Chapter Ten
Harley - Present Day
Supermassive Black Hole – Muse
Thirty minutes before…
I don’t know what possessed me to go and visit my parents’ grave tonight; it’s been a few years.
But since I’m trying to make some healthier choices and lose some of this chub, I decided to make the most of the fading sunshine and go for a walk to pay them a visit.
Usually, it’s just me berating them for making me an orphan, but they never fucking apologise, the assholes.
Like give me a sign or something, send me a carrier pigeon, or even a fucking magpie to salute at this point.
Something to let me know that they see me.
That they didn’t totally abandon me. It’s not too much to ask for, right?
That night was by far the worst night of my life, but without them, I had no choice but to survive, so that’s what I did.
At first I lived with my grandad, but he was an evil cunt, so I ran away and ended up sofa surfing for years at friends’ houses and in random families’ bedrooms that I found through the local homelessness service.
Most people would probably tell you they thought I would amount to nothing.
I was the shy, quiet boy who never said ‘boo’ to a goose, had very few friends, and an extended family that was as chaotic as the current season of whatever reality show was popular at the time.
You know the ones that even when you’re on your ass with nothing and no one, you still feel better about your life after watching?
Yeah, those ones. Because if they can have everything they could possibly need and still be as miserable as fuck, then I’ll take my lonely existence.
My parents were the most loving Mum and Dad I could ever have wished for.
They were what people would call ‘goals’.
My mum was the centre of my dad’s entire universe—as it should be—with me following closely behind.
He was obsessed. But not in the serial killer way, no, in the green flag, lovey-dovey way.
He would have burned the world down for her, and in some ways he did.
My mum survived hell, and she met him at a time when she was at a crossroads in life with no idea what direction to take, until he showed her the way.
He is who I aspire to be. No half-measures, fully obsessed with the woman I love and determined to never let her forget it.
They were married for 20 years before life took them from me, and I look back on the memories with fondness.
Well, at least now I do. For years I couldn’t bear to hear their names, and it was probably one of the reasons I couldn’t stay with my grandfather.
All he wanted to do was reminisce, pretending that he’d been the doting father and loved my mother like she deserved—which, in fact, he did not.
I learned at a very young age to call bullshit whenever I smelt it and not take bad behaviour lying down.
Has it gotten me into trouble? Yes. Do I regret a thing?
Hell fucking no. It’s made me who I am, and for that I’ll never apologise.
“Hi, Mum, hey, Dad. How’s things? It’s been a while. Please don’t be mad. I’ve been away making something of myself. But I’m back now. I promise I’ll visit more often.”
I run my fingers over the plaque on their headstone; the cold stone makes the reality of them not being here anymore confronting, making a mental note to bring a cloth and some polish to shine it up some, since it’s starting to look neglected.
Looks like I wasn’t the only one who stopped visiting.
Guilt burns in my soul. I brush the dead leaves off the bottom of the stone and out of their nominated patch of grass, which could do with a cut if I’m honest. Paying all these fees and they can’t even cut the grass?
Can’t get the fucking staff these days. It’s late spring, the evenings are getting lighter, but there’s still a little chill in the air.
I pull my leather jacket closed and cross my legs, trying to get comfy. The sky is pretty tonight.
“No, Mum, I haven’t met a pretty girl yet.
I’m not looking. I don’t think I have the time.
I’m focusing on settling into our old house; it came on the market at the perfect time, and I snapped it up.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a bit run-down, but I was so upset when Grandad sold it without talking to me about it; it just felt right.
Being back at home where we made our best memories has been somewhat cathartic.
Healing almost.” I pinch the skin on my wrist to remind myself this is real.
That my parents are, in fact, buried beneath me.
“I got a dog too! His name is Ted. I know, super original, but I got him from the shelter, so you can blame them for that. I spent two weeks trying to change his name, and I think it’s safe to say he’s as stubborn as Dad is, because he wasn’t having any of it.”
I can almost hear him scoff, telling me I’m a fine one to talk.
A small smile graces my face as I think of how his face would have aged.
Where the wrinkles would have formed, the rate his hair would have salt-and-peppered, and whether he would still be the quick-witted ball of sarcasm I’ve always aspired to be.
But on the other hand, I’m reminded how cruel life can be, and that at least they are cemented together forever, never to experience the loss of each other through death or divorce.
Their love is encapsulated throughout the rest of time, and there’s something beautiful about that.
“Yeah, yeah, I know Dad.”
I look up, and on the horizon, sitting on the side of the bridge, is what looks like a woman.
I don’t like to make assumptions about how someone identifies, but if I had to hazard a guess, that would be it.
Luckily, I have my glasses on, so my vision is near perfect, but her face is contorted in what I can only describe as unimaginable pain.
My mother was my idol. She was my best friend, and I wanted to be with her at every given opportunity.
Dad worked away a lot, but when he was home we would be off camping or at the beach, in a constant state of adventure.
He was my hero. Mum was endearing and kind; she could always tell when someone needed a comforting ear or a hug to make them feel at ease, and she’s probably the main reason I chose therapy as a career.
I want to help people heal, to find the meaning in their lives, with a little bit of laughter and a dose of sarcasm on the way.
And looking at the girl in the distance, laughter could look pretty good on her.
“Mum, Dad, I have to go. I miss you guys, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.
Send me a sign so I know you’ve followed me back here.
And, yes, I know it doesn't work like that, but it’s a fear I have, okay?
I never want to leave you guys behind.” Melancholy crashes over me. “I’ll bring Ted with me next time.”
I stand up from where I was seated on the grass, looking around me to see if there’s a shortcut to the bridge.
The way I walked here leads me back to my house, which is in the opposite direction, so it will take me longer.
I walk towards the bridge like a gate’s just going to jump out and scream, “I’m here!
” with a hurry in my steps I can’t explain.
I’ve been qualified for a few years, but instead of spending my time getting practical experience outside of what’s mandatory, I’ve been building my knowledge.
Things like ketamine therapy, ‘truth serum’, which isn’t technically a thing—you just use a certain kind of drug to coax people into telling the truth—and EMDR are all things I think every therapist should have in their arsenal.
But, if I've learnt anything over recent years, it’s that there aren’t many of us that genuinely care about people getting better.
Most just care about the fact that they can charge an extortionate amount to sit there, nod their head and pretend to make notes while the patient wonders why they’re never getting better. Nope, not me, no siiirreeeeeee.
I almost miss it. A wooden fence with a stile to climb over is basically overgrown, and I veer towards it.
My tight black, ripped jeans and Doc Martens are not built for this life.
I hike my leg up over the wooden beam, teetering on my toes as I bring my other leg up and across.
I feel myself wobble and pray to whatever is out there not to let me fall.
I don’t have time. But like the inconsiderate asshole whatever is out there is, it doesn’t pay attention, and I drop to the floor, directly onto my ass.
I die with embarrassment and a little bit of pain.
I’m thirty-five years old, after all; these joints are decrepit.
RIP Harley. Jokes, but my head is on a swivel to make sure nobody saw, especially the pretty girl on the bridge.
Imagine that kind of meet-cute? More like meet-idiot-and-cringe-from-second-hand-embarrassment.
I pull myself to my feet, brush the dirt off of my jeans—fucking hell, mud on black jeans is not the one—and carry on in the direction of the bridge. I look for her again, and she’s gone from sitting on the edge to standing.
Fuck. Clearly this is worse than I thought.