Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 6A of ?)
First of all a most HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the wonderful joey and impik. May you both enjoy years as amazing as you are.
This update, though, is dedicated to mel and kat and cheeky. It's not a complete chapter; there's another scene with Lucy and Ryan/Brandon, but even though it's half done, I know I won't have time to finish it today, and I wanted to post something before the end of the month. So I hope this bit will suffice until after catch up with reading and replying, write my sentence challenge story and post about my trip (not necessarily in that order.)
Please insert the standard disclaimer here. You know, not mine, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Oh, and this one: I claim no medical knowledge either!
Best Forgotten, Part 6A
He is swimming.
It feels as if he has been swimming forever.
Heavy darkness presses down on him, deeper darkness pulls him from below, and he’s tired, so tired, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to reach solid ground. He can see it in front of him-can see the pool house, glazed with moonlight, its door open wide just a few steps past the edge. It’s right there waiting for him, promising welcome, shelter and respite. More than anything, he wants to be inside. He toils through the murky water. Now the end is just three strokes away, two, one . . . and then three again, five, maybe even a mile. His arms ache from reaching, his throat burns, scraped raw, gulping water salty as tears, and his lashes clump together over his stinging eyes.
Beside him, suddenly, a man chuckles. The sound startles him. It grates on his ears like glacial ice shattering, and he falters, feels himself start to sink. Choking, kicking, he struggles back to the surface. He blinks and peers up through strands of wet hair. A boat is gliding beside him. Serpent sleek and silent, it slithers over the surface, leaving no wake, no trace of itself behind. On its deck, he can see Caleb Nichol. The man seems to glow in the dark. He is dressed in crisp, spotless white and he reclines on a lounge chair, a champagne flute held carelessly in one hand. One corner of his mouth lifts, barely denting his face, when he glances over the side.
“Not getting anywhere?” he asks. “Well, really, what did you think an infinity pool was, Ryan?” He laughs again dryly, takes a sip of his drink, and pours the rest into the pool. “You’ll never reach the end. All you’ll do is exhaust yourself trying-rather like Sisyphus, except that you’re not immortal. And when your strength fails-”
He doesn’t bother to finish. He just refills his glass from a crystal decanter, inclines his head thoughtfully, flicks one finger against the rim and listens to the tiny ping. Then, sneering, he empties that champagne into the pool too.
Ryan gasps as the new liquid floods his mouth.
This time it tastes like venom.
He tries, but he can’t spit it out.
The poison drains down his throat. He can feel it fill his lungs, feel himself sucked down, down . . .
Breathless, limbs flailing wildly, he grabs for Caleb’s yacht. It drifts close enough so that his fingertips brush the side. He claws at it, searching for something he can cling to-a cable, a rope, an anchor, anything-but there’s nothing. No handhold, no niche, not even the slightest dent. The wood has been buffed to glossy perfection, impossibly, flawlessly, tauntingly smooth.
Caleb peers over the side to watch Ryan’s struggle. He shakes his head, his brows arching, and his lips twitch with derision.
“Ever hear of Tantalus, boy?” he asks. “Remember what happened to him when he abused the guest-host relationship? Maybe not, considering your lack of education. Here, let me show you.” Slowly, casually, he leans forward and drapes one arm over the railing. It dangles there like a lifeline, so close, achingly close, only a scant inch out of Ryan’s grasp. He knows it’s futile to try, but he can’t help it: he reaches for Caleb’s hand anyway. Muscles straining, taut with effort, he stretches, stretches, stretches, almost grazes the man’s fingertips . . . and falls back, gasping, empty-handed. Caleb chuckles wryly. “Didn’t I warn you, boy?” he says. “You can’t have what’s mine. Maybe now you’ll understand that.” His eyes harden, steel gray, boring into Ryan’s brain. With a final, lethal smile, Caleb lifts his hand, settles back in his chair and waves an idle command.
At that, instantly, the boat shoots past Ryan. He can’t even see it anymore. It’s just gone.
In the next moment, the pool house is gone too. It implodes, shattering into a million crystal pieces that crash down with a sound like Caleb’s laughter.
“No!” Ryan kicks blindly, arms thrashing, spinning around in a whirlpool of panic. He tries to shout again, but when he opens his mouth, black water surges inside. It submerges all of his desperate pleas. He can’t hear his own voice. All he hears is the storm inside his head, a thunder of fear and exhaustion, the crack of lightning as he frantically fights for air.
He is alone in the endless infinity pool.
His legs plummet, abruptly leaden, and he grabs fistfuls of water. It seeps through his fingers. There’s nothing solid, nothing he can hold on to, and he can’t swim, can’t even keep afloat anymore.
Ryan is drowning now, dying. He knows it.
And now there are other noises inside his head, words that summon him into the depths below.
No one can blame you for wanting his life, Brandon. Your mother left you just the way his did, your father abused you over and over again. He turned you into a battered shell until one day he disappeared too. Only you didn’t meet a Sandy Cohen. Nobody ever came to save you.
It wasn’t fair. Why Ryan Atwood and not you? Why did he get a home and a family and a chance for a future? You deserved those things too. And you were right there, locked up in juvie with him, in the very same cell. You had to watch him when he walked out.
No wonder you decided to take his place.
But you murdered him to do it, Brandon. You broke into the pool house while Ryan and the Cohens were away, you went through his things, dressed in his clothes, and when Ryan came back home, you killed him.
Remember?
Admit it.
You killed him and then you simply strolled into the Cohen kitchen.
Remember?
You sat down on Ryan’s stool, poured yourself some cereal, and started to eat.
Remember?Remember?
Remember Mrs. Cohen’s screams? The terror on Seth Cohen’s face? The way Mr. Cohen grabbed you and shook you, how he bolted out to the pool house, yelling Ryan’s name, the way he stumbled back into the kitchen, ashen-faced, his shirt and hands covered with Ryan’s blood.
Remember? Remember, Brandon? You did that. Admit it.
Remember?
He doesn’t remember, though, because he’s not Brandon, he’s not. He’s Ryan and alive. None of that ever happened. It couldn't have. But the voice is relentless and he is just so tired, too tired to fight much longer. It would be so easy to stop resisting. And the water wants to claim him. He could surrender, just let himself sink, drifting down, down, down, until he feels nothing at all anymore . . .
Until he’s nobody.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Postponed?” Caleb appeared to grow larger, even as his eyes narrowed and his face set in sharp, forbidding lines. He pushed himself away from the table in Dr. Keller’s consultation room. “Let me understand this. I clear my calendar to fly here so that I can sign the consent forms, and now you tell me the boy’s surgery is postponed? No. That is completely unacceptable. I want it done tomorrow, as scheduled.”
Dr. Keller shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nichol,” he said, “but that’s not possible. I consulted with my research team. We agreed that, as a precaution, we needed to run a final series of tests to ascertain the depths of Brandon’s delusions.”
“So?” Caleb protested impatiently. “You said that all of the tests are complete.”
“They are, yes,” Dr. Keller conceded. “But they involved a series of extremely powerful psychotropic drugs. We have to wait for them to clear Brandon’s system completely before we proceed. Any interaction with anesthesia would be very dangerous-most likely lethal.”
A slow, hissing breath pushed through Caleb’s clenched teeth and he drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Lethal,” he repeated. “I see . . . Perhaps for some patients. But this boy is young and strong. Are you sure you’re not overestimating the danger, doctor?”
Dr. Keller flushed, bristling. “No, Mr. Nichol, I’m not,” he retorted. “And I do not intend to compromise the success of my research or the patient’s chance for survival by rushing into this surgery prematurely.”
“May I remind you that I am funding your research?” Caleb’s jaw tightened ominously, and his back stiffened as he placed his hands flat on the table. “I expect to be kept informed about all major decisions. And you know, doctor, I don’t recall authorizing that final series of tests.”
“You gave us blanket permission to do any procedures necessary to determine the extent and nature of Brandon’s psychosis up to and including electroshock. Considering that, I didn’t think it necessary to inform you about each individual test that we conducted.” Dr. Keller took a form out of the folder in front of him, and passed it to Caleb, who shoved it back dismissively. The doctor retrieved the paper. He sat back, looking grim. “Frankly, Mr. Nichol,” he said, “I don’t understand the problem here. You had already planned to come here today to sign the consent form, and since you would have to do that in any case--”
Rising from his chair Caleb drew himself to his full, imposing height. “The problem,” he declared, “is that I expected the surgery to be done as scheduled.” Abruptly, he pivoted around and strode over to the window. Hands clasped behind him, he stared out at the expanse of private beach, the brilliant turquoise sky reflected in the ocean below. “Do you have any idea how hard this situation is on my daughter and her family? Knowing that the boy who killed Ryan is still claiming his identity-it’s incredibly painful.”
“Yes,” Dr. Keller murmured, “I’m sure that it’s very distressing for them.”
Caleb snorted softly, but he didn’t turn around. “I want them to put this tragedy behind them and move on with their lives, but that is simply not possible until Ryan Atwood is gone, completely. You’ve assured me that your procedure will, shall we say, rewire Brandon’s brain and destroy all of his delusions. Well, that needs to happen as soon as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Believe me, Mr. Nichol, I am as eager to proceed as you are. As you know, I’ve been searching for an appropriate test candidate for some time,” Dr. Keller declared. He leaned forward, frowning, to study an image on his computer screen. “But I must admit, the normality Brandon’s brain scans, the lack of irregularities or the lesions that I would have expected considering his delusions and violent outbreaks-well, they do raise some questions. I need to be sure how best to approach his treatment.”
Caleb spun back around, rigid. “Are you suggesting that you might not do the surgery at all? You told me that this boy was the perfect subject.”
“He is, yes, in many respects,” Dr. Keller replied. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he switched off his monitor and looked up at Caleb. “And we will proceed,” he promised. “But as I’ve warned you, the experimental nature of this amygdalotomy makes it very risky. I simply want to be certain that I’ve determined which amygdaloid fibers I need to sever and that Brandon’s physical condition is stable enough so that he can withstand the rigors of the surgery."
“Fine. And just how long do you propose we wait?” Caleb demanded frostily.
Dr. Keller mulled his notes for a moment, then tented his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “It’s hard to say,” he admitted. “Based on Brandon’s most recent blood tests, I would estimate three more days, perhaps four or five--”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Three,” he snapped. Snatching his briefcase from the consultation table, he marched to the door and paused, one hand on the polished brass doorknob. “Not four or five,” he said flatly. “Three. I’ll be back in on Friday, Dr. Keller, and I expect the procedure to be done by the time I arrive.”
Without waiting for a reply, Caleb wheeled around andleft. His footsteps echoed, gunshot-sharp, as he walked away.
TBC
This update, though, is dedicated to mel and kat and cheeky. It's not a complete chapter; there's another scene with Lucy and Ryan/Brandon, but even though it's half done, I know I won't have time to finish it today, and I wanted to post something before the end of the month. So I hope this bit will suffice until after catch up with reading and replying, write my sentence challenge story and post about my trip (not necessarily in that order.)
Please insert the standard disclaimer here. You know, not mine, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Oh, and this one: I claim no medical knowledge either!
Best Forgotten, Part 6A
He is swimming.
It feels as if he has been swimming forever.
Heavy darkness presses down on him, deeper darkness pulls him from below, and he’s tired, so tired, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to reach solid ground. He can see it in front of him-can see the pool house, glazed with moonlight, its door open wide just a few steps past the edge. It’s right there waiting for him, promising welcome, shelter and respite. More than anything, he wants to be inside. He toils through the murky water. Now the end is just three strokes away, two, one . . . and then three again, five, maybe even a mile. His arms ache from reaching, his throat burns, scraped raw, gulping water salty as tears, and his lashes clump together over his stinging eyes.
Beside him, suddenly, a man chuckles. The sound startles him. It grates on his ears like glacial ice shattering, and he falters, feels himself start to sink. Choking, kicking, he struggles back to the surface. He blinks and peers up through strands of wet hair. A boat is gliding beside him. Serpent sleek and silent, it slithers over the surface, leaving no wake, no trace of itself behind. On its deck, he can see Caleb Nichol. The man seems to glow in the dark. He is dressed in crisp, spotless white and he reclines on a lounge chair, a champagne flute held carelessly in one hand. One corner of his mouth lifts, barely denting his face, when he glances over the side.
“Not getting anywhere?” he asks. “Well, really, what did you think an infinity pool was, Ryan?” He laughs again dryly, takes a sip of his drink, and pours the rest into the pool. “You’ll never reach the end. All you’ll do is exhaust yourself trying-rather like Sisyphus, except that you’re not immortal. And when your strength fails-”
He doesn’t bother to finish. He just refills his glass from a crystal decanter, inclines his head thoughtfully, flicks one finger against the rim and listens to the tiny ping. Then, sneering, he empties that champagne into the pool too.
Ryan gasps as the new liquid floods his mouth.
This time it tastes like venom.
He tries, but he can’t spit it out.
The poison drains down his throat. He can feel it fill his lungs, feel himself sucked down, down . . .
Breathless, limbs flailing wildly, he grabs for Caleb’s yacht. It drifts close enough so that his fingertips brush the side. He claws at it, searching for something he can cling to-a cable, a rope, an anchor, anything-but there’s nothing. No handhold, no niche, not even the slightest dent. The wood has been buffed to glossy perfection, impossibly, flawlessly, tauntingly smooth.
Caleb peers over the side to watch Ryan’s struggle. He shakes his head, his brows arching, and his lips twitch with derision.
“Ever hear of Tantalus, boy?” he asks. “Remember what happened to him when he abused the guest-host relationship? Maybe not, considering your lack of education. Here, let me show you.” Slowly, casually, he leans forward and drapes one arm over the railing. It dangles there like a lifeline, so close, achingly close, only a scant inch out of Ryan’s grasp. He knows it’s futile to try, but he can’t help it: he reaches for Caleb’s hand anyway. Muscles straining, taut with effort, he stretches, stretches, stretches, almost grazes the man’s fingertips . . . and falls back, gasping, empty-handed. Caleb chuckles wryly. “Didn’t I warn you, boy?” he says. “You can’t have what’s mine. Maybe now you’ll understand that.” His eyes harden, steel gray, boring into Ryan’s brain. With a final, lethal smile, Caleb lifts his hand, settles back in his chair and waves an idle command.
At that, instantly, the boat shoots past Ryan. He can’t even see it anymore. It’s just gone.
In the next moment, the pool house is gone too. It implodes, shattering into a million crystal pieces that crash down with a sound like Caleb’s laughter.
“No!” Ryan kicks blindly, arms thrashing, spinning around in a whirlpool of panic. He tries to shout again, but when he opens his mouth, black water surges inside. It submerges all of his desperate pleas. He can’t hear his own voice. All he hears is the storm inside his head, a thunder of fear and exhaustion, the crack of lightning as he frantically fights for air.
He is alone in the endless infinity pool.
His legs plummet, abruptly leaden, and he grabs fistfuls of water. It seeps through his fingers. There’s nothing solid, nothing he can hold on to, and he can’t swim, can’t even keep afloat anymore.
Ryan is drowning now, dying. He knows it.
And now there are other noises inside his head, words that summon him into the depths below.
No one can blame you for wanting his life, Brandon. Your mother left you just the way his did, your father abused you over and over again. He turned you into a battered shell until one day he disappeared too. Only you didn’t meet a Sandy Cohen. Nobody ever came to save you.
It wasn’t fair. Why Ryan Atwood and not you? Why did he get a home and a family and a chance for a future? You deserved those things too. And you were right there, locked up in juvie with him, in the very same cell. You had to watch him when he walked out.
No wonder you decided to take his place.
But you murdered him to do it, Brandon. You broke into the pool house while Ryan and the Cohens were away, you went through his things, dressed in his clothes, and when Ryan came back home, you killed him.
Remember?
Admit it.
You killed him and then you simply strolled into the Cohen kitchen.
Remember?
You sat down on Ryan’s stool, poured yourself some cereal, and started to eat.
Remember?Remember?
Remember Mrs. Cohen’s screams? The terror on Seth Cohen’s face? The way Mr. Cohen grabbed you and shook you, how he bolted out to the pool house, yelling Ryan’s name, the way he stumbled back into the kitchen, ashen-faced, his shirt and hands covered with Ryan’s blood.
Remember? Remember, Brandon? You did that. Admit it.
Remember?
He doesn’t remember, though, because he’s not Brandon, he’s not. He’s Ryan and alive. None of that ever happened. It couldn't have. But the voice is relentless and he is just so tired, too tired to fight much longer. It would be so easy to stop resisting. And the water wants to claim him. He could surrender, just let himself sink, drifting down, down, down, until he feels nothing at all anymore . . .
Until he’s nobody.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Postponed?” Caleb appeared to grow larger, even as his eyes narrowed and his face set in sharp, forbidding lines. He pushed himself away from the table in Dr. Keller’s consultation room. “Let me understand this. I clear my calendar to fly here so that I can sign the consent forms, and now you tell me the boy’s surgery is postponed? No. That is completely unacceptable. I want it done tomorrow, as scheduled.”
Dr. Keller shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nichol,” he said, “but that’s not possible. I consulted with my research team. We agreed that, as a precaution, we needed to run a final series of tests to ascertain the depths of Brandon’s delusions.”
“So?” Caleb protested impatiently. “You said that all of the tests are complete.”
“They are, yes,” Dr. Keller conceded. “But they involved a series of extremely powerful psychotropic drugs. We have to wait for them to clear Brandon’s system completely before we proceed. Any interaction with anesthesia would be very dangerous-most likely lethal.”
A slow, hissing breath pushed through Caleb’s clenched teeth and he drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Lethal,” he repeated. “I see . . . Perhaps for some patients. But this boy is young and strong. Are you sure you’re not overestimating the danger, doctor?”
Dr. Keller flushed, bristling. “No, Mr. Nichol, I’m not,” he retorted. “And I do not intend to compromise the success of my research or the patient’s chance for survival by rushing into this surgery prematurely.”
“May I remind you that I am funding your research?” Caleb’s jaw tightened ominously, and his back stiffened as he placed his hands flat on the table. “I expect to be kept informed about all major decisions. And you know, doctor, I don’t recall authorizing that final series of tests.”
“You gave us blanket permission to do any procedures necessary to determine the extent and nature of Brandon’s psychosis up to and including electroshock. Considering that, I didn’t think it necessary to inform you about each individual test that we conducted.” Dr. Keller took a form out of the folder in front of him, and passed it to Caleb, who shoved it back dismissively. The doctor retrieved the paper. He sat back, looking grim. “Frankly, Mr. Nichol,” he said, “I don’t understand the problem here. You had already planned to come here today to sign the consent form, and since you would have to do that in any case--”
Rising from his chair Caleb drew himself to his full, imposing height. “The problem,” he declared, “is that I expected the surgery to be done as scheduled.” Abruptly, he pivoted around and strode over to the window. Hands clasped behind him, he stared out at the expanse of private beach, the brilliant turquoise sky reflected in the ocean below. “Do you have any idea how hard this situation is on my daughter and her family? Knowing that the boy who killed Ryan is still claiming his identity-it’s incredibly painful.”
“Yes,” Dr. Keller murmured, “I’m sure that it’s very distressing for them.”
Caleb snorted softly, but he didn’t turn around. “I want them to put this tragedy behind them and move on with their lives, but that is simply not possible until Ryan Atwood is gone, completely. You’ve assured me that your procedure will, shall we say, rewire Brandon’s brain and destroy all of his delusions. Well, that needs to happen as soon as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Believe me, Mr. Nichol, I am as eager to proceed as you are. As you know, I’ve been searching for an appropriate test candidate for some time,” Dr. Keller declared. He leaned forward, frowning, to study an image on his computer screen. “But I must admit, the normality Brandon’s brain scans, the lack of irregularities or the lesions that I would have expected considering his delusions and violent outbreaks-well, they do raise some questions. I need to be sure how best to approach his treatment.”
Caleb spun back around, rigid. “Are you suggesting that you might not do the surgery at all? You told me that this boy was the perfect subject.”
“He is, yes, in many respects,” Dr. Keller replied. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he switched off his monitor and looked up at Caleb. “And we will proceed,” he promised. “But as I’ve warned you, the experimental nature of this amygdalotomy makes it very risky. I simply want to be certain that I’ve determined which amygdaloid fibers I need to sever and that Brandon’s physical condition is stable enough so that he can withstand the rigors of the surgery."
“Fine. And just how long do you propose we wait?” Caleb demanded frostily.
Dr. Keller mulled his notes for a moment, then tented his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “It’s hard to say,” he admitted. “Based on Brandon’s most recent blood tests, I would estimate three more days, perhaps four or five--”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Three,” he snapped. Snatching his briefcase from the consultation table, he marched to the door and paused, one hand on the polished brass doorknob. “Not four or five,” he said flatly. “Three. I’ll be back in on Friday, Dr. Keller, and I expect the procedure to be done by the time I arrive.”
Without waiting for a reply, Caleb wheeled around andleft. His footsteps echoed, gunshot-sharp, as he walked away.
TBC