The Beginning of the End (Editing)

Twenty Seven : The Joker

Out of the window I see black. And purple, pink, peach, and orange. A sunset as beautiful as any other, if not even more so. Over the tress and through the branches it looks like something you should find in an art gallery, and I feel more than honoured to experience it for myself.

"I should paint that," Eleanor sneaks up behind me, wearing nothing but one of my button up shirts. Her hair is it's natural nutty brown colour, all messy but perfect. And her eyes in this sunlight is something surreal. She's surreal. Gently she places a kiss on my cheek, an East-to-West grin emerges on my face. "It's stunning don't you think?" Her arms drape over my shoulders from behind and she gently rests her chin on top of my head.

"You're stunning," I whisper, and a light laughter flutters through the room.

"Well I doubt you would've married me if I weren't," Her light weight lifts off of my body and my eyes follow as she walks to an easel and canvas a mere two meters away from the window. I go to move out of the way, but she quickly insists that I stay put as she oozes vibrant colours onto her pallet.

"I love you, Kyle." She grins as she gracefully sits on the wooden floor, readying her paintbrush between her delicately messy hands.

"I love you too, Eleanor."

Opening my eyes feels heavier, and my heart feels that way as I realise that I've only awoken to another day of grief and guilt, and that that dream was just a dream. And that the dream won't ever come true.

I mean sure, I now know she could love me like I do but that doesn't change the fact that she's in a fucking coma with fucking memory loss and all of this other bullshit that I got her into. I'm the dick that said what I said, and it's put her in fucking hospital.

It could even put her in the fucking ground.

My heart rate quickens at the thought, but I pace my breathing to try and refrain from panicking. I don't want that, and Ma doesn't need to deal with me either.

For the past couple of days she's been numb and drunk. She'll finish a bottle of wine within an hour and she'll wait for that buzz to die, then she'll go at it again until she's vomiting. I think she knows that what she's doing will result in her barfing, but I think she does it because it distracts the burn in her heart with the burn in her throat.

Maybe I get alcoholism from her. Or Dad, I mean I still have a "hidden" cupboard filled with his old liquor from the days he'd come home from work with a craving for that fix.

But I don't want to think about those days, I can't afford to. I don't want to go back to the hospital again. I have too much to worry about, and myself isn't included on that list.

I pick my phone up from my bedside table to reveal seven missed calls from Harry, most of which were from yesterday but I was too frustrated to answer.

Instead of replying, I get up and change into items of clothing I have splayed out on the floor like the fucking dog I am.

"Ma I'm going out, do you need anything?" I yell as I run down the staircase. As I dart past the kitchen I wait for a response, a mumble, just like every other reply I've had from her for the past couple of days. But I notice a figure standing in the kitchen, and I walk backwards to get a better look.

"Ma, are you okay?" My voice comes out concerned, and I am I guess. She's standing there leaning against the bench and is just... staring at it.

"Ma?" I approach her slowly:

"Can you get me a bottle of whiskey?" Her head seemingly snaps in my direction, and her voice is so monotone that it hurts. My mind drifts to Dad's old cupboard, and the many bottles he has in there, but I don't think mentioning him to her is wise. Not like this.

"I can try," I respond gently, and the smallest curve in her lips which passes as a smile to me makes an appearance.

"You're a good boy, Ky." She responds numbly once more, then refocuses on the kitchen bench.

Quickly, I leave the house with Mom's car keys and am greeted by grey overcast sky. Like the hair of an old lady, it looks fluffy and touchable. At least it's not raining.

I get into the car and start the engine, and I realise I haven't really driven since that day. My mind rewinds to the moments leading to finding El at the crash site, and my heart begins to race.

Not now Kyle, don't go there.

I pull my phone from my pocket and find Harry's contact.

"Why the fuck haven't you been answering?" His voice booms through the microphone.

"Can you get two bottles of whiskey for me?" I sternly say into the phone, a hitch in Harry's breathing sounds through the phone.

"One for Ma, one for me," My lungs relax and a large wave of air leaves my mouth. I bring my arm to the rest by my side and lean my forehead against my hand as images of a burning Eleanor swirl in my head. "Please."

"Yeah, come pick me up and I'll sort you out."

—

Whiskey tastes great when you're wanting nothing but to feel a bit like nothing. I mean the giddiness that comes with it isn't that cool, but feeling a little bit senseless is.

"Are you sure you can handle that?" Harry asks me in a concerned manner as we walk down some street that's just, somewhere.

"I drink it allllllll the time," I chuckle heavily, allowing the thought of El's nickname to come to mind. That was a good, short, funny moment. I look at Harry, who still is showing worry on his face. "Why so serious?" I frown and pout my lip, then begin laughing hysterically.

"Get it? I'm the joker," My body hunches over in laughter. "Wait wait, no, you're the joker!" I point at his confused face.

"Look at you?" I giggle even more.

"More like, look at you," He says in an almost angry way. "Why the fuck are you doing this? Acting like this?" He's looking at me like I'm stupid. I am not stupid, Mister Joker.

"I have a bad brain, Mister Joker," I slur and stumble as I keep walking. "I like to not remember bad things that have happened yeah? And this bottle of whiskey is a gooooood start for me." I chuckle again and point to the litre bottle of brown liquor I have in my hand.

"You're ridiculous, Kyle." He spits.

"Yeah? We'll you're stupid!" I mockingly retort. His gaze turns to me and sternly his eyes meet mine. He then stops and unwillingly I stop too.

"Oh I'm stupid? We'll listen here, Kyle. I'm not the boy who's drunk off his fucking face to distract himself from the fact that the girl he loves is fucking dying in hospital when she probably needs company the most!" He yells into the very not empty street. I mean there are people, but not lots, and now they're all looking.

"Look there are people staring!" I groan in response. "It's not like she can feel that I'm there or anything you fucking dickhead!"

"Oh? Can't she? Because I think sober you and I both know that you're dead fucking wrong there buddy." He angrily storms off.

What the fuck does he mean by that? Fucking prick.