Chapter Text
Sam was getting desperate. He was mere feet behind Henry, the kid was in his sight, standing and looking out over the city. He didn’t know what was going to happen when he caught up. He didn’t have a plan. Even with his years of experience as a therapist, he wouldn’t know what to do. Even with Lila’s attempt. She was different than Henry. Not so different, but he wouldn’t be able to do it the same this time. His heart thumped in his chest as he stopped running, standing in front of the newly twenty-one year old.
Henry lifted the gun a bit to stop him, still pointing it downward.
Their conversation was a bit of a blur.
Sam could remember bits, “You’re real, this hurts too much.” Henry’s words. The words of someone drowning, kicking and screaming to keep his head above water. Sam saw it in his eyes. He was done.
He couldn’t let that be.
“I wish you didn’t have to see this.”
Henry lifted the gun, and Sam was moving before he knew what was happening. He closed the spaced between them, placing his hands on Henry’s, struggling to get the weapon away. Shoes scuffled, and one hand was thrown against the side of Sam’s face. Henry was stronger than he looked.
The gun went off once, into the air.
Sam yanked it away, stepping back from Henry. His eyes had a glassy look to them, his body tense.
“Sam, it’s over,” Henry said, panting through his nose. “Please.”
Sam looked down to the gun in his hand, considering for a moment what to do next. He needed to get Henry off this bridge, that was for sure. Alive, preferably.
“Please,” Henry pressed, his voice quiet. There wasn’t much emotion behind it, it was all in his eyes, his chest. Rolling around in his body, begging for a release.
Sam took the gun and wound his arm back.
“Don’t-”
He accelerated his arm forward and released, watching as it barreled into the East River. Henry let out a frustrated yelp. He paced back and forth for a moment, not sure what to do now that his plan had failed. He needed out. He pressed his hands against his eyes as he moved. This shit rolling around inside him needed out.
“Henry,” Sam called, walking forward.
Henry stopped walking and took the hands from his eyes. Cars passed by just below him. Cars. He remembered the night so vividly, the pain in his head, how alone he felt. Henry took a step forward, a hand on the railing.
“Henry, Lila can help you.” Sam continued. “I can help you.”
This was pointless. Henry stared down at the cars. He knew what he needed to do. He lifted a foot to the railing, and for a second, his body teetered down. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the face of the driver who killed him.
Then he felt arms around his body, and someone wrestling him back. Henry struggled, but it was no use. Sam was determined. The both of them fell backwards onto the walkway and separated. The feeling in Henry’s chest beat against him faster, as he laid on the ground, tears beginning to fall. He failed.
Sam came into view next to him. “It’s over, Henry.”
Henry said nothing, and wished for death.
The sun crept in through the window, over Henry’s face, forcing him to open his eyes. He squinted against the light and held his hand in front of his face. The effort was futile, the sun streamed through his fingers, to his face. He would’ve found it beautiful in a different circumstance, maybe even inviting, but there was no beauty now. Not for a while. Not since…
Henry sat up, squinting against the sun, and tried to identify his surroundings. He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor did he remember laying down on this leather couch.
“Morning,” he heard from the corner of the room.
He turned his head to see Sam, sitting with his legs crossed. His hair was a mess, and there were slight bags under his eyes.
Henry stared for a second. He said nothing, and Sam didn’t say much, either.
The buzzing in Henry’s chest returned. His eyes wandered back to the window, and he idly wondered how many stories it was to the ground.
“Your apartment?” Henry asked, vaguely recognizing the street.
Sam nodded.
“Isn’t that against HIPPA or whatever?”
Sam nodded again, standing. “I’ll deal with the consequences.”
“You kidnapped me,” Henry said, watching as Sam walked across the room.
“And I’m sorry.” Sam sighed and walked to the kitchen, taking the eggs from the fridge. “Hungry?”
Henry shook his head, his eyes still on Sam.
“You’ve got to eat something.”
Henry said nothing.
Sam turned to look at him, a tired expression on his face. “I’ll make extra in case you change your mind.”
Henry sighed and laid back down. The pesky light from the sun still pierced his eyelids, so he placed a throw pillow over his face. Maybe he could suffocate himself, and he’d be gone that way. He pressed the cushion against his nose and mouth and held his breath.
It was maybe a second or two before the sun was back, Sam standing over Henry, holding the pillow that was meant to kill him. He looked disappointed. What did he care? He wasn’t Henry’s father, he wasn’t Henry’s anything. His father was dead and gone, his mother and Athena, too. Everyone who loved him, cared about him, gone.
Sam sighed and moved back to the kitchen, where scrambled eggs sizzled on the stove top. The food filled the air with a smell that made Henry’s stomachache. He wasn’t a breakfast person, especially not with eggs.
When Henry sat up again, Sam was setting the table. There were three plates, three sets of utensils, three cups.
“I’m not hungry,” Henry mumbled, leaning an arm against the back of the couch.
“It’s a good way to start your day.”
Henry scoffed and looked out the window.
“Oh, and Henry?”
Henry looked back to Sam, who straightened out and looked at him.
“Happy birthday.”
It was a weird feeling, being wished a happy birthday, especially after yesterday. He wasn’t starting off his twenty-first year very well. He didn’t intend to start it at all.
A woman walked into the room a moment later. She looked just as tired as Sam, though her hair was tied back in a clip, much neater than his. Henry himself probably looked a little worse for the wear, but he didn’t care to confirm.
She was blonde, and though her hair was tied up, it looked short. The two hugged before she looked to Henry with a compassionate smile.
“You’re Henry?” She asked, moving around the table to him.
He nodded.
She extended her hand. “I’m-”
“Lila, yeah.” Henry eyed the hand for a second, then shook it hesitantly.
Her smile faltered for a second, but she managed to maintain it well enough. “I hear you’re an artist.”
Henry nodded. Really, he hadn’t picked up a brush in months, and when he did, he could never get the stupid bridge out of his head. It wasn’t that he thought his own work was bad, but he didn’t think it meant much to anybody but himself. He’d gotten praise before, teachers, professors, the guy down at the bookstore, but it never felt genuine. Nobody ever felt genuine.
Except maybe Sam.
“I’m an artist, too,” Lila said.
“You suicidal, too?” Henry asked. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel the room change. He liked to push, it made him feel something. “That why Sam thinks you can help me?”
Lila snickered. “Well, you just get straight to it, don’t you?”
Henry raised an eyebrow at her. Touche.
“I think you and I should talk,” she continued, tucking her hands in her back pockets.
Henry sighed. He itched for a cigarette. “What could you have to say to me?”
“Let’s go for a walk, you and me.”
Henry glanced to Sam, for no particular reason. He sort of wanted to see what Sam thought. Who knows if he even knew this is how Lila wanted to play this out? He didn’t seem surprised, though. Henry sighed and stood, following the woman out of the apartment.
“You got family, Henry?” Lila asked, wandering through the courtyard of the building.
Henry shook his head.
Lila nodded, a solemn expression on her face.
“Friends?”
He shook again. He stared at his feet as he walked, dragging his heels just a bit. It was a colder morning than expected, so he’d popped his collar against the breeze. Puddles were still evaporating around them from the night before.
Lila stopped walking and faced him. “Why’d you do it?”
Henry froze, his shoulders got tense. “You first.” He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, breathing in deeply.
Lila sighed, glancing up and around them. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I was suffering.”
“But you had Sam.”
She nodded. “But when that darkness is so… dark, it’s hard to see something worthy of breaking out of it. It pulled me in, held me there until I couldn’t breathe. I love Sam, he did his best, but he didn’t know what I was going through. He never will.”
“You’re so sure.” Henry breathed out more smoke.
Lila nodded. “He’s not like us, he’s not so lonely, not so sad.”
Henry sighed and turned, looking to the large arch that led to the street.
“Henry, I’ve been where you are. I’ve stood where you stood.” She paused, hoping he wouldn’t run from her now. “You’re an artist, right? You see the beauty, you hold it inside of you.”
Henry nodded absently and lifted the cigarette back to his lips.
“So, you’ve got to know there’s too much beauty to quit.”
The two were quiet for a minute. Henry bounced on his heels, itching to get away. He wanted to be done, he wanted the misery to stop, but something held him still.
“So, what? Now I get put in an institution?” He asked, his eyes still fixed on the archway. “Where’s the fucking beauty in that?”
“I didn’t say all of it was beautiful.” Lila placed a hand on his shoulder. “But there’s so much you’ll miss out on if you end it now. Don’t you want to see those things happen?”
Henry slowly shook his head, watching as a man walked through the archway. He had small, circular glasses and his black hair was slicked to one side. He had a small tuft of hair on his chin, and strong cheekbones. He walked with a purpose as a couple other people trailed behind him, an emotionless indifference to all of them.
The group got closer, and a strange feeling twisted itself through Henry’s gut. He glanced away from them for a second, to the staircase that led to Sam and Lila’s place, and saw Sam walking down the last step.
“I feel like I’m getting ambushed,” Henry said to Lila. He looked to her. She had a guilty expression on her face, and the feeling in his gut twisted harder.
Henry frowned. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Sorry, Henry.” She looked to Sam as he approached.
Henry should’ve run when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have lost that gun to Sam; he should’ve been quicker at every turn. His ears began to ring as the others arrived, his heart thumping faster in his chest. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be dead.
A week had gone by, and Henry didn’t feel much older. He stared out the window of his hospital room, at the Brooklyn bridge, remembering how he’d turned twenty-one there. How he lost his family there, not long before. He wished it had ended there. But nothing had ever gone right in his life, so why would he get that mercy now?
There was a knock at the door, and Henry turned to see Sam in the doorway, a bright green bag in his hand. Henry stared at the bag for a moment, before Sam entered, walking over to pull up a chair next to him.
Henry turned his eyes back to the window, crossing his arms over his chest.
“How are you, Henry?” He asked, setting the bag down in between them.
Henry sighed. “Oh, y’know.” He picked at a spot on his arm, through both his long sleeve and the bandages, which prevented his burns from getting infected.
Sam eyed him for a minute. “Are you still hearing voices?” He asked, setting his hands in his lap.
Henry shook his head slowly. “But you’re not my therapist anymore.”
Sam sighed. “No. Does that bother you?”
“Does what bother me?”
“When I ask those questions?”
Henry shook his head slowly. “But you didn’t have to ask me that, either. Because you’re not my therapist.”
Sam sighed again and nodded, looking out the window. The two sat in silence for a minute, Henry unsuccessfully picking his skin.
“How’s Dr. Levy?” Henry asked. He’d wondered about her, from time to time. He knew what he’d done with her was wrong, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been seeing her awhile. He thought she knew him better than most.
As Henry thought, he realized Sam hadn’t answered, so he turned to look at him.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Henry asked softly, his gut twisting up expectantly.
Sam nodded slowly. “She… passed. A few days ago.”
Henry sat for a moment, then nodded. Then he cried. He didn’t know why, she was just a therapist. Maybe one he’d known for awhile, but she wasn’t his friend.
Sam reached across and held Henry tight, comforting him gently. Henry hated crying, it made him feel like a kid. But it was impossible to stop. The tears kept coming, dribbling down his face and staining his white shirt.
Henry sighed out when it was over, a heavy exhaust settling into him as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Sam continued to comfort him until Henry pulled away. He hugged himself gently, sniffling every few minutes until his nose no longer ran. Henry pushed hair from his eyes and sniffled once more, looking back to the bridge.
The sun was getting low in the grey sky.
“You should go,” Henry said, and Sam nodded.
He took the bag from the floor and held it out to the young man. Henry took it, gingerly setting it in his lap.
“What’s this?” He asked, trying to peak past the tissue paper.
“It’s a birthday gift,” Sam said, then squeezed Henry’s shoulder. “I’ll be back next week, Henry. Hold out until then?”
Henry nodded slowly, glancing up at him.
Sam smiled, nodded, and strolled out of the room.
Once he was gone, Henry took the tissue paper from the bag, discarding it mindlessly on the floor, to find a thick leather-bound book and a small water-color set for kids. He stared for a second, then cracked a little smile. It was enough.