Chimera (28 page)
Authors: Stephie Walls
I
knew
he wasn’t in a good place, but I wasn’t prepared for what I walked into tonight. Covered in his own filth and vomit, he was hallucinating. Or shit maybe he was just drunk. I don’t know.
The shot exploded through the silence, tearing apart the space between us. I knew what it was before it registered in my mind what he had done. Rolling or falling off the couch, I scramble to my feet, desperate to reach him. “Basstttiiiiannnnn…” I cry reaching the door. Pounding on it, struggling to get in. The door barricaded. My fists ache. My shoulder ramming the wood, but it barely budges. “No, no, no.” This is too final.
Bathroom. I’m running out of time. With him on the other side, the only way in is though the other door. Locked. Damn, Bastian! With every ounce of strength I can muster, I throw my shoulder into the door, crashing through it…unprepared for the scene in front of me. The statue shattered around the room, his body is lifeless with the gun still dangling in hand. It’s grisly. Death is on every surface. Every inch of the room is covered in what tormented him for so many years. Sinking to my knees, I pull what remains of him to me, cradling his broken body in my arms. I release the fear I’ve clung to for so long. I’m sobbing, wracked with grief for my best friend, my brother. I’ve felt his pain for an eternity; I’ve known how dark his mind would get. That same darkness takes over. The finality of his choice crushes me.
Sylvie’s voice haunts me. It’s barely audible in the silence. He left this earth with her with him. He never recovered from her loss. I knew losing the closest thing to her replacement would destroy him.
“Fuck!” I bawl into the empty room around me.
I spend the time I need with him. There’s no rush to call anyone since he’s not salvageable, but I need this for me. I never want to remember him this way but I can’t bring myself to let him go, to put his body down to call the police. The moment I pick up that phone he’s gone forever. Shattered by the loss, I allow myself to remember him before Sylvie died, our childhood, and the good times before he was taken to the grave. I want to find solace in the thought he’s at peace, but all I can think of is what a selfish bastard he is.
For an undetermined amount of time, I sit on his bedroom floor, listening to Sylvie sing the same song over and over. The lump in my throat is as painful as the gaping hole in my heart. Crying doesn’t eliminate any of the agony; it doesn’t release any of the grief. The longer I sit here, the worse the struggle becomes.
“Do you remember that time when Cecily Church wanted to be your girlfriend in middle school but I had a crush on her? You told her you were gay and she should be my girl because I was such a cool guy?” The stories pop into my head as quickly as they leave. “Or the day you jumped off the rope swing at the lake and hit a rock in the water, breaking your leg and I had to carry you back to the car?” He never responds but I keep talking hoping he’ll show some sort of life, like the side of his head will somehow come back together. “What about when we went to Atlanta to see WWF and Goldberg won the title? We could hear people chanting his name outside the Georgia Dome.” The memories don’t bring him back.
Rocking back and forth I make one of the hardest calls I’ll ever make.
Still holding him in my arms, the police arrive quietly with EMS in tow. One of the officers stoops down next to me, encouraging me to let his body go.
“He’s not here, son.” His voice is low, soft spoken, pained. “You need to let him go.”
I look up to him with tears streaming down my cheeks. “He’s gone.” I choke out.
He nods his confirmation. I squeeze my friend, covered in his blood. I can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I wail like a child, “Please don’t make me let him go.” The muscles in my face shake, my voice weak. The officer helps me move his body to the floor. Pushing back to the wall with my hands, I slip in blood, bone particles stabbing my hands. With my knees to my chest, I close my eyes, wishing it all away.
Watching the scene in front of me unfold, they cover his body, converging in the hall. I hear the muffled whispers but can’t decipher the words. They don’t rush me but encourage me to leave the room, finally helping me to my feet, ushering me out of Bastian’s life.
T
he funeral was a madhouse
. People who had never known him but admired his work came to pay their respects as he was laid to rest next to his wife. His parents attended, but, for the most part, they allowed me to do what I wanted. Having not really been around, they were clueless about the tragedy in his life. They always thought he would just rebound from the loss of Sylvie, never understanding why he couldn’t just move on. That wasn’t Bastian, though. He loved faithfully, eternally. He had few close to him, but those who were, he treasured.
Once the police had the house cleaned, I was allowed back in. His parents didn’t fight me on taking what I wanted. I took every painting he had ever touched, every brush, canvas, tube of paint. The police took the pieces of
The Seraphim
as evidence but several weeks later I picked that up as well. I trashed most of it but her face remained intact, as did her wings. How her face and wings remained unharmed, I’ll never know, but I had them framed in a shadow box. He loved her, and I wanted to honor that.
With no one to testify against Ferry the charges for assault and criminal domestic violence were dropped by the state. While he doesn’t have a rap sheet, he has fallen from grace in the art community. That world lost its fair maiden and golden boy within days of each other. The people in this town and their fans just aren’t very forgiving. His career has plummeted, at least on this side of life. As with most artists, death may bring success from those who love haunted artists.
Needless to say, Bastian’s work is in high demand. I’ve had people offer me seven figures for one canvas but I refuse to let them go, not even to Le Musee. Not right now, not yet. They are his soul in color and I’m just not ready to allow anyone else to have them. Maybe down the road I will, but I’m too selfish right now to give anyone else the joy he brought to me.
I try to sooth my wounds, telling myself he’s with Sylvie again. Hell, maybe he’s introduced her to Sera. Sylvie would have loved her. I hope that in his death he found peace with his wife, reuniting with her where he so longed to be. I hope both of them are whole. He struggled for so long with who he was, where he was going, what he was becoming. He lost his identity when he lost Sylvie, but the last year was more than he could handle. I take solace in believing he found peace. It’s taken me a long time to realize the gift he gave me in his life and his death. He freed me from what he believed to be the burden of him while he was living, but the truest gift I’ve ever received was his life.
The End
I
met
Bastian while walking a friend’s dog along the Hudson River in October 2014 but his story wasn’t clear. Big thanks to the romantic poet who allowed me space to create in his home. When I started hashing it out on the computer sitting in a Peekskill loft, it was flowing faster than I could type but as soon as I returned to South Carolina, Bastian quit talking.
For the next fifteen months, Leigh Ann encouraged me to continue to push out one more chapter. I’d finally send her one after I rewrote the previous five. I deleted more words from this manuscript than actually ended up in the final version. There were times when she wanted Bastian more than I did and after fifteen months, the first draft of chimera sat in her inbox.
I will forever be grateful to Leigh Ann for encouraging me in every aspect of my life but her role in chimera coming to fruition is insurmountable.
Leddy. Leddy. Leddy. You came in like a ray of light that irritates the shit out of me peeking through the curtains early on a Saturday morning. I love your positive outlook on life, they way you encourage me when I don’t believe in myself, and everything about our friendship. Thank you for all the help you’ve offered from editing, proofing, formatting, cover selection, to PR. You’ve taught me more in six months than I learned in six years of college. You make me giggle but most importantly you showed me, God would send exactly what I needed the moment I needed it…even when I didn’t know the need existed. You should know you’re special just because we talk on the phone. Daily. #GFY #gatWHORE #stork #neighbor!
Big Daddy and Magoo. There’s nothing I can say that I haven’t already told you both. BD, you’re the first person who ever wanted to know what MY dream was and then made it happen. You showed me what it was like to laugh again after years of darkness and allowed my inner child to emerge. Thank you for the silly times and the permanent smile. And my little Magoo...you have no idea what words are contained inside my pages but you brag about me to anyone who will listen as if I’m the writing equivalent of Taylor Swift. Thank you both.
And finally, my readers, without you, this would just be twenty-six letters rearranged multiple times into ninety-thousand words on three hundred and thirty-seven pages. If no one ever reads them the story never comes to life.
S
tephie Walls is
a literary whore - she love words in all forms and will read anything put in front of her. She has an affinity for British Literature and Romance novels and an overall love of writing. Aside from chimera, she has three novels, four short stories, and two collections; all provocatively written to elicit your imagination and spice up your world. Connect with her to stay up to date on her future projects. Be on the look out for Compass in summer 2016!
