25. Alex
Chapter 25
Alex
M y eyes are fixed on the machine, a constant reminder of life and death.
The beeping echoes in my ears, a haunting sound that won’t escape.
It’s all too familiar, this hospital room, this feeling of helplessness.
Images flood my mind as I remember lying in a similar bed not too long ago, my own injuries paling in comparison to Alfie’s still form before me.
Gauze covers his body like a patchwork quilt, each spot representing a burn that I couldn’t prevent.
I clench the object in my hands until my knuckles turn white, the familiar smell of smoke filling my nostrils and threatening to smother me in memory.
But I refuse to look away from the monitor, my gaze unblinking as I will it to change, to show signs of life.
My jaw clenches and grinds in anger as I glare unflinchingly at the monitor, reliving the rage and destruction caused by the fire that did this to him.
The nurse enters, her footsteps soft on the linoleum floor.
She checks Alfie’s vitals, her movements practiced and efficient.
I want to ask her if there’s been any change, but the words catch in my throat.
Instead, I watch her silently, desperately searching for any sign of hope in her expression.
She turns to me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and concern.
“You should get some rest,” she says gently.
“You’ve been here for hours.”
I can’t.
My fingers cling tightly to the charred object in my hands—Alfie’s top hat.
It was once a perfect black, now it’s marred by scorch marks and soot.
But I refuse to let it go—that tent was everything to Alfie.
“I’ll go when his parents arrive,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from disuse.
The nurse nods, understanding etched in the lines of her face.
She leaves quietly, and I’m alone again with the steady beep of the machines and my own tumultuous thoughts.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the edge of Alfie’s bed.
The hat in my hands feels heavy, a tangible reminder of all he’s lost. “Come on, Alfie,” I murmur, my voice barely audible.
“You’ve got to wake up. The show must go on, remember?”
My mind drifts back to earlier in the evening—the roar of the flames, the acrid smell of burning canvas, and the frantic screams of students as they fled in every direction.
That memory hits me like a physical blow.
I should’ve been with him.
I should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner.
I close my eyes, trying to push away the guilt, but it’s impossible.
The images flood back, relentless and vivid.
The sudden commotion, the panicked shouts.
The heat that hit me first, followed by the smoke—thick and choking, enveloping everything in its path.
I think back to Alfie telling me he didn’t need my help with the club’s setup.
He’d insisted, so selfishly, I’d spent the night indulging in everything it had to offer—enjoying the lights, the laughter, the distractions.
I’d let myself forget the responsibilities of the evening, convinced that everything would be fine.
But after the improv stage, when Bishop and I had charged off in opposite directions, I’d wanted space from him.
The tension between us had been unbearable, and I’d needed a break.
I found peace in the quietest part of the woods, away from everything.
Away from him.
But now, all I can feel is the weight of what I should’ve been doing instead of running away.
The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder that I chose to be somewhere else, while something went terribly wrong.
I open my eyes, focusing once again on Alfie’s still form.
His face is barely visible beneath the bandages, but I can still see the faint outline of his features, so familiar and yet so alien in this sterile environment.
I reach out, my hand hovering just above his bandaged arm, afraid to touch him, afraid to cause him more pain.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“I’m so sorry, Alfie.”
A clearing throat startles me and I turn to see a burly man and a petite woman both with fiery red hair, just like their son’s.
His parents have finally arrived, and their piercing gazes fill me with a sense of dread.
“You must be Alex,” the woman says as she steps forward.
“Alfie has told us so many wonderful things about you,” she adds, her smile tinged with sadness as she glances at her lifeless son lying behind me.
Alfie talked about me?
I nod, unable to find my voice.
The lump in my throat grows larger as I watch Alfie’s mother approach the bed, her steps hesitant.
His father follows close behind, his face a mask of barely contained anguish.
“Yes, ma’am,” I finally manage to croak out.
“That’s me.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald reaches out and takes Alfie’s limp hand in hers, her thumb gently stroking his knuckles.
“He was always going on about his new friend when he called,” she says, her voice wavering slightly.
“Says you were the reason Club Bedlam was becoming so popular.”
Friend?
Alfie considered us friends, and I suppose we were slowly becoming just that, weren’t we?
I swallow hard, fighting back this chaos of emotions inside me.
“Alfie’s the real star. He’s the one who made it all happen.”
Mr. Fitzgerald’s hand rests heavily on my shoulder, his grip firm yet gentle.
“Alfie says you have a knack for breaking through the barriers of social groups.”
I let out a small, pained chuckle at that, trying to lighten the moment, though it doesn’t reach my eyes.
It’s hard to laugh when all I can think about is how I wasn’t there when he needed me most.
I glance down at the top hat in my hands.
Alfie’s hat. It’s missing the ribbon that usually wrapped around the brim, and the edges are singed, remnants of the fire still clinging to it.
I’d fought to keep it with me when the paramedics rushed him away, determined not to leave a piece of him behind.
I extend the hat toward them, my hands trembling slightly.
“This belonged to Alfie,” I say quietly, my voice breaking ever so slightly.
“I thought he might want it back when he wakes up.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald takes it from my hands with delicate care, her fingers brushing over the scorched fabric, lingering on the places where the flames had kissed it.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes glistening with tears she’s trying so desperately to hold back.
“He loves this hat. It’s his lucky charm.”
The word lucky feels like a punch to the gut.
Lucky doesn’t seem to fit Alfie’s situation right now.
I can’t help but feel guilty.
Maybe if I’d been there—maybe if I hadn’t been so caught up in everything else, I could’ve helped.
I clear my throat, fighting the lump in my chest. “I’ll let you have some family time,” I say, stepping back slowly, giving them space.
We exchange a few awkward, strained goodbyes, and I turn to go back to my dorm, but something tugs at me.
I can’t shake the thought that I need to go back to the tent.
I need to find the ribbon, I think suddenly, the desire to make it right, to make up for the distance I’d kept earlier, gnawing at me.
I know it’s a small thing, but it feels like the least I can do.
The charred remnants of the tent flap weakly in the night breeze, the acrid smell of smoke still clinging to the air.
What was once a grand structure, vibrant with life, now stands as a blackened skeleton against the night sky.
The silence is oppressive, broken only by the faint rustling of burnt fabric and the occasional crackle of something shifting in the wreckage.
Caution tape marks the area, a futile boundary to keep people away from the destruction.
But I slip under it without hesitation.
There’s no one else around.
No one else who would understand why I’m here, why I feel the need to find something—anything.
I scan the debris, the once-pristine carnival grounds now reduced to jagged edges and ashen remains.
The heat of the fire lingers in my skin, but I force myself to keep going.
It doesn’t matter how pointless this is, it’s something.
It’s something to keep my mind from spiraling, from returning to the crushing guilt.
The ground beneath me is littered with fragments of broken glass, burnt scraps of fabric, and splintered wood.
Each step I take sends a quiet crunch through the rubble, the sound too loud in the eerie silence.
Moonlight filters through the blackened canopy, casting long, ghostly shadows that stretch and writhe like tendrils, reminding me of how everything once seemed alive—alive with laughter, excitement, and…
Alfie. Now it’s just a shell.
I crouch down, my eyes scanning the ground, hoping to find something familiar in the ruin.
I spot a glint of metal in the dirt, barely visible through the layer of soot.
A small brass button, its intricate design untouched by the flames, sits among the debris.
I reach for it, my fingers brushing over its smooth surface, marveling at how something so delicate managed to survive the inferno.
I pick it up and hold it in my palm for a moment, its cold weight grounding me.
I toss it back at first, thinking it’s useless, but then I hesitate.
Something about it feels too significant, too much like Alfie to leave behind.
He’d have kept it. He was always collecting things others dismissed as unimportant, little trinkets that told stories only he could understand.
I slip the button into my pocket and rise to my feet, my eyes still scanning the remnants of the tent.
There’s no sign of the ribbon—the one thing I came for.
Of course it’s gone.
It was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, I remind myself, but a part of me still hopes.
I don’t even know why I’m here anymore.
This task feels almost pointless, but it’s the only thing keeping me from being swallowed up by the weight of everything that’s happened.
I take a few more steps forward, my shoes crunching over the ashes, the ground beneath me uneven and fragile.
The silence presses down on me, suffocating in its emptiness.
The remnants of the carnival feel like a ghost town—empty, lifeless, but full of memories I can’t escape.
Then, something catches my eye.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
A piece of fabric, small and fluttering, caught in the breeze.
I step closer. Maybe it’s the ribbon after all.
I stretch my hand out, reaching for it, but the wind shifts again, and the fabric slips from my grasp.
I watch helplessly as it flutters away, carried by the breeze, too far for me to reach.
It drifts across the charred ground before landing atop an object sitting in the center of the tent’s ruins, where the main area used to be, now just a hollowed-out shell.
I stare at it, disbelief washing over me.
No. It can’t be. But even in the dark, I know what I see.
It’s too familiar. My stomach drops as I take a step forward.
It’s my botany notebook.
The one Bishop had stolen, the one he’d bargained with me over just tonight.
The one thing I’ve wanted back, the one thing I’d never expected to find here, in the wreckage of everything.
I don’t think, I just move.
I kneel, my hands shaking as I pick it up, feeling the weight of it in my palms. Rage bubbles up inside me, hot and sharp, like acid crawling through my veins.
I flip it open, desperate to confirm what I already know is inside.
The pages are torn, jagged, clearly ripped out.
A cold, suffocating knot tightens in my chest, and my breath catches.
The familiar pain of betrayal sinks into my bones.
I feel my pulse pounding, my fingers gripping the torn edges so tight I’m sure I’ll tear the charred paper completely in half.
Anger bubbles up inside me, sharp and raw, like acid crawling through my veins.
I should’ve known.
It’s been like this with him from the beginning.
Bishop had played with me, twisted my mind, turned me inside out.
Confused me, made me doubt myself, made me believe I was the problem.
Every time I stood up to him, he made me feel like I was losing.
No more.
I should’ve known better.
He’s always crossed the line, always taken whatever he wanted without care for anyone else.
But this—this was different.
He crossed a line I can’t forgive.
I don’t know for certain it was him—but I might as well.
The notebook was here, in the ashes, ripped apart and half-burned.
And Bishop? He’s the only one who’s ever had a reason to hurt me like this.
Whether he set the fire on purpose, or torched my notebook in a fit of rage and let the flames take the tent by accident—it doesn’t matter.
He destroyed something that mattered to me, and he did it knowing exactly what it would cost.
The rage inside me intensifies, pulsing through my chest with every breath.
I want to scream, want to destroy something, but I hold it in, keep it contained.
The last thing I need is to completely lose control.
But god, it feels like I’m teetering on the edge.
I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady with the force of the anger churning in my gut.
Without thinking, I start moving, pushing through the charred remnants of the tent, my footsteps purposeful, faster now.
I don’t even know where I’m going—I just need to find him.
I need to confront him.
I’ll make it right.
I don’t care what happens next.
The notebook clenched tightly in my hand is the only thing grounding me, a reminder of what he’s done and everything I’m about to do in return.
It’s the only thing I can think about now—making him pay for what he’s done, for everything he’s ruined.
I walk faster, driven by the raw anger coursing through me.
My thoughts are a blur, my body moving on autopilot.
How much time has passed?
I don’t know. I don’t care.
The only thing that matters is this —getting closer to something, to him .
My feet carry me, turning corners, moving forward without purpose or thought, just pure instinct.
And then, without warning, I stop.
My hand brushes against a door handle, the cold metal fitting into my palm with a strange sense of familiarity.
I stare at it for a moment, the gnawing feeling of wrongness pulling at the edges of my mind.
But I don’t hesitate.
I glance up, my breath caught in my chest, and the reality of it hits me like a punch to the gut.
It’s not the door I thought it was.
But then again, maybe it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.
A dark, twisted grin pulls at my lips.
My mind must know what it’s doing, even if my feet led me here unconsciously.
The door swings open with a harsh yank, the sound of it echoing in the quiet.
The wardrobe room. The backstage of the theater.
Bishop’s face flashes in my mind, the memory of him sneering as he told me to sit front row at tomorrow’s event.
To watch. To be there .
Well, now I’m here. And I won’t just sit and watch.
I’m going to make sure everyone sees.
My fingers curl around the doorframe, and I step inside.
The smell of dust and fabric hits me immediately, but I barely notice.
My thoughts are spinning—too fast, too chaotic.
I know what I’m about to do.
I know what it means.
This isn’t about sitting quietly anymore.
Bishop wanted to make me a spectator, but I’m about to make my own entrance.
The door slams behind me with finality, and in that moment, everything feels like it’s shifting.
I can’t quite explain it, but I’m done.
If there’s one thing Bishop has taught me, it’s that to catch a predator, you can’t stay the prey; you have to match it, become its equal in every way.
Tomorrow’s show? It’s mine now.
And as the room swallows me up in its dim light, I can’t help but let the smile grow.
It’s twisted, maybe—it doesn’t matter.
I’ve made my choice.
Let them all watch .
Let them all feel the consequences of their actions.