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A thick fog of static had engulfed William’s brain, and in the midst of his submission to his mind, his hands were completely fixed onto the wheel of his car — clutching, squeezing; keeping his knuckles continuously white and strained unconsciously.
Colorful waves rolled inside the vehicle, but William didn't hear any of the music, supposedly soothing his ears. He was drowning, internally wrestling invisible dark waters as he remained still as a statue to any passerby. The radio only amplified his unknowable ringing, torturing his head, but he didn't register that he had the will to turn it off with a simple twist.
His brows furrowed, sweat bred in his hairline and dripped down his mask-less, worn, and scared expression. William rarely felt afraid; he was too frigid to be touched by white fire like that, but tonight had sent an unfamiliar and almost humiliating scourge of terror.
Suddenly, something flashed in his eyes, and he stirred in his seat. William withdrew his sore hands and used them to clean his even more sore face. Something lumped in his throat and justified itself in the form of a tired rasp.
William unfastened his seatbelt and left his car, taking no time to loiter by the door to organize his thoughts further.
The night was a single organism, endless buzzing and calls from creatures of the night drifting through the darkness. Everything was at peace, apart from the sore thumb that was Henry's house. The outside was peeling, grass rotting, and paint breaking off the walls. The light from his windows was loud enough to brighten the lawn, which wasn’t looking too good either. His garden was swarming with weeds. It hadn’t been that long, had it?
He rubbed his sleeves and walked down his cobblestone pathway, William’s shoulders slouched anxiously until he knocked on his door left ajar. The beam of light cleaned all his anxiety, and he presented himself highly when he walked inside.
Immediately, he saw the mess. Newspapers, cardboard boxes, and tools littered the hardwood floor. William could see it had spread to the living room and the kitchen, which resembled a palace of unwashed dishes and discarded items of food. It looked like a den, nothing compared to the domestic sanctuary he had praised Henry for whenever he came.
It lacked any love, care, or comfort. The home had been neglected until it turned into a husk of its former self. Dirty, tired, and mad — it was as if William had walked into Henry's mind.
“Bill?” A whisper, William was unsure it was Henry because it sounded so weak. He turned his head, and there he was. Dishelved and beaten, unkept raven hair covered his dark gaze, sunken with exhaustion. There was a noticeable amount of hair on his face now, which had also gone through a period of abandonment.
He had lost weight and his body released a nose-wrinkling odor; Henry smelled like tears, cigarettes, and sweat, tinges of newspaper and coffee also stained his scent. William had never seen him so tortured; it was burning in his eyes, and all he could do was stare.
William hesitated; the rusty machines turning in his head were struggling to decide on a proper tone to approach this pathetic excuse of a man. “Hey... How are you doing?”
Henry simply observed him like an animal, his nose wrinkled. “Do you want coffee?”
“I'm fine.” He said absently.
“I'm going to make myself some coffee, just — make yourself at home,” Henry seemed to animate back to life, his tone was much lighter, but it wasn’t welcoming. His eyes never left him, and the exhaustion clear in his demeanor didn’t soften the bite in his voice.
William wasn't oblivious; he could read the retracted venom in his throat. He disappeared down the hallway, and William did not follow.
“Where have you been?” He wandered into the living room. A piece of newspaper taped by an assortment of family photos caught his eye; it was detailing the discovery of remains of a youthful victim. Nothing connected to him, but it made his brows furrow regardless.
William read it all unblinkingly, and not a bone in his body shifted at the blurry, dark photographs outlining the bloody evidence.
“Nowhere,” Henry answered. The sounds of clattering dishes and rushing water made William pity him even further. “I haven't left, I've been too busy researching. I — I've been leaving to get some things to help with the investigation, but I haven't gone out beyond that . . . It's fine.”
Investigation? He questioned silently.
William pulled away and walked through the suffocating living room. The television was playing some comedy he did not know of. The volume was low, but he could pick out some of the dialogue. “You've been doing this since the funeral?”
A long, uncomfortable pause almost compelled William to call out his name. Henry coughed out, “No, longer than that.”
The funeral had been weeks ago. William remembered how close Henry was to breaking in front of his family. He had never seen him cry so much, especially in public. After most funerals, he was indifferent, but this one had lingered in his mind. Either out of charity or embarrassment.
William nodded to himself. He met Henry in the kitchen, which was worse up close. It smelled, and he promptly covered his nostrils with his fist. Henry noticed and averted his gaze in embarrassment, “I haven't had time to clean up all the mess.”
Henry wasn't a neat-freak. Honestly, he had always been a little over the place, but it was what attracted William to him in the first place. The chaos was always digestible; it never got out of hand until now. It made William squirm. This was territory he couldn’t manage; it was a reminder of how much he had mucked up things.
“It doesn't bother me.”
Henry glared. William rubbed his neck, gaze focused on the table. Minus the clutter, he could see it was set for two. Something heavy formed in his chest, but it wasn't close to guilt.
“How's it going with … Sammy?”
“...Let's not talk about him, alright?” Henry put a bowl in the sink and knelt to cram an unwashed pot in his cabinet just to free some space.
“Alright …”
He didn't need to talk about it. William knew the boy was struggling, especially with his father losing his mind.
William looked at the ceiling; the lights were flickering. That distracted him for a second before he grounded himself again.
Henry continued, “What made you want to visit? It's two in the morning. Is it so important that you can't use the phone?”
“I did use the phone,” William said. “Multiple times, actually, but you never called. I figured you needed some space, but it's been a while, hasn't it?”
Henry dipped his head, even through the silence, William knew he was sorry. “It's nothing personal, I've been busy.”
“Oh, busy?” It came off more sarcastically than it should have. “Is that what this is? Busy doing what, Henry? Collecting paper and sticking it together like it'll solve anything? You're not a damn detective.”
“But I'm her father. And I know I can figure this out.” Henry clung to the edge of the counter as if he'd fall; he shifted uncomfortably, and every break in silence was subtly disturbed by tired murmuring.
“What are you hoping to find?” William took a piece of his findings from the counter and wagged it near his face, trying to justify his point. The madness was so explicit, but Henry's eyes were too clouded to see anything but a piece of some unwinnable puzzle. “You think the answers are going to be in newspapers? Or photographs? There's nothing for you, Henry. Come on, this is crazy.”
All he wanted was closure. William held the key to that, but he'd never share it; if he did, it'd spoil everything they had. It'd ruin everything. Some people wondered how anyone could speak to someone without feeling sick, but truth be told, William felt sick all the time. He just found a better way to handle it. He had his own medicine, and it worked just fine.
Henry almost snarled, “You just don't understand.”
“...You're right,” William tensed. Every minuscule sense of defiance and frustration jaded him harshly. He had never seen Henry like this, and he began to despise this dark imposter who had robbed him of his friend. “I don't. But I know that you can't live like this anymore. This isn't what she would have wanted, you know that.”
Shards of glass spread across the floor. William's body didn't react, but his eyes widened at the sudden snap. Henry didn't even glance at his broken mug; his face contorted, and he looked at him with such contained viciousness that it made William swallow.
“Want?” He echoed, “Want? She can't … want anything, Bill. She can't want anything because she's fucking dead. She's not here, she's not thinking, she's not — looking down on me with a fucking halo or — or wings. She's dead, gone, and buried. You saw it, you saw her in that …” his fire was dying. Henry's voice grew frail; he gasped. “... in that little casket. Oh, God.”
“Henry…”
Tears welled in his eyes. His voice grew hoarse with pain, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
William's hand stiffened and clenched, his teeth flashed for a moment, but he only responded in silence. Henry went to the cupboard, bringing out a broom and pail to collect his jagged mess. The traces of fury were cleaned off the floor, and the dark stain was left to seep. At least the smell of coffee cut through the stretch.
Henry sighed and leaned over the island; his breaths were labored. Every time he moved, it looked like he was in agony, as if it hurt to live. Maybe it did, without Charlie, without anybody.
“It's your fault,” Henry whispered.
William blinked. It caught him so off guard that his voice cracked, “What?” Was it possible that Henry knew something? Did he register him as a suspect? Were these papers valid after all? So many questions, he looked around the kitchen. His eyes fell on the sharp silverware scattered on the counter.
“If you were just watching her well enough, she'd still be here. I — I fucking trusted you, I trusted you to watch Charlie. It was her fucking birthday, she was murdered during the most special day of her life, and you … you just let it happen.” Henry coughed, and he pointed his finger at him. “You let her die … you. You're the fucking reason I'm this way, so don't go on getting all upset —”
“Henry.” William's voice began to freeze, ascending into something much darker. It was a warning, but Henry was too drunk with grief to answer it properly.
Henry's anger grew, and so did the venom in his voice. “— because I'm making you uncomfortable. You just came here so you could fucking sleep at night, try to make up for being so damn negligent. You thought that you could just … talk it all out, expect it to be alright? Huh —? Do you? Do you think you can fucking fix this?”
William protested; he was getting red too. “I didn't kill your daughter; nobody could have expected it! Things happen and …”
“Things happen…?” Henry wheezed with breathy laughter. He recoiled back and walked around the kitchen. “That's what you call this? She was fucking murdered! That doesn't just …happen!”
How could he be so stupid? His emotions were getting harder to manage, and it was jeopardizing everything. “That's not what I meant!” William snapped. If you want to blame anyone for this, blame the man who did it! He did it. He did! Alright? So quit chasing things that aren't there! I know you're going through this, but I can't keep watching you kill yourself over this.”
“Because you're such a saint, right?” William was amazed at how skilled Henry was at ignoring what he had to say. “You have never done something out of the goodness of your heart, William. I fucking know you, alright? So, what do you want? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I just want you to get better!” William almost whined; he just wanted him to understand. “There's nothing behind it, I promise you. I care, I really do.”
“No! No, you don't.” Henry argued. He started walking away. “Can you just be honest for once in your life?”
William stiffened and then lashed, grabbing Henry by the arm assertively. “Why are you being so goddamn difficult?”
“What do you want me to do? Fucking thank you for doing the bare minimum? Want me to drop to my knees for you? Want a medal? I don't want your help — I don't need you.”
Henry winced when he felt a sharp pang in his face. He nearly slipped, hand slapping onto his temple. William hissed, “You want to be this way? Fine! You can rot in this fucking house for all I care. You were always good at that, weren't you? Wasting away.”
William continued his unfiltered rant as Henry cleaned the blood from his nose. “I've done so much for you, Henry. Do you know that? I've kept your secrets, I've had your back, and you just … cut me off? What the hell is wrong with you?”
They both stood still. The light buzzing above was the only sound, next to their quiet breathing.
“This has been a waste of time,” Henry said coldly. “All of it.”
Something jolted in William's stomach.
“What are you saying?”
“What do you think I'm saying, Will? You're just … this can never work. We're just constantly fucking drowning each other. I know that I'm better off without you, and you're better off without me. This whole dream we had going on? It's dead, alright? What's the point of anything we have? Nothing good has come out of it.”
William was struck with disbelief. “That's not true, and you know it. Don't you know what we've accomplished? What have we made? It's always been us, just us, and you're just going to abandon it?”
“I'm tired, William. I'm tired of this, and I just want it to stop. I can't even look at you without wanting to throw up.” Henry trembled. “I can't do it. I don't want to. You — God…” he put his hands on his face, mumbling.
This wasn't what he wanted. William wanted him to feel awful, and then it'd branch into tearful apologies. Even in his twister of frustration and sadness, he was still defiant. And now, there was a risk of everything being left to rot.
William didn't want to lose him; he was here from the start. There was a tinge of weakness in his throat, “No, no. Don't talk like that. Henry, what we have is real. I'm sorry, alright? I lost my temper; I should have dealt with this better. You're right, you always were. I just want to be there for you, like I always have…”
Henry looked up at him, and he even let William put his hands on his shoulders. William caressed his face. He felt much colder than he expected to. “Come on, please? Just let me help you.”
Silence. “Get out of my house, William.”
“What?”
Henry narrowed his gaze. “I want you to leave.”
William had never felt something so primal in his bones. It is hard to hide the rage bubbling and rushing down to his hands. His fingers dug into Henry's shoulders as if his forward nature would somehow change the tides of his mind.
He apologized; he had done everything right. Yet, Henry was ordering him out of his own house.
“I understand.” He said simply. Henry didn't react; there was no approval in his gaze.
When William left the kitchen, it took everything in his power not to succumb to the animalistic urge to scream and destroy everything in his path. It didn't take long to coax that feeling away; he was above expelling his rage, especially in another man's home.
Henry's weeping brought him to a halt, but after a few moments of internal debate, he heard angry mumbling accompanied by clashing. Henry's weakness was unpredictable; tears turned into red flashes of blind fury and then to numbness.
If he stayed any longer, he'd get lost in the storm — a disaster that couldn't be stopped or mended. That loss of control showed itself again; it ran through his veins mercilessly, and it justified itself through a slammed door.
William stomped back to his car, swearing under his breath. Henry was just confused; he needed time to get through Charlie, but it was taking too long. William's impulsive attack had caused a fire too big, and even when the inferno was flattened, the burns were too deep. Henry's open wounds were screaming out in pain, and once they healed, they'd turn into scars.
He could just see it. The stripes of his consequences deep in his mind and body. Henry would never be the same, and it made him scowl. It made him tremble, it made him want to cry. Not out of empathy, but entitlement. How could this be happening? All he did was act out of jealousy; it was an impulsive move. It was a mistake. He miscalculated — why couldn’t he have just picked a random child that belonged to a bunch of nobodies?
Everything was spiraling from his hands, the broken pieces were too hard to play with, and now, even behind his wheel, William could feel his failure infectiously gripping onto his back.
Colorful blurs of cars rushing down the highway, noise, and smoke. The radio was buffering, and his seat was uncomfortable.
Everything was screaming, everything was clawing at him. There was no going back from this, not ever. The reality crushed him. He needed a moment in a parking lot, but even that wasn't enough.
—
Vanessa didn't acknowledge him when he returned home, which he was grateful for. She was busy watching television on the couch, slowly falling asleep. The visit was draining, and he didn't feel like approaching anything that breathed for the rest of the night. Instead, he retreated into the bathroom and woke himself up with icy cold water.
His eyes fluttered and he watched his reflection with curiosity, and it stared back at him with just the same. Then it fell into anger, the frustration carnivorously gnawing at him since Henry rejected him, rejected his help.
He was always too proud, never letting William care for him. Everything was never good enough, or it wasn't good enough to stir anything but contentment. Now, the grief was fueling his stubbornness, and his ungratefulness was going unpunished.
William couldn't blame Henry, not at all. It dawned on him that this was his doing, his consequence. He had broken something perfectly flawed — he thought he'd be his savior, his anchor to pull through this wreckage in a short amount of time. Then their dream could be theirs, perhaps it'd be more beautiful with more hardship acting as one of its pillars.
People were unpredictable, especially with their grief.
William rammed his fist into his mirror. Over and over until his knuckles were painted with scarlet, until his flesh was coated with a blanket of jagged, tiny shards soon soaked with glittery blood, until the pain chewed at him until he had no choice but to fall back and moan.
For a split second, he saw an animal in the mirror. William had never seen someone so ugly, a taste of what all those who fell from him must have seen. The image of his scowl, his mad blue eyes piercing into him. It was the sight of a defeated man, and it let everything flood until it was quickly molded into nothing but senseless violence.
William gasped and cleaned his hands. The water stung, but it helped with the damage. The mirror didn't require any tending because it was destroyed. Broken shards littered the bathroom floor. William awkwardly looked at the aftermath.
“Dad?” He swung his head, facing the locked backroom door. The knob rattled as Vanessa spoke. “Are you okay? I heard banging.”
William assured her. He squatted down, collecting the pieces. “It's all good. Something fell, that's all. I think you should go to bed.”
“But it's the weekend, Dad,” she protested lightly.
“Bed, Vanessa. Don't make me tell you again,” He repeated strictly. William dropped the glass into the trash can, grumbling to himself.
He could tell she was driving. “Okay. Good night.”
William didn't mirror her gesture; instead, he relaxed when he heard her go up the stairs. He locked up a bigger piece of the shard and stared into his subtracted, broken reflection with curiosity.
This little mirror brought him more comfort; it focused on his eyes. William never realized how dead his gaze looked, almost like Henry's. Only there was the absence of grief. There was no void in his stomach, no yearning or care; there was no sadness, affection, or empathy.
Every time he got angry, his eyes were only instruments for a brief period of time. A glimpse of his state in the descending climax. It reminded him of waves crashing onto the shore and then pulling back into the sea, leaving a layer of sand untouched before returning.
His hands were starting to hurt again, and the glance of the drying blood on his hands made him conclude something crucial. William had felt a lot of emotions tonight — pity, hate, sadness, and everything gray. But never regret, not at all.
He'd do this again, and again. No matter how much it hurt, he'd never apologize for anything. As much as it hurt to see Henry decay in front of his very eyes, he'd twist that knife deeper and watch him bleed until there was nothing left with little remorse.
Even with that swirling in his head, he knew they'd still be friends until the very end. Even if he ended up killing him a second time.