The Lucky One

Chapter Four: The Final Settlement

Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

     ~ Shakespeare, Hamlet

Chapter Four:

The Final Settlement

As he slid further into the downpour of rainshower, he could audibly hear Clarisse’s voice shouting his name, apparently pleading for him to come back. Whatever she was doing – or they – he didn’t care, because the latter thought suggested the priority no other than reaching home the soonest he could afford; Clarisse had burst into whimpering and fell, graceful as a flag could be, onto the wet pavement, shouting and begging him to return. . . .

Mark ran faster, waters trickling from his hairtip, towards the dim courtyard of East Drive. There was nowhere else to land after a shipwreck. There was nothing else he could do because it was already done: If what they wanted was to be together without him intruding (as though it was even his fault), then setting out of this place to unite with his mother abroad was far more advantageous than he had ever imagined. Step out of their vicinity and everything would be fine. There was nothing else left worth fighting.

He took two steps at a time through seven floors up to his apartment. Although it pained, there was no sense of resistance that issued from his nerves. As he slammed the door shut, its banging sound echoed all over the room, startling the untrained ears. Mark fell on the sofa, unthinking.

His head was spinning faster, empty, and wrathful. Out of his mind, he was not sure how to explain what he felt: He suddenly didn’t want the television in front, either the magazine under the table, even the table itself, the curtains, the doorknob, the mess, the coldness – everything. He stood in a second, shaking, and grabbed the remote controller with much hatred it had done. Without letting any more second pass, he swiftly threw it against the floor, its batteries dismounted. He stomped on it to the fullest, pouring all the energy left inside his body because he knew there was nowhere else to spend them. He gritted his teeth and wrapped his fist tightly that his fingernails left marks on his palm.

How could a remote controller – a small, black, rectangular piece of plastic – be the source of all of this: Breakup, friendship failure, and pain?

As Mark drew more brave steps against the shattered smithereens, the door flew wide open. For a moment, Mark did not stop. Hunter closed the door calmly and looked at him.

“What’s your problem?” Hunter said dispassionately.

Mark’s threatening face angled towards him, his bloods boiling hotter because his look appeared unexplainable. He was about to explode.

“My problem?” Mark had repeated, breathing unstably. “MY PROBLEM? YOU – YOU KISSED MY GIRLFRIEND IN FRONT OF ME AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO ASK ME WHAT MY PROBLEM IS? WELL, IF – IF –”

Mark stopped. He lunged towards Hunter; no words could define the anger he had kept to this point. One powerful smack and Hunter was sent straight onto the floor. Wiping his nose gently, he managed his way up and gazed at Mark. The very look in his eyes portrayed neither regret nor apology.

“Cormark James Lafertroy, could you just please calm down?”

As Mark frowned at him, he had come to conclusion the impossibility of Hunter calling him on his complete name. It never occurred to both of them, even on their time of friendship, to address each other thus.