Oliver mercilessly flung a glass bottle against the wall of the hotel room before collapsing into a sobbing heap. The past twenty-four hours had not been kind to him.
After begrudgingly returning home from his godfather's party his phone was blasted with calls from his father. But could he blame him for acting the way he did? He had once again gotten so close to reconciling with someone he cared about before everything came crashing down like it always did. Oliver couldn't understand why people treated him like he was poison. They were disgusted and terrified of him.
Of course his father didn't actually know about Charlie. Could Oliver ever tell him? It wasn't that his father was homophobic but he sure seemed like he was Oliver-phobic because everything Oliver did seemed to anger him. Or at least that's what Oliver believed.
He knew that his father's next move would be to come over to his house but the last thing Oliver wanted was to see him so he booked a room in a nearby hotel to escape him, even if only temporarily. It was at the hotel that he was struck with a reminder of something that put him in such a hysterical state.
His phone had buzzed from an email and when he opened it he found a confirmation request from a hotel in Venice that he was meant to have checked in at the previous night. He had momentarily forgotten why he had booked the suite before suddenly remembering. It was Nora's birthday week and he had planned a trip to Italy for them months beforehand. It was meant to be a surprise for her.
He then glanced at the calendar at the bottom of the screen and, upon seeing the current date, burst into tears. He had forgotten all about her birthday.
The previous year they had a fabulous dinner in an undersea restaurant in the Maldives before spending the remainder of their week alternating from the beach to the bedroom. The year previously Nora's agency threw her a birthday/going away party in their main HQ in Paris. Oliver and Nora then spent a total of ten days there, exploring all the elite spots and avoiding the tourist-ridden ones. Every year they planned something fun and expensive for the two of them. It was an annual reminder of how happy they were with each other.
There was a string quartet waiting for their arrival at Venetian hotel thousands of miles away. They probably thought Nora and Oliver were simply running late.
The shattered glass crunched under his shoes as he walked over to grab another bottle.
Oliver wanted to see Charlie again. He wanted to apologise even though he wasn't entirely sure what to apologise for. Maybe his spectacle the previous night had been a tad over-the-top but his display was more embarrassing for him than Charlie. Was he meant to apologise for choosing Nora over him? Did Charlie not understand that he had to choose Nora? For continuity, for peace, for their five year relationship.
Was he sober? Oliver couldn't even tell anymore. His mind felt blurry and sore and electric. And sad. He felt an eternal sadness that weighed him down. And disappointment. And self-hate.
He really hated himself. He hated every morsel of his being. Once a man of hubris and status, Oliver was now reduced to an alcoholic with no one to love him.
Why were there so many mirrors in that damn hotel room? Everywhere he looked he'd see a sick reflection glaring at him. He hadn't worked out in months. He had lost so much weight. His hair was matted and his hands still bloody. Everyone used to talk about how flawless he looked. People used to gape in awe at him. He used to be grandiose and important. He used to be someone. Now, he was... nothing. Would anyone care if he just... disappeared? Everyone's life would be much better. He weighed down everyone around him.
Oliver glimpsed outside. When did it get dark again? What time was it? What day was it? How far was the ground from the height he was at?
He walked over to the window and stuck his head out, instantly getting hit with a cool breeze. He bent his neck towards the cement sidewalk. It wasn't far enough. He needed to go higher. He walked out his door, his mind seemingly absent (as were his shoes). He didn't look like he fit in in the hotel's environment. Five star hotel and he was walking through its halls shoeless. He was such a failure.
His feet dragged behind him as he trudged dizzily up the stairs. He was a moving figure but his brain was disconnected. He didn't know what was driving him. It was a body void of nerve impulses, of senses and feeling. It was a moving vehicle with no engine, relying on inertia. A natural force was driving him up to the hotel's roof.
It was raining but the rain drops didn't bother him. His soaked and long, uncut hair stuck to his face, covering his eyes. The lightning above was the only source of temporary light as even the moon and stars seemed to have given up on him.
As did everyone else.
Oliver took the umpteenth swig from the bottle in his hand. It was his only source of warmth on the Winter night.
He had drank so much that he had become a mere vessel of whiskey and sadness and visceral failure.
He sat on the roof's ledge, his back facing the night sky. Then he swung his legs over the ledge so that his back was facing the hotel and his heart facing New York and the night. It was such a noisy city. Maybe all that noise was good for him because it had been a distraction from the reality of his life. A distraction from the fact that, just as he lived unloved, he would die unloved.
Although the connection between his mind and body had been missing for he previous few days, his nerve connections slowly began to branch to each other once more. Maybe it was his looming death that forced them to finally connect.
All he had to do was bend his back slightly forward allow gravity to push him down.
Maybe some people would cry. Certainly his little sister. But in a few weeks everything would go back to normal. He would be forgotten once more.
He did more damage than good so this would finally end everyone else's suffering.
Oliver's legs felt numb as the soles of his feet faced death.
The stock price for his father's company would shoot up. Finally, the company would be rid of the liability that had been impeding success.
Nora would be happy. Charlie would be happy. Spencer and Madeline would be happy. His father would be happy. They would probably all dance at his grave, celebrating his death.
He slowly closed his eyes. The end seemed so... permanent at that moment. But he had no hope of things ever getting better for him. So it was either permanent darkness or permanent failure.
But why would he be a permanent failure? Surely he had some control over his life. He could try and change. He could stop drinking. He could...
No. No. It was better this way.
Oliver began to cry. His shoulders shook with every sob. He screamed and shouted and shook his fist at the sky. His teen self would be laughing at how pathetic he was being. Of course, seventeen year old Oliver Scott had not known pain.
His voice strained as his cried turned to shouts turned to sobs and wails. Was this really it? Was he born for the sole purpose of destruction then death?
Four truths faced him for the first time as he awaited the pushing force of death. One; Oliver Scott had lived his life as a complete narcissist with no regard for the needs and wants of others. Two; Oliver Scott was a victim to addictions . Three; his break up with Charlie, his break up with Nora and his final fight with Spencer were all his fault. They weren't being over-dramatic as he had previously thought. He didn't respond to any of their issues or concerns. He turned every fight around to the other person so that he could shake his hands free of any blame. And finally, four; although no one loved him, he loved them. He loved Charlie. He loved Nora. He loved his father (even though he never realised it). He loved Madeline and Spencer. He loved Mai and his mother. He loved. He never showed it but he was capable of loving. His heart had love embedded in its chambers. And no one would know that if he died.
A gust of wind beat against his back. It must have been Death telling him it was time. Oliver opened his eyes. If he was going to do this, he would do it with his eyes open.
Oliver would die just as he lived. A coward.
He straightened his back and wiped away his tears. Taking his final deep breath in, Oliver relaxed his muscles and let the natural forces decide his fate. He fell.
The fall lasted less than a second as his back met the wet ground of the roof. He had fallen back instead of forward. He wasn't ready. He couldn't just die without trying to fix things.
He curled up and cried, his chest heaving. Tears mixed with rain drops mixed with blood from the scratches he had gotten from his short fall. He felt an unexpected relief. He didn't want to die.
He had more to do. He wasn't ready.
⢠⢠â¢
A/N;
That was a very hard chapter to show Oliver in his darkest moments. I hope none of you ever have to go through something like this. Please be aware of the resources you have and know that the world wants you here.
Enjoy your day. Carpe Diem.
Love,
-hexed.
xoxo