ill. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you. I didn’t know you were in bed.”
Clumsily, Charlie sat himself up. After clearing his throat, he spoke.
“You didn’t. I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You’ve just been lying in bed?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Are you ok?”
He gave her an expressionless stare.
“Do you really need to ask?”
Becca chose to avoid the question.
“I came to see what’s going on with you. I’ve had people telling me you’re not answering your phone. They want to talk to you, Charlie. Joy called me. She really needs to talk to you.”
Charlie went stiff at the mention of Michael’s mother. It was true that he had been ignoring her phone calls and messages.
“What about?”
“I’m pretty sure she has lots of things to talk to you about, but right now she needs to talk to you about the funeral.”
“Funeral?”
“For Michael, Charlie,” Becca replied gently. She paused for a second. “Look, could we talk downstairs or something? I’ll make some tea. And toast or something for you, if you like.” His neglected appearance immediately suggested to her a neglected diet.
Charlie stared at his sister for a while longer. He seemed to have picked up Michael’s unnerving habit of very rarely blinking. Had that happened before Michael’s death, or only after? Becca couldn’t remember.
Becca heard the desperation in her own voice when she said “Please, Charlie. Please talk to me for a bit. Please just eat something.”
“What makes you think I’ve not been eating?”
“Because I know you.”
The staring still continued, but he at least appeared to be considering. After a minute’s thought, he acquiesced.
“Great,” Becca said with a brief smile. “I’ll get the kettle on and meet you downstairs when you’re ready.”
“Sure.”
He made no movement at all when she left the room, and she heard nothing as she made her way downstairs. As she leaned by the sink waiting for the kettle to boil, Becca wondered if her brother would actually bother to come down and talk to her.
In the freezer there was sliced bread, a few pieces of which were put in the toaster. Cupping her tea in her hands, Becca sat at the kitchen table and thought about her brother.
It’s only been two days, she told herself. It’s unfair to expect him to get over it so soon. I won’t for a long time. I just hope he doesn’t stay like this for too long. His track record for loss, however, didn’t bode well.
When Charlie had finally caught Melissa cheating on him and ended their relationship, Charlie had needed months to get over the betrayal. Much of what he experienced in that time was anger, which he dealt with by drinking. There had been little self-neglect as far as daily self-care went; he still ate, and showered, and even went to work. Most evenings, though, were focussed on downing as many cheap drinks as he could. That ended when he got the shit beaten out of him after getting too rowdy at a bar. It was impressed heavily on him that he shouldn’t drink alcohol while his jaw was wired shut, and his family and friends made certain he refrained over that time. After the six weeks was up, Charlie was certain he didn’t want that pain and discomfort again and vowed to keep his alcohol consumption to a safe low.
In secondary school, when Charlie was sixteen and Becca only twelve, their mother unexpectedly left her husband and children in favour of living with a different man. Charlie was intelligent, but not academic, and the quality of his schoolwork plummeted after the departure of his mother. It was only the dedication of two understanding teachers that saved him from failing all of his subjects.
Years later, though only four months into dating Michael, a tumour was found growing on Charlie’s father’s brainstem. If it had been caught earlier then treatments might have had a chance of success. To his children’s devastation, David was given three weeks to live. He lasted not even that long after his diagnosis.
The three of them appreciated the small blessing of time they had before his death; although it was a shock, it was not as sudden as it could have been. When Michael’s father was immediately killed in a traffic collision the following year, Charlie was truly able to appreciate how lucky he was to have those final few days with his own father. They were some of the worst, most trying days of his life. They were also some of the most important. Michael was a lighthouse during that time, and after, constantly helping to guide Charlie through the storm he was living in and away from the rocks that would ruin him. It was the support his boyfriend gave him as he was going through hell that let Charlie know that he’d found someone truly special.
Even with Michael’s love and support, Charlie still had a terrible time dealing with the loss of his father – the man who had been there for him when his mother had left. The man who had done all he could to support his children. Charlie began to feel incredibly unsure about his place in the world, and whether he’d be able to go on without his father guiding him. He quit his job, feeling he wasn’t good enough to continue working. He even tried breaking things off with Michael, adamant that he couldn’t be the man Michael needed him to be. It took a lot of tough fighting for Charlie to be convinced not to go through with the breakup.
Charlie’s struggles as a result of his father’s death lasted for just under a year. Even after that time, they would still sometimes arise and debilitate him for short periods. Both David’s birthday and the anniversary of his death were extremely difficult times for Charlie, every year. With Michael’s passing, two more difficult dates would annually make their way into the calendar.
Becca’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the stairs creaking. She smiled as her brother entered, and proffered him his cup of tea. He slumped into the chair opposite her and took the steaming mug.
“I honestly thought you wouldn’t bother coming down.”
Charlie shrugged.
“Would have felt bad leaving you sat down here alone.”
“I would have understood though, Charlie.”
He shrugged again, not looking at her.
The toast popped up from the toaster then, so Beccca rose from her seat and buttered it before setting it down in front of her brother. His first glance at it seemed to suggest he saw only poison; Becca suspected that his starvation was not only neglect, but also a deliberate attempt at abstaining from food, as it had been on previous occasions.
She knew he must be hungry though, and the toast, ever-so-slightly burnt, did smell inviting. Sure enough, after a few minutes of sitting silently and sipping tea, he reached out an ungainly hand and brought a piece to his dried lips. His efforts at starvation had never been too successful when she’d intervened.
When Charlie was finished he left his seat and found another slice of bread to put in the toaster.
“Could you chuck one in for me, too?”
Charlie did as his sister asked, but didn’t speak. Becca allowed him his silence for the time being, and went without speaking herself until after the second round of toast had been devoured.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I left on Tuesday?”
Charlie shrugged. “Reading.”
“Michael’s writing, still?”
He nodded. “Tried reading some of a Karin Slaughter book, but it didn’t work.”
“Didn’t work?” Becca asked.
With another shrug, Charlie mumbled, “Couldn’t take any of it in.”
Becca left another minute’s pause before asking more questions.
“Have you seen anyone else?”
A shake of the head in response.
“Spoken to anyone?”
“A few, through text. Jeremy and Marie. Some others.”
“But not Joy.”
“No,” Charlie admitted, feeling his body close in on itself as he looked at the floor. “Not Joy.”
“You need to. You know that you need to, right? Joy’s prepared to organise everything, but you should at least offer your help. She wants to hear what you have to say about Michael’s funeral, it matters to her.” Becca sighed. “I know you’re afraid to talk to her because you think she doesn’t like you-”
“She doesn’t,” Charlie interrupted, “she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, I know she doesn’t.” Becca felt like she was talking to a teenager about the girl he has a crush on, although she meant the words she was saying. “She loves you as much as her own son, and that’s part of why she wants and needs to talk to you right now.”
Charlie raised his head to give his sister a look of deepest scepticism. She stared right back, insisting her point with her expression until his gaze broke.
“I don’t know, Becca.”
“But I know, Charlie. I’ve never heard her say a bad word against you, or even heard of her saying anything bad about you dating Michael. Not a thing.”
“That’s because she never says it,” Charlie pushed. “She’s never even said anything bad to me. It’s just…” he shook his head, struggling to articulate feelings that sat with as much vague weight on his mind as clothing weighs on a body. “It’s never felt quite like she approves of me. As though I was never good enough for Michael. I’m pretty sure he knew it too; every time I brought it up he’d just shrug it off and say she didn’t have a problem with me.”
Becca frowned, thinking over what her brother was saying. She had known for a long time he had held this belief, but had never talked it over in detail with him before. She still felt unsure of the validity of his words, though, despite his conviction.
“And that’s why you don’t want to talk to Joy?” she asked.
Charlie paused, his lips slightly parted as a he halted a response to think it over more.
“No,” he offered.
Becca sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.
“Then why don’t you want to?”
Anxiously, Charlie chewed his lips and stared at the floor.
“Charlie?”
“Because I don’t want to hear her say that what happened to Michael was my fault.”
“But it wasn’t your fault, Charlie.” Becca assured.
“Mph.” The sound came out somewhere between a groan and a grunt.
“It wasn’t.”
This time the only response was a shrug.
Becca considered for a second.
“Is there something you’re not telling me? You don’t seem to worry about Hazel or Alana blaming you. Only Joy.”
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat – a sure sign that Becca was on to something.
“They don’t dislike me like she does.”
Becca sighed. “She doesn’t dislike you anyway.” Frustrated, she stood up and began to wash her mug at the sink. When she was done, she turned to face her dishevelled brother as he gazed miserably out of the kitchen window. The sight returned her to a state of sympathy.
“You don’t have to tell me what it is, I’m not gonna make you. But I want to help. And you do need to talk to Joy. She needs to talk to you.” Becca made to exit the kitchen. “I’m gonna clear up the house a little bit for you. You can go back to bed if you want, I’ll try not to make too much noise.”
When Charlie made no reply, she continued heading to the front room. However, just as she made it through the doorway, her brother called to her.
“I’d asked him to marry me.”
It was some time before Becca was able to withdraw the full story from her brother. More cups of tea were consumed, and at some point they relocated to the front room. Becca had suggested they go out for a walk, but Charlie hadn’t wanted to leave the house.
In pieces, Charlie told how the previous month he had met with Joy with the intention of explaining his desire to marry her son. According to his account, although she had not objected and had even expressed pleasure at such a prospect, he had gotten the impression that she disapproved. Still, she gave her blessing to their marriage. It was all Charlie needed.
Two weeks after, Charlie insisted that Michael go out with him for the evening. When Michael protested, Charlie pushed and pushed, until an hour later they were sitting in a bar in the city centre waiting for a band to perform with drinks and a bowl of chips in front of them.
At around nine, after two bands had finished their sets, Michael tried to leave. He’d had to be up early the next day for work and couldn’t stay. Charlie had had to beg, pleading with absolute desperation that his lover stay for the next band to play, that it really mattered to him that they watch the performance together. Again, Michael relented.
When the band took to the stage and the opening riff to their first song played, Michael turned to look at Charlie, who was grinning. Charlie could tell that he knew the riff, with its distinctive melodic jangles and unusual time signature. He could remember Michael nodding along to it years before, in the same bar. At that time they had only been friends, albeit fairly close ones. That night had been the start of the best relationship of both their lives. As if sensing the sentiment felt by Charlie, Michael leaned closer and kissed him.
“Then he said, “I know this song, don’t I?””, Charlie explained to Becca. “I told him he did. He asked if he knew how he knew it, and I said that I bloody-well hoped so.”
Becca smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. After all, as sweet as the story was, she already knew the tragedy of how it ended.
Charlie continued. The two had sat through the set, holding hands all the while except to applaud between songs. They would occasionally exchange glances and kisses. Michael seemed to have picked up that there was something more going on with Charlie, but knew to be patient until the right time. Charlie had always appreciated his lover’s patience.
At the end of the show, hand-in-hand, the two had gone to the same kebab shop as on their first date for pizza. By this point Michael was certain of the deliberate repetition of events from that night, and teased Charlie about how it was ruined because the prices had changed since then, and they’d been served by a different guy. Charlie had just grinned.
Pizza boxes in hand, they had headed to College Green nearby. It was a warm night; remnants of summer still hung about despite it being early October, and the chill was kept away even after dark. They went to the middle of the green, to sit on the grass and enjoy their food.
Before Michael could sit, however, Charlie made him stop. Nervously, smiling, he asked a favour. He held out his pizza box, bidding that Michael take it and look inside for him. Bemused, he looked. Inside was the pizza, as expected, though on top of it was a handwritten note.
Turn around.
Michael was baffled, questioning who wrote the note and why it was in there, but Charlie just insisted he do it. After a back and forth of why’s and just do it’s, Michael finally acquiesced. Charlie then told him to open the other box. As well as Michael’s pizza, there was another note.
Count to 3 aloud, then turn back around.
It took yet more persuasion for this task to be done, but eventually Michael began counting. On reaching three, he turned. Charlie was down on one knee. His smile was as broad as it could have ever been as he looked up, and in his hands was a small box with a glimmering ring nested inside.
“How did he react?” asked Becca. They were each sat on an arm of the sofa facing in at each other.
“He asked what I was doing,” Charlie said, with a small smile. “I’d had a speech prepared, you know. I’d spent ages working on it, about how much he’s brought to my life, that I want what I had with him forever. But at that, I didn’t feel like bothering. It wasn’t necessary. He asked what I was doing, and I told him “I am asking you to marry me”, as plainly as is possible.”
Becca smiled too, imagining the scene in her head. With an amused shake of his own head, Charlie continued.
“He’s a fucking writer, but he was speechless. After a minute I had to ask, so, will you?, and he finally managed to say that he would. And when I tried to put the ring on his finger he called me twat because he was still holding the pizza.”
Becca gave a small snort, while Charlie’s smile became something more of a smirk.
“Well, he was right, so I chucked the boxes on the floor and put the ring on him, and then we were engaged.” He finished simply.
The two sat in silence for a time, thinking to themselves.
Becca was thinking about the wedding that could have been, the pure joy she would have felt at seeing her brother and Michael joined together in love. What a wonderful day that would have been. And now Charlie was alone.
“How long ago was this?” she asked her brother.
Charlie considered, his head cocked to the side as he mentally calculated days.
“About two weeks ago. It was the fifteenth. The day after I saw you for lunch, I think.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Becca said. She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice, but didn’t quite manage it. From Charlie’s expression she could tell that he’d heard it. He opened his mouth for a second, then bit his lip. This happened a couple of times before he finally answered.
“Michael asked me not to,” he said painfully. “I wanted to tell everyone, I wanted to paint it on the side of the fucking cathedral in twenty-foot letters, but he asked that we keep it ours for a while, our secret. He reasoned that it’ll be quite a while before we can even start planning a wedding, so it doesn’t matter if we wait a little longer to tell people.”
Becca frowned.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok”, she replied, though her brow didn’t relax. “I just don’t get why he wanted to keep it a secret.”
“I don’t either, really.” Charlie sighed. He was tired, despite having done little but lie in bed for the past two days. “He was so insistent on it, and I was so happy he’d said yes, that I just went with it.”
Something about Charlie’s voice caught Becca’s attention. She wondered if he really did have some idea of Michael’s reasoning.
“Charlie.” Her voice was flat.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably and avoided looking at his sister. Becca felt done with the bullshit now, and just wanted her brother to be straight with her.
“Charlie, why does your engagement relate to not wanting to talk to Joy? Do you think that Michael went to the bridge to get out of marrying you or something, and she would blame you for that?”
Charlie’s answer was in the way he froze, his mouth partially open again. His breathing became so shallow that it seemed to have almost stopped entirely. When he swallowed suddenly, Becca saw no part of him move but his Adam’s apple.
“You really think Joy would look at it that way?” she asked.
Charlie’s gaze went past Becca’s face and a hundred miles beyond.
“She hates me,” he whispered, with barely a twitch of his cracked lips.
Becca shifted her face into her brother’s view, and when he tried to turn away she grabbed his hand and pulled to force his attention to her.
“I refuse to believe that,” she said, with all the conviction she could muster. “She loves you like her own son, I know it. She wants to talk to you to figure out how best to lay her son, your boyfriend, fiancé, to rest, not to accuse you of pushing him to take his own life. She wouldn’t do that. I don’t think Joy would have even considered it.”
Charlie felt himself starting to cry again.
“She has to hate me.” His voice warbled as he spoke. “I can’t shake it.”
Becca took a deep breath in, and then let out a long exhale.
“Not even for long enough to help make decisions for Michael’s funeral?”
The two stared at each for a time, unspeaking. Tears continued to spill from Charlie’s eyes, but Becca remained steeled.
Both jumped when the house phone rang, chiming from its holder nearby. As it rang they looked at each other again.
“Are you going to get it?” asked Becca.
Charlie shook his head.
Becca stood from the sofa and grabbed the phone on the fifth ring.
“Hey, this is Becca,” she said. The reply made her eyes open wide in surprise. Speak of the devil, she thought, then frowned when she realised that it was a bad thought to have about her brother’s almost-mother-in-law. “Hi, Joy,” she gave a meaningful look Charlie’s way, “yeah, I went over for a bit. He’s not great, really. He’s right here though.” Becca bit her lip for a second as Joy spoke, then answered. “Yeah, I’ll pass you over now.”
This time Charlie’s eyes widened, and he looked up at his sister in terror and frustration.
“Just take it,” she said, her hand over the mouthpiece. “Just talk to her.”
She held out the phone, and with unsteady hands her brother took it and put it to his ear.
“Joy,” he said, his voice wavering. He swallowed hard. “Hi. How are you doing?”
Becca returned to the kitchen and began washing up their cups, leaving Charlie to talk things over with Joy.
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