"The Enchanted Cottage" -- Part 1
A while back one of my readers offered me a challenge -- what was
the angstiest premise I could think of? And, being one of the Queens
of Angst, I started pondering the possibilities. As I was in the midst
of "Bell, Book & Candle" at the time I let it ride. Now, I think, is
the time to offer a little angst.
This will be fairly short (for me, in other words, NOT 60 chapters!),
and bittersweet -- just the way you guys like it! Consider it an
antidote to summer. It takes place in the fall, by a stormy, unsettled
lake. It's loosely based on an old movie from 1945 so obscure it's
not even on DVD, but it's one of my favorites from when I was a kid.
Here is Part 1 of "The Enchanted Cottage":
Pittsburgh, September 2006
"So what is this -- an intervention?"
"Yes," said Lindsay Peterson.
"No," said Michael Novotny.
"Well?" said Brian Kinney. "Make up your fucking minds! Or at least get your stories straight." He turned and stalked away from them, into the darkness of the loft.
"It's not an intervention," said Michael, following him. "But we ARE concerned!"
"Save your pity for someone who needs it," Brian spat back. "Because I don't!"
"Brian," said Lindsay in her wheedling voice. "I'm concerned. Michael's concerned. All of your friends are concerned!"
"I get it. Everyone is concerned about Brian. Now..." Brian flopped down on the bed. "You can leave."
"Listen, asshole..." Michael began, his fear and his anger rising together.
But Lindsay hushed him. "What Michael is trying to say is that you should at least consider it. It might do you good to get away for a while. The Minnett Estate is lovely -- right on the water. And the cottage is a perfect spot for a little peace and quiet -- apart from the main house, but still close enough if you need anything. You can still work from there -- you can bring your laptop and I'm sure internet access can be arranged if they don't already have it. Mr. Vance thinks it's a good idea."
"Wonderful," Brian mumbled into his pillow. "Gardner thinks it's a good idea. Let's all hear it for Gardner Vance!"
"He's trying to help you!" Michael huffed. "That's what we're all trying to do. But you don't give a shit! You should be glad you're alive! Glad you're here, when... when others... aren't." His voice broke and he had to look away. Goddamn Brian! He could be so infuriating! "Instead of sitting in this loft, feeling sorry for yourself!"
"I'll take that under consideration, Mikey," said Brian, suddenly rising from the bed. "I'll think about what a heartless shithead I am. I'll repent of my sins! I'll get down on my knees and thank God I'm alive! I'll have a glorious moment of conversion! Would that make you happy? Would that bring back... them? Would that heal everyone's pain? Would that make it safe for me to walk down the street again? Would that make me what I was before -- the hottest guy on Liberty Avenue? The Stud of Babylon? Would that make everything the way it was? Would it, Mikey?" Brian stared at his oldest friend. "I said, would it, Michael?"
"No," Michael whispered, choking back tears. "It wouldn't."
"Then get the fuck out of here! Both of you!" Brian ran his long fingers through his uncombed hair. "I have someone coming over in a few minutes. Freshly ordered from Boys-R-Us. They deliver, don't you know?"
Lindsay touched Michael's arm. "We'd better go now. Think about it, Bri. Mrs. Minnett's offer of the cottage stands and it's yours whenever you'd like to use it."
"I heard you the first hundred times, Lindz," said Brian. He poured himself a straight Bourbon from the drinks cart. A double. And there was still plenty in the bottle. And more bottles where that one came from.
After they'd gone, Brian went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to shock himself into a decent frame of mind. But it was useless. There was no decent frame of mind for Brian Kinney. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
As if staying at a fucking cottage up by Lake Erie would change anything. Fucking Lindsay! Fucking Michael! That's all they thought about -- ways to help him! Ways to fix him!
But some things could never be fixed.
Never.
He changed into a clean wifebeater. Black. It hung on him. It had been too long since he'd been able to work out. Too long since he'd been to the gym. He was too thin. His arms and shoulders were too...
He took off the wifebeater and put on an old sweatshirt with long sleeves.
He glanced over at the place where the mirror had been, forgetting that it was gone. All the mirrors were gone.
Just as well.
The door buzzed.
"Top floor. Come on up."
He knew it was a mistake the moment he opened the door.
The look on the guy's face spoke volumes.
Even hustlers, who you'd think had seen it all, can't always hide their thoughts.
Or shut their big mouths.
"What... what's wrong with your face?" he asked, guilelessly. He was just a kid. Maybe 18 or 19. Curly black hair and smooth caramel skin. His large brown eyes were wide as they stared.
"Nothing," said Brian, his heart like a stone. "Nothing at all."
The kid blinked and hesitated. "What... what do you like? The guy didn't say."
"Nothing," said Brian, turning away. "I've changed my mind."
"Huh?" The kid frowned.
"Beat it." Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty. He shoved the bill at the kid. "Here. Now get out."
The young hustler shoved the money in his pocket and left hurriedly.
Brian poured himself another double Bourbon and turned out the last light in the loft.
And he sat there in the dark until dawn, drinking and thinking about how he was going to survive.
If he was going to survive.
***
the angstiest premise I could think of? And, being one of the Queens
of Angst, I started pondering the possibilities. As I was in the midst
of "Bell, Book & Candle" at the time I let it ride. Now, I think, is
the time to offer a little angst.
This will be fairly short (for me, in other words, NOT 60 chapters!),
and bittersweet -- just the way you guys like it! Consider it an
antidote to summer. It takes place in the fall, by a stormy, unsettled
lake. It's loosely based on an old movie from 1945 so obscure it's
not even on DVD, but it's one of my favorites from when I was a kid.
Here is Part 1 of "The Enchanted Cottage":
Pittsburgh, September 2006
"So what is this -- an intervention?"
"Yes," said Lindsay Peterson.
"No," said Michael Novotny.
"Well?" said Brian Kinney. "Make up your fucking minds! Or at least get your stories straight." He turned and stalked away from them, into the darkness of the loft.
"It's not an intervention," said Michael, following him. "But we ARE concerned!"
"Save your pity for someone who needs it," Brian spat back. "Because I don't!"
"Brian," said Lindsay in her wheedling voice. "I'm concerned. Michael's concerned. All of your friends are concerned!"
"I get it. Everyone is concerned about Brian. Now..." Brian flopped down on the bed. "You can leave."
"Listen, asshole..." Michael began, his fear and his anger rising together.
But Lindsay hushed him. "What Michael is trying to say is that you should at least consider it. It might do you good to get away for a while. The Minnett Estate is lovely -- right on the water. And the cottage is a perfect spot for a little peace and quiet -- apart from the main house, but still close enough if you need anything. You can still work from there -- you can bring your laptop and I'm sure internet access can be arranged if they don't already have it. Mr. Vance thinks it's a good idea."
"Wonderful," Brian mumbled into his pillow. "Gardner thinks it's a good idea. Let's all hear it for Gardner Vance!"
"He's trying to help you!" Michael huffed. "That's what we're all trying to do. But you don't give a shit! You should be glad you're alive! Glad you're here, when... when others... aren't." His voice broke and he had to look away. Goddamn Brian! He could be so infuriating! "Instead of sitting in this loft, feeling sorry for yourself!"
"I'll take that under consideration, Mikey," said Brian, suddenly rising from the bed. "I'll think about what a heartless shithead I am. I'll repent of my sins! I'll get down on my knees and thank God I'm alive! I'll have a glorious moment of conversion! Would that make you happy? Would that bring back... them? Would that heal everyone's pain? Would that make it safe for me to walk down the street again? Would that make me what I was before -- the hottest guy on Liberty Avenue? The Stud of Babylon? Would that make everything the way it was? Would it, Mikey?" Brian stared at his oldest friend. "I said, would it, Michael?"
"No," Michael whispered, choking back tears. "It wouldn't."
"Then get the fuck out of here! Both of you!" Brian ran his long fingers through his uncombed hair. "I have someone coming over in a few minutes. Freshly ordered from Boys-R-Us. They deliver, don't you know?"
Lindsay touched Michael's arm. "We'd better go now. Think about it, Bri. Mrs. Minnett's offer of the cottage stands and it's yours whenever you'd like to use it."
"I heard you the first hundred times, Lindz," said Brian. He poured himself a straight Bourbon from the drinks cart. A double. And there was still plenty in the bottle. And more bottles where that one came from.
After they'd gone, Brian went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to shock himself into a decent frame of mind. But it was useless. There was no decent frame of mind for Brian Kinney. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
As if staying at a fucking cottage up by Lake Erie would change anything. Fucking Lindsay! Fucking Michael! That's all they thought about -- ways to help him! Ways to fix him!
But some things could never be fixed.
Never.
He changed into a clean wifebeater. Black. It hung on him. It had been too long since he'd been able to work out. Too long since he'd been to the gym. He was too thin. His arms and shoulders were too...
He took off the wifebeater and put on an old sweatshirt with long sleeves.
He glanced over at the place where the mirror had been, forgetting that it was gone. All the mirrors were gone.
Just as well.
The door buzzed.
"Top floor. Come on up."
He knew it was a mistake the moment he opened the door.
The look on the guy's face spoke volumes.
Even hustlers, who you'd think had seen it all, can't always hide their thoughts.
Or shut their big mouths.
"What... what's wrong with your face?" he asked, guilelessly. He was just a kid. Maybe 18 or 19. Curly black hair and smooth caramel skin. His large brown eyes were wide as they stared.
"Nothing," said Brian, his heart like a stone. "Nothing at all."
The kid blinked and hesitated. "What... what do you like? The guy didn't say."
"Nothing," said Brian, turning away. "I've changed my mind."
"Huh?" The kid frowned.
"Beat it." Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty. He shoved the bill at the kid. "Here. Now get out."
The young hustler shoved the money in his pocket and left hurriedly.
Brian poured himself another double Bourbon and turned out the last light in the loft.
And he sat there in the dark until dawn, drinking and thinking about how he was going to survive.
If he was going to survive.
***