Desolate Decay

That was the last time I saw Mr. Hastings.

“I heard Francis left a last letter for you. Have you opened it yet?” I asked the young man in front of me. This was the first time he seemed emotive in all our talks. That meant he was improving in his condition, responding. “I did.” Is all he said. The room felt eerie. Unsettled by the silence I started, “And how did it make you feel?”

“Hideous. Like I needed to throw up, and I did. I laid in my vomit on the floor, unresponsive not knowing how to feel until I started crying and screaming. It felt like he tore my soul into trivial pieces, like trash. I was teeming with rage and loathing. But even all that couldn’t stop me from being eternally sad for him.” He divulged.

“Do you think that now you can get some closure from the incident and maybe even forgive Francis?”

“I don’t think I can ever forgive him for his inanity, but I do think I can finally close this chapter my life, for all that’s worth.” Mr. Hastings answered.

“You knew, didn’t you?” He accused and I stayed silent.

“I don’t know what to do. I lie awake at night wishing for something horrific to happen to me and death come release me. I hate myself so much, why did I do it. It was so stupid. I ruined everything, that’s exactly like me to mess everyone’s lives. Maybe they were right; I shouldn’t have been born. All I can think about is that one why and I can’t find an answer and it’s eating me from the inside out. Maybe I should just go to the police? But I can’t spend a life in jail, my parents hate me enough as it is. He’s been calling a lot lately to hang out after school, being all pitiful and sad begging for everyone’s attention when he’s repulsive to be around now. Honestly, I’ve started to run out of excuses. I don’t know what to do.” Mr. Reid rambled on.

I listened as it was my job but even I couldn’t have told him what to do. I should have reported him to the cops myself, but I went against my morality code and decided to try help him mentally first. I had known him for years; I couldn’t abandon him. I need just a few more sessions and he’d be on a better track.

But I didn’t get that chance.

“Hello Max. It’s nice to meet you. What brings you in?” I greeted my new acquaintance.

“I was in an accident and my dog passed. My parents thought it’d be good for me to see you.” Max said blankly. His expression and body language nonexistent.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we? How is your day going?”

“Stale”

“Okay. How about we get straight into the hard stuff. How has your life changed since the accident?” I inquired.

After a short silence, Mr. Hastings started.

“When I got hit, I thought I died. I could see and feel nothing until I opened my eyes and saw a crowd of people spectating the ruin around me. The trampled carcass quiescent a few feet away, no more akin a dog. And me, right arm pulled out lolling a distance separate from its master, everlasting. Dark red wine gushing out my shoulder trying to reach the article that was wrongly taken from it.

After I was healed enough my family and I went to a museum, art was always my get away. I got to this painting; it didn’t look quite right like it was missing something. I gathered that I was too close and tried wheeling a foot or two back, yet it still seemed somewhat... wrong. I realized – having become expeditious with my new developed faults – that it was meant to be seen at a meticulous eye level. One I would never reach while chair bound. Antagonism rose in me and unknowingly tears started spilling down my flushed cheeks. The same self-pitying thoughts; rejecting all the college acceptance letters; not being able enough to pick up a paint brush again. Sentiments mounting made my rage grow and I shouted. People looking at me in shame for ruining their night, which made me feel all the more pathetic. I started thrashing as if tied up, unjustly placed in another’s body. I fell face down on the marble unsympathetic floor.”

“I know it seems downright impossible right now, but you will get over this. Life has more to offer to you Max. You just ought to believe in yourself.” I tried to stay positive, but this kid has been through worse than hell had to offer.

I was having a session with Francis after quite some time, nearly more than a month. He seemed dubious and fidgeting. “I know something is going on, talk to me” I pried.

“Nothing much. Same old” He tried to seem collected, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Okay. How are things with max? Last time you said he was being cruel and distant to punish you on purpose.”

“Yeah, uh he’s worse nowadays. He has been playing soccer with Charles more and more. He doesn’t even like him. He’s being cruel and I’m sure he’ll come running back when he gets bored of Charles. Now that I think on it, I cannot believe how self-centered he is. And then audaciously says I’m the one that needs center stage? Max is just a hurt little child cowering and weak. He tries to cover that up with great facades of wisdom and maturity because he wants to fool everyone around him, mainly me, into believing he is strong and worthy. Too bad all Max Hastings amounts to is worthless and miserable. Never walking again would teach him a lesson to not treat me like that right? His right arm coming off, so he can never paint again, was just the cherry on top. I am glad I pushed him and his stupid dog into the street yesterday.” He confessed.

It’s funny how small words can change the trajectory of your whole life.

I remember the first day Francis Reid walked into my office for his first therapy session. I had quickly realized he was a trouble child. Neglecting parents fighting through an ugly divorce and a battle over custody where neither of them wanted him. Francis has never had many friends; he loses contact with most of them in less than a few weeks when he recognizes that they aren’t the version he idealizes.

Strangely he could never let go of Max. He cared for his opinion more than anyone. When he didn’t get what he emotionally needed, his admiration turned to abhor. Leaving both in desolate decay.