10 YEARS LATER
Scream, you pathetic piece of shit, the voice in my head commanded.
Was it my voice?
Was it someone else’s?
I couldn’t be sure anymore.
All I knew in this moment was that I wanted nothing more than to move, to run, to scream, but I couldn’t.
Call for help, dammit!
I can’t!
Nothing was working.
I couldn’t move a muscle.
Not so much as a fingertip.
I was paralyzed with fear.
Again.
Rendered helpless, I drenched the part of my mattress that my face was pressed into with my tears.
Pressure.
It was climbing up my throat.
Pushing me deeper into the mattress.
Silent tears followed by silent screams that couldn’t activate my vocal cords.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The heavy weight above me kept me locked in my personal eternal pit of terror.
Drowning.
Pressing my face into the mattress until I couldn’t breathe. Letting the water fill my lungs to the point of explosion.
Nostrils flaring.
Arms flailing.
You’re not here.
Darkness seeping in.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
The image of crushing waves shifted to the familiar view of my upstairs landing.
I’m drowning, Mam.
I could see the hue of light from her bedroom lamp shining from underneath the doorframe.
I’m going under again.
That horrific, familiar scorching pain seared through me, causing my body to thrash helplessly.
Why can’t you see me?
Death would be better than this.
It hurts.
I was already dying on the inside.
Make it stop.
My insides were already ruined.
Make him stop.
My heart slowly disintegrated in my chest.
No, don’t take me away from them.
My heartbeat grew sluggish in my chest, but I could still hear my pulse thundering in my ears.
No. Please. Stop him from saving me.
Because I would never be healed.
It’s your fault she’s dead.
I could feel his hands on my body.
Keep your eyes on the door.
Pressure.
Please let me go.
It was building up in my chest.
I want my dad.
Don’t make me let go of his hand.
Drowning me.
I can’t see my sister.
Smothering me.
She’s disappearing deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Pushing against my lungs to the point where I couldn’t breathe.
He’s coming closer.
“No!”
Go with her.
“Stop!”
I promise it’ll be better down there.
“Dad!”
Hold your breath.
And then he was pulling me out of the water.
“Breathe, kid, breathe!”
You deserve to be punished.
“Keep trying, dammit!”
You deserve to be hurt.
“One, two, three, four, five!”
You deserve to be ruined.
“Stand clear.”
From the inside out.
“We’ve got a pulse … ”
“No!” Gasping for air, I scrambled out of bed, not stopping until I had collapsed in a heap on the bedroom floor. “Christ.” Panic-stricken, I ran my hands through my sweat-soaked hair and then scrubbed my face. Anxiety was thrashing around inside of me, causing my heart to buck around like a demonic ping-pong ball in my chest.
I could still taste the water in my mouth, the feeling of panic as my lungs filled and burned to the point of bursting.
Chest heaving and breathing ragged, I stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, still desperately clawing for air.
Thud.
Thud.
My heart was beating so hard, climbing so high in my chest, that I could almost taste it in my throat.
Metallic.
Sinful.
Wrong!
“You’re okay,” I tried to tell myself, but felt no comfort. “You’re okay.”
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I couldn’t breathe.
Yes, you can.
You’re breathing just fine, asshole.
It was a nightmare.
It wasn’t real.
But it was.
It is real.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong!
“Fucking stop it,” I ordered my own wandering mind as I rolled onto my hands and knees, moving through the darkness blindly. “Just shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute!”
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Was I still awake?
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Or had I fallen back to sleep?
Thud.
Thud.
I was definitely on the move now, stumbling around in the darkness, guided solely by memory.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A severe wave of brain fog attacked my senses and I felt myself slipping.
Drifting away again.
Into another nightmare.
Jesus no!
“No, no, no … ” Whimpering, I mentally fought against what I knew came next, but it was no use.
Even in my dreams, I couldn’t change a thing.
“Gerard?”
Far out in the distance, I could hear her.
“Oh my God, Gerard.”
My heart was thundering in my chest.
“You’re okay, shh, shh, it’s okay.”
My feet were moving.
“It’s me. You’re safe.”
My hands were reaching for her.
“I’ve got you.”
But I couldn’t see a thing.
“Shh, baby, I’ve got you.”
My pulse was roaring in my ears.
“I’m right here with you.”
The waves were lapping over my body.
“Open your eyes, Gerard.”
His touch was crushing my soul.
“Come back to me … ”
“Fuck!” I choked out, physically coughing and spluttering violently as the phantom sensation of drowning continued to cause havoc on my psyche. “Claire?” Frantic, my eyes sprang open. “Claire?” The fog lifted from my mind, and I felt like I could suddenly see again. “Claire?”
“It’s me.” A pair of familiar hands wrapped around my waist from behind, causing my entire body to simultaneously stiffen and jolt. “I’m right here, Gerard.”
And then I could smell her shampoo, the washing powder her mother always used on her clothes, the feel of her chest pressed to my back as she cradled my body against her.
Relief.
It flooded my body with such force that it eradicated every ounce of adrenalin that had been thrashing around inside of me, leaving me a broken mess in her arms. “Claire.”
“I’ve got you.”
When she put her hands on my body, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t feel the familiar swell of panic that consumed me when I was grabbed from behind.
I didn’t have to open my eyes to know that I had somehow managed to sleepwalk into her bedroom. Again. It was the only place my legs ever took me. It was the only place I could breathe.
I also didn’t have to look behind me to know that she was wearing her favorite pink unicorn onesie, either. I was so familiar with the fabric that I recognized the feel of it against my back as she continued to hold me.
Her senses became my senses, and I found a way to anchor myself in the moment. I found the strength to drag the present version of me out of my nightmares. Out of my past.
“You’re safe now.” Claire’s voice was filled with a quiet assured confidence that I desperately clung to in the moment. She had a right to feel confident. She had been the unfortunate candidate thrust into bringing me back from the edge every day since the drowning. “I’ve got your back.”
Claire Biggs had a lot of things.
My attention.
My heart.
My soul.
Yeah, she had all of me and that wasn’t an exaggeration.
I knew that gatecrashing her room wasn’t fair on either of us, I wasn’t stupid, but it was a habit I’d formed after my father died, and I just wasn’t ready to kick it. She was the nicotine I couldn’t walk away from. The crutch I hadn’t learned to walk without.
Get out of her bedroom, asshole.
Get your shit together.
You have no right to lean on her like this.
“They’re getting worse, Gerard.”
It wasn’t a question, but I forced myself to answer her anyway. “Yeah.”
“More violent.”
Again, it wasn’t a question, but I responded with another shaky, “Yeah.”
My nightmares had always been horrendous. Usually, I was good at hiding them from her, which was impressive considering I’d slept in her bed almost every night since I was seven.
When the night terrors were bad, like they had been this past summer, I tried to make myself scarce, and made the conscious effort to sleep at my own house. It never seemed to make a difference, though, because even in sleep I found my way back to her.
“Why?” Concern filled her voice. “What’s been happening to you?”
Nothing.
Nothing was happening to me, which was why I felt so goddamn frustrated. I’d been plagued by night terrors since the accident. Sure, they got progressively worse a few years back when I was dealing with shit, but I was fine now.
Being happy was a decision I made for myself and, miraculously, it helped. It wasn’t real, I didn’t truly feel that way, but I was a firm believer in faking it until you made it. After all, I would be dead without the sentiment.
It was like anything I had ever manifested for my life. Even if it didn’t necessarily come true right away, I acted like it had until it did.
For example, I wanted to be normal, therefore I was. I wanted to be talented like Johnny, to be smart like Hugh, to be creative like Patrick, therefore I did and was all those things.
Sure, I might not be any of those things naturally, but if I pretended like I was for long enough, then there was a good chance it might happen.
Maybe Lizzie was right, and I was a thick fucker. I certainly wasn’t getting into any universities after Tommen.
But I always had my sense of humor to fall back on.
Bluffing my way through life had worked out a charm so far. Bonus points because I wasn’t hurting anyone. Unlike Lizzie, I had found a way to cope, and grieve, and protect myself without tearing strips out of others.
Why be fucked-up Gerard when I could be Gibsie the fuck-up?
It couldn’t hurt when I was Gibsie, because Gibsie was my armor, and humor was my sword.
I didn’t think too much about the words that came out of my mouth. I usually said whatever was on my mind at the time, and it formed the person I had become in the minds of my friends. I was naturally self-deprecating, never purposefully cruel, and it made people laugh. My mouth spurted shit at the expense of my own character, like a cloak of self-sabotaging protection.
Nothing I said was for venomous or boasting purposes. It was for sheer protection. It was my safety net. Because I had an acute need to protect myself and I didn’t know how else to do that in a world where everyone aside from me seemed to have their shit together.
There was only one person in my life that still saw me as, well, me.
Only one person who refused to let go of the version of me from the past.
The girl with her arms around me.
“Then it has to be what happened to you on the camping trip,” she declared in a passionate tone of voice. “When Lizzie pushed you into the river, she must have triggered something inside of you – a memory of that day.”
“Maybe,” I replied, breathing still uneven and ragged. “Whatever.” Sitting forward, I pressed my face into my hands and tried to get a handle on myself. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It’s does matter, Gerard. You’ve been a wreck almost every night since.” Reaching up, she peeled my hands away from my face, and entwined them with hers. “I’m worried about you.”
I didn’t have to force myself to look at the girl holding my hand; my eyes automatically sought her out, homing in on those blonde curls and brown eyes like I had been programed to seek them out since babyhood.
“Hey, hey, just talk to me,” she instructed softly, reaching up to cup my face. “Come on, Gerard. Tell me what’s happening in that head of yours?”
I couldn’t talk to her.
I couldn’t talk to anyone.
The ugly side of life I had been exposed to was something I would take to the grave with me.
Stop.
Don’t think about it.
Block it out.
The present was the safest place for my mind to reside because the past was horrific, and the future terrified me.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to appease her worrying, covering her hands with mine, as I repressed the urge to shudder. “Don’t worry about me.”
“That’s what friends do, Gerard.” Never taking her big brown eyes off mine, she leaned in close to rest her forehead against mine. “They worry about each other.”
If I could sew this girl to my skin without causing her an ounce of harm, then I would do it in a heartbeat. That’s how vital she was to my life. How essential she was to my existence.
If drugs were to Joey Lynch what Claire Biggs was to me, then there was no amount of rehab that could sway me to kick the habit. Because she was the habit of my lifetime.
In a weird way, that’s why I helped Aoife Molloy all those months ago. I would have helped her anyway, but from the utter helplessness I saw in her eyes that night as she stared down the gun of love and pain, I knew there was something in her that I could relate to. I knew what it felt like to be that helpless and I never wanted anyone to experience it. I saw the look in her eyes. I knew that look. I only wished that someone could have stepped in and saved me from that pain. But money couldn’t soothe the pain of my past. From feeling that level of devastation and weakness. If giving the girl a few quid spared her from that ordeal, then I would gladly do it.
Claire continued to knock down my walls by saying, “You can talk to me … I’m always here for you.”
“Claire.” Closing my eyes, I dragged in a steadying breath and forced myself to remember why I needed to not do what my heart was strongly urging me to do.
Christ, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to do all the things lads did with their girls. I wanted to make her mine, but what if I was wrong? Not us as a couple, but me as a man? What if it didn’t work? What if I didn’t work? Because I didn’t feel things with girls. I never felt anything. I was numb to the point of being dead, and if I didn’t feel things with Claire, then it would confirm that my past had truly broken me beyond repair.
I could still remember how it felt the first time she put her lips on mine. Years had passed and several lips had replaced hers since, but I never forgot the spark. The ping. The ignited buzz that throttled my chest and caused my skin to grow hot and cold and warm and tingly all at once. It had only happened one time with one girl. She did something to me that day, gave me a sort of comfort only a person in my position could understand. I felt something. I felt for her. I enjoyed it. Her touch was welcome and wanted and wonderful. After that, I tried to forget about it for the sake of my friendship with Hugh, but I never could. Forgetting Claire wasn’t something I was capable of doing and he knew it.
Any form of intimacy I could conjure up, I wanted to both give and have with her. Just her.
Because I cared about the girl. I cared to the point where she distracted my day. I cared when her cat was sick. I cared when she cried. I cared when her mam ran out of her favorite brand of cereal, and she had to eat porridge. I cared so fucking much it was hard to find where she started and I ended.
I knew her favorite song every year since August 7th 1989. I knew her secrets, her little habits, and traits that nobody else noticed. I wanted to waste my time on her. All of my time. All of the time.
She’d always been the curly haired whirlwind across the street that made my heart go crackers, but after the accident, I’d projected a lot of my emotions onto her. Hell, maybe even into her.
Both sets of our parents had grown up together, and when they’d settled down and married, they’d decided to put down roots on the same street and raise their children together.
A little younger than Hugh and a little older than Claire, I had somehow slotted into the middle, destined to grow up alongside the Biggs siblings. I loved them both like they were my own flesh and blood, but it became very clear to me, at a young age, that the feelings I held for the youngest member of the Biggs family were not brotherly.
From as far back as I could remember, my mind had always been very clear about three things.
One: Hugh was my brother.
Two: Bethany was my sister.
Three: Claire was mine.
After the accident, once I learned how fickle life could be, how quickly a person you loved could be snatched away, it caused the feelings I had for Claire to deepen rapidly, growing wilder and stronger with every day that passed, spreading in intricate, permanent patterns around my heart like ivy.
The girl was everything to me and that wasn’t me being dramatic. It was a fact. The thought of letting her down made me feel physically sick. The thought of any form of harm coming to her, be it emotional or physical, made me feel homicidal.
So, I did the friend thing, played the role I had been assigned since birth and tried my best not to fuck it up, while soaking in every spare second of time with her. I didn’t call over to the Biggs’ house for Hugh. It was always for her. I would always look after her, even if looking at her from afar was all I could do. It would be enough for me. It would have to be. Because breaking her or corrupting her wasn’t an option. Letting her down was even less of one.
Hugh didn’t want me near his sister for all the reasons he didn’t need to worry about. Because, as sure as there was a cat in county Cork, I would never cause harm to Claire Biggs.
She was too important to me.
She was everything to me.
Knowing that our mothers not only thought we would make a good couple, but strongly encouraged it on the daily warmed something inside of me, but it couldn’t warm or quieten the niggling fear I had of fucking everything up and potentially driving away the only person I couldn’t live without.
Because I never wanted her to run from me. To be afraid of me, or for me to make her feel the way I felt. I never wanted her to experience that form of helplessness.
I wanted the future I joked about with her. I wanted everything with her. Problem was, I didn’t trust the person I was. I was too fucking scared of becoming what had ruined me. Of abusing her love and breaking her heart.
Because once we crossed that line, things would never be the same again. We couldn’t come back from it. And I needed the guarantee that I wouldn’t wreck it. That I wouldn’t be reckless with her heart. That I could love her the right way. Because I loved this girl. With every fiber of my being. With every beat of my poor defective heart. I loved her fiercely, solely, whole-heartedly. I had so many physical urges directed solely towards her, but there were no guarantees in life, and I couldn’t risk it.
Clenching my eyes shut, I took a moment to compose myself, to slide my comedic, carefree mask into place. It covered me like a blanket of deceit and protection.
This was how I had managed to reinvent myself when my world crashed down around me.
Not just reinvent myself.
No, it was more than that.
It was my personal resurrection.
When I opened them again, I was the version of me I could tolerate.
The version that couldn’t be hurt.
Never again.
“You know me, Claire-Bear,” I offered with a reassuring smile. Because even though looking at her was effortless, seeing concern in her eyes was not. “I’m always okay.”
She didn’t look impressed. Or fooled. “So, it’s like that again, huh?”
Guilt swam inside of me, but I doubled down and smiled harder. “Like what?”
She didn’t respond.
Instead, she stared at me for the longest time before shaking her head in resignation.
“Okay, Gerard.” Releasing me, she climbed to her feet. “Build your walls back up all you want,” she declared, as she gathered up her pillows and duvet that were strewn everywhere, along with her nightstand and lamp. “I’m too tired to break them down tonight.”
It was only then that I registered the fact that not only had I woken her up with my bullshit, but I’d messed her room up in my pathetic attempt to find her in the dark.
“Shit, babe,” I muttered, hurrying to fix my mistakes. “I didn’t mean to do any of this.” Standing the nightstand back up, I switched on the thankfully unbroken lamp and placed it back in its usual spot. “Fuck.” Immediately, my gaze channeled in on the sleeping cat in the corner of her bedroom, with her litter of babies, and I sagged in relief, grateful that I hadn’t disturbed them. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.” Yawning, she clambered onto her bed, burrowed under the duvet, and then patted the empty patch of mattress beside her. “It was like you were trying to fight me and run to me all in one breath.”
A shudder racked through me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re here.” She patted the mattress once more, causing a combination of guilt and relief to course through my veins. “Now, come here and snuggle me. You know I hate sleeping without you.”
Yeah, I knew that, and it was a troubling piece of information, because it meant that my fucked-up issues had managed to seep their way into her innocence.
It meant that I had infected her with my bullshit. It felt an awful lot like an unhealthy codependency technique, and that troubled me because I didn’t want this girl to depend on me for anything.
Because I wasn’t worthy and I sure as hell wasn’t good enough.
Still, like every night since the age of seven, I found myself climbing into bed beside her, with only one goal in mind: to get as close as humanly possible to the only form of physical comfort I had found in my seventeen years on earth.
When I was under the covers, I automatically moved into the middle of the bed and then rolled onto my right side, feeling the familiar dip in the mattress that had been put there from my body imprint.
Like clockwork, Claire rolled onto her side and raised her arm, waiting for mine to come around her. “Mm,” she purred like a little kitten. “You’re always toasty warm.”
“Yeah.” I shifted closer until our bodies aligned, her back to my chest, my hand on her hip, her hand gripping my forearm. Perfectly in sync in every human way possible. “Claire?”
“I’m sorry.” Again. “About tonight.” Again.
“S’okay … ” she mumbled drowsily, as she shimmied until her back was flush to my chest. “Night, Gerard … Love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered, feeling the familiar jolt of adrenalin rocket through my veins when those words spilled from her lips.
Claire meant it when she told me that she loved me; it was the first of two things in life I was sure of, and I meant it right back. That was the second thing I was sure of. If I knew nothing else in this world, then I knew that I loved Claire Biggs.
More than she could ever know.
More than one lousy four-letter word could ever depict.
And from my own limited experience, I was under no illusion as to how messy loving a person could be. Because love hurt. It burned like hell. I got that. I accepted the pain. The self-inflicted flesh wounds it took to love another human. I wasn’t afraid of that. Of being hurt. Of anything for myself. My fear rested in my inability to love her the right way. In the potential I had to hurt her beyond repair or recourse.
The same way he hurt me.
