The first semester in Oxford has already started. Balancing between studying to become a lawyer and life in general, Julia Eden has found herself sitting across from a shrink, or in better words: a psychologist.
It only gets worse when the old man s...
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Saturday morning, Neal found Phillippe Williams, Peter’s younger brother, sitting in his study, still dressed in the tailored brown pants and white tee shirt he had been wearing the day he killed himself.
The sight of him stopped Neal in his tracks. It was a dream, he was sure. Neal knew that Phillippe had been buried just beside grandfather Richard Williams.
In the silence, Phillippe stared at him, his gray eyes similar to Neal’s fixed on him as he pushed the barrel of his gun inside his mouth.
Neal closed his eyes, knowing that the impact was inevitable when the sound of gunshot woke him up.
He knew it was a dream. It had to be a dream. His father couldn't be here to recreate his suicide once again. It was one of the many times Neal had seen Phillippe Williams since he had passed away. The first time had been at the school game at year two, when Neal had made a goal and turned towards the bleachers to see Peter shouting encouraging words but he had seen Phillippe as well, staring at him, mouthing something that felt awfully like ‘proud of you, son’. His throat had closed up to see his dead father but when Phillippe dissolved into the thin air, he somehow knew that he was seeing it, hallucinating he had later learnt from his therapist.
Sitting upright in bed with his chest glistening with sweat, his heart hammering like he had run from heaven to hell, Neal watched the sunlight waver through the ceiling to floor windows of his bedroom. Gradually, he lied down on the bed, panting, waiting for his heart rate to slow. Slowly the fear receded but the guilt stayed.
Neal lay throughout the morning, ignoring numerous pings coming from his cell phone. When had he slept past ten before? London had weakened him. Finally sitting up, he grabbed his phone and cleared his notifications, slightly surprised to see no text from Julie.
Maybe it was too early. Besides, she wasn't coming out of college until one.
He called Chester, the butler, instead.
“Sir.”
“Inform Walker that I won't be in father's office today. And call Morty to send the files I've received yesterday to the apartment. I'll work from here.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“That's all for now,” he hung up and climbed out of the bed, wandering down the corridor and into the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of water, he ran the nightmare through his head once again. Not waiting for Mrs. Angie, he contemplated making poached eggs and juice, himself. As he stood before the stove, he sighed at the emptiness that echoed through the apartment. Once done, he served the egg on a plate and poured the juice into a glass, carrying it to his bedroom next.
The bright screen of his cell phone distracted him while he placed his food on the coffee table in his room. Slightly excited, he reached for his phone to see the notification. An email had arrived from the Harvard authorities, instead of what he had expected.
