A Sad Orange County Tale (PG-13)
Feb. 18th, 2007 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tommygirlSo I started this story very long ago and just never got around to finishing it. So since it's time for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wip_amnesty, I decided to go ahead and post this here. It's an O.C. fic set near the end of season one.
Title: A Sad Orange County Tale
Author: Tommygirl/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
storydivagirl
Fandom: The O.C.
Pairings: none really
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Seth walks in on something, gets drunk and sails, and bad things ensue...
Warning: It's amnesia fic and it features an OFC
A/N: Since it's not done, it's not beta'd, but I've been over it about a billion times since its inception to try to get myself to write more. It's sad because I really liked what I had written and what I wanted to do with it. I'm just uber lazy and get distracted by shiny new fandoms. Feel free to enjoy what's here. I make no promises that more will ever come of it though.
I. Seth Cohen’s Tragic Ending
Seth Cohen always expected that if tragedy befell him, there would be some sort of sign in the sky. A seer that warned him to beware the ides of March or a Final Destination sort of dream that clued him in to his upcoming misfortune. It didn’t work out quite like that though. How was he supposed to know that on some cosmic calendar somewhere, there was a small note that stated that today everything would change for him when everything else went so...typically? His day started like every other one before it. A little playstation kicking ass as he rolled out of bed, a large cup of caffeine as he watched in horror as his mother and father cuddled at the kitchen table despite his protests, driving to school with Ryan while they discussed upcoming weekend plans, and kissing Summer between every class.
Summer. Her smile, the dark brown eyes that worked like magnets, turning his own brown ones to metal and pulling him further and further in, the expression on her face when she thought she was being silly. He loved her, worshipped her even, more now that he knew her than he did when his infatuation was almost stalker-like in its existence. He never expected to find himself kissing her, more than once, or having the gesture returned, multiplied and so carefree.
It was one of those things that was precious to him. So fragile, so unstable. Seth knew that feelings could change within seconds...but he also knew that surviving something with Summer wouldn’t be like that time when he was six and his best friend, Billy, decided that Seth wasn’t cool enough to be friends with. Once it was given, it couldn’t be taken back…not without destroying him.
Destruction. Seth wanted to destroy something when he stumbled upon Ryan and Summer in an embrace. He went through the stages of grief. Denial, anger, mostly denial, sure that his aunt had decided to be funny and spiked his Dr. Pepper with acid. No matter how many times he blinked at the sight or allowed the “I can explain” mutterings from the two of them to filter into his conscious, he couldn’t accept it. He stood there, saying nothing like some sort of idiot savant, saying nothing even though he always had something to say, and took it all in. He stood there for what felt like hours, burning the image into his retinas, before turning on his heel and marching down the driveway. He didn’t know where he was going or why his feet were moving—all he knew was that he had to get away.
It wasn’t until the third shot of tequila that he felt anything. Then it was a groundswell of emotion, rising from his stomach and swirling all around him, derailing his plans and future and everything else in its path. The more he drank, the more it hurt. The more it hurt, the more he wanted to disappear.
He found himself leaning his head on a splintery bar in some seedy locale. It gave off that aura of loserdom that Seth felt encompassed his personality at the moment. He fingered the droplets on his glass and muttered to no one in particular, “She listens to Britney Spears. I should’ve known we were in trouble the minute I found the Baby One More Time cd in her collection.” He banged his glass down, getting the bartender’s attention, and motioned for another shot.
“I think you’ve had enough, sport.”
“Sports. That’s the other thing. She likes water polo. I ask you, does anyone really like water polo?” Seth bemoaned. He shook his head and added, “Ryan’s good at sports. I should’ve known something was up – that should’ve been my hint. Jocks are never good guys. Jocks pretend to be your friend so that they can steal your girlfriends and make you watch!”
The night went on this way. Him teetering back and forth between not feeling anything whatsoever and being inundated with pain. Him remembering all those reasons why he thought that his relationship with Summer was nothing more than fantasy on his part. Him thinking that if it hadn’t been Ryan it wouldn’t be so hard, because at least he’d still have his best friend. Him wishing he didn’t exist because maybe then the sting of humiliation wouldn’t matter quite so much.
He closed the bar along with an older man that Seth worried would be him in thirtysome years. Probably a guy with a crappy job, a car that died every other mile, and an ex-wife that left him for a woman (maybe a best friend-slash-sister type). He glanced at his watch, unable to discern the time through his alcoholic fog, and decided he wasn’t ready to go home. He wasn’t prepared to handle whatever awaited him in that guesthouse—like what if they were dating now? What if he had to observe Summer and Ryan, the two people aside from his parents that mattered most to him, together?
Seth wandered along the beach, skimming the edge of the water, unable to walk without veering left and right. He tossed the bottle haphazardly into the air and chuckled mirthlessly at the sound of glass hitting the rocks as it echoed into the night. He noticed his hand was bleeding and held it out in front of him, allowing the rain to absorb the copper red and wash it away. He laughed again—hysterically. He ran his fingers over his soaked through shirt, clutching at the fabric, and fell to his knees in laughter.
And then he realized he wasn’t laughing anymore, but sobbing.
This was truly sad, even for him, a guy who was long accustomed to his own lacking. It was strange, but he realized in that moment…he had never been this drunk before. This wasn’t the first time alcohol had crossed his lips, but drunken buffoonery? And because of a girl no less? A girl and a so-called best friend? It was an episode of Dawson’s Creek, a predictable plot point to a cheesy teen movie. After years of culling out an atypical personality and priding himself on his strange originality, he was nothing but a pop culture cliché. Patheticness, thy name was Seth Cohen.
The world spun around him. His breath was overrun with a heaviness that smelled of gin or vodka or whatever that guy at the gas station had given him. He was soaked through from the storm and the sand stuck to his toes as he trudged down the shoreline, falling more times than he could count. And the spinning...it was like one of those 70’s B-movies with the psychedelic colors and hippies dancing to horrible music.
Maybe this was why Seth didn’t make a habit of drinking. Not because he was a goody-goody or had some moral objection to it. It was more an act of separating himself from the others his age. It was one of the few things he prided himself on. Not giving into that stereotypical maudlin behavior of other drunken idiots of his generation. Throwing bottles, crying out in desperation…it was all a bit formulaic. He was supposed to be different, above all the ridiculousness that plagued his neighborhood, but one moment had wiped that from his memory. He was like everyone else. Pain was pain, and pain was best managed with large amounts of liquor.
The air reeked of disappointment: the ocean water thick as maple syrup as waves crashed into the beach and foamed at the edges. The rain pelted his skin and left small indents in the water as the blackness of the sky brightened every few seconds with a flash of lightening. The only light in a night full of darkness. One of the bolts hit a few yards down the dock and it all became quite clear to him.
Seth knew what he had to do.
He somehow reached the edge of the dock where his boat was though he moved like a long, drawn-out apology. He stared at it with satisfaction for a moment, kneeling down to loosen the anchors holding it to the docks. Sailing was the one thing he had always been good at it. His father said he was a natural. His grandfather said he was an athlete that could conquer the wildest of nature’s beasts. He reveled in the kudos that sailing bestowed upon him, convinced that the time he spent on the water while the rest of the kids his age were socializing without him was worth it. Sailing had been his refuge for so long, keeping him from embracing the lifestyle, attitudes, and parties of Newport society…how could he have forgotten his zest for sailing for so long?
Screwed up priorities, he deduced, tossing himself into the boat and trying to steady her.
He used to tell people that he was going to sail to Tahiti with the woman he loved. Loved. Past tense. That was all over now. It was funny how one brief instant in time, one inconsequential decision (in this case, to check on Ryan before heading to bed to see how he was dealing with the latest drama in his life), could change a person’s entire perspective on life and crush dreams into pulp. That one small action on his part had pulverized the life he had carved out for himself throughout the past year. It was funny how perverse the universe was. Funny, but not unbelievable.
Seth fumbled with the rope of the boat and somehow managed to get the boat out onto the water without much trouble. He grinned at his accomplishment and raised his sail, the ropes burning the cuts on his hands. He lifted his head to the sky, baptizing himself in the storm’s holy water, and attempted to keep his balance. He smiled, pushing the wet hairs off his face, and stood strong against a gust of wind.
The boat tilted from left to right, front to back, and left to right again. The water was choppy and waves thrust themselves upon his small boat. In the back of his mind, he decided that this was a very bad idea. He could hear his mother’s worried voice, chiding him for being so foolish, and see his father’s exasperated gaze. The voice got louder, or was that the thunder, but he didn’t turn around. He was going to make this trip if it killed him. Even if the girl wasn’t there and the dream was gone. He needed to go. He would call his parents from the first port he reached, once the world stopped spinning and a coherent thought formed on his lips. He would keep the call short and sweet, promising that he was okay and would be home soon, and make his way to another destination far away from the images awaiting him at home. His mother would understand, right? Weren’t mothers fine-tuned to their children’s radar? She would realize that Seth wanted to be anywhere but in Orange County and to be anyone but Seth Cohen, total moron and unbelievably blind fool.
Little did he know but Seth was about to get his wish when a large wave slammed into the boat. He hit the floor with a loud thud. He grimaced in pain, rubbing the back of his head where he had landed. His hand was once again covered in blood, but something told him (probably the large amount of pain radiating from the base of his skull) that it wasn’t from the cuts on his hands. He felt unbodied in that moment, as though he was watching some other idiot attempt to sail during El Nino from the safety of a movie theater. In his mind, Seth Cohen was fine, but this nimrod on the water was a dead man, and he watched with that drilling foreboding sensation, staring out into the blankness of the sky. Finally, it hit him that he was the nimrod and he tried to sit himself up, but his body refused to obey his commands. The flickering thought that this had been a very bad “uh-oh” lasted long enough for him to see a bolt of lightening strike the top of his sail, slicing it in half. The spinning stopped and the last thing he remembered was that there was too much water around him before the blackness of night overtook him.
II. The Guilt of Sins
It was after midnight. The clouds had rolled past on their long journey home and the full moon blazed through the bedroom window. Ryan laid on his side, pretending not to hear Kirsten’s shrieking coming from the house, Sandy’s attempts at comfort, or the doors opening and closing as the last of the stragglers left their “sympathetic” words behind, and stared at the stupid painting on his wall.
It was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen; as if the artist was so bored that he dumped a bunch of colors on the canvas and called it “art.” Seth forced him to get it from a street vendor. Ryan argued that he didn’t need it, but Seth made some inane comment about its symbolic importance and how being a part of the Cohen family required the presence of something heinous on his walls…or something equally weird. Ryan had rolled his eyes at the time and headed to work without a second thought, but Seth had purchased it anyway. Every now and then, he would take the ugly thing down, only to find it returned to its place on the side wall the next day. It got to the point where Ryan had learned to ignore it, but now the painting was all he could think about. The painting, the phone call, the look on Seth’s face last night when he stumbled upon a moment that made no sense to anyone, especially Ryan.
Nothing happened with Summer. He wasn’t sure if he could say that something wouldn’t have happened if Seth hadn’t come by to check up on him—calling out from the door that he wanted to make sure Ryan had survived the evening with Theresa. But nothing happened. Summer had shown up, drenched from the storm pounding outside, and started spouting craziness about love and letting go. All Ryan knew was that she looked miserable, a mirror image of what was stirring within him, and he had hugged her. That was all it was supposed to be, but it led to a brief kiss because she was there and because…he didn’t even know why. He wasn’t sure what her motivation was either. Ryan remembered saying that it was a bad idea, but he had kissed her all the same. When it came to things like that, Ryan took after his brother. Take what you want, fuck the consequences and fuck everyone else.
He figured he’d have a chance to work things out with Seth, to explain that he and Summer weren’t together—that whatever Seth had seen wasn’t about love or even liking, but needing something that wasn’t from a loved one. He thought there would be plenty of time to prove to Seth that he was the most important person in his life, the one person who had always been loyal to a fault, and Ryan wouldn’t give that up for a quick romp with Summer. Sitting at the table with Sandy and Kirsten, Ryan decided that he would find a way to make it up to Seth and be the type of friend, type of brother (because Seth was more of one than Trey had ever been), that Seth had been to him over the past eight months.
Then the phone rang. Kirsten had crossed the room and picked it up. She was ready to pounce, expecting it to be Seth asking for a ride home, and fully prepared to holler at Seth for putting her and Sandy through hell. For that reason alone, Ryan had almost jumped up to get the phone, figuring the least he could do was bare the brunt of Kirsten’s frustration. She began with, “You better have a good explanation for this, young man…” but the words fell off in the middle of the sentence, her face got ashen and the phone fell out of her hand. Ryan and Summer had exchanged worried looks as Sandy grabbed the receiver from the floor. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The silence in the air and the stricken faces said it all.
Ryan hated strained silences almost as much as he hated a phone call late at night. Almost as much as he hated the guilt oozing through him. He reached for Summer’s hand under the table and squeezed it. He wasn’t sure what motivated the gesture, except that he had this weird feeling that Seth would want Ryan to look out for her. Summer pulled away, shaking her hand free as if it was on fire, and rose from the table. Her eyes were watery holes as she glanced from Kirsten to Sandy to Ryan. She shook her head as though she was convinced that she could rid her mind of the thoughts plaguing her and asked, “What happened?”
Sandy remained silent while Kirsten turned away from all of them, only able to remain standing because of the counter propping her up. Summer’s voice became more urgent as she asked, “Was that Seth?”
Summer’s question was met with a muffled cry from Kirsten. Then the words streamed out of Sandy’s mouth in one long mass, “There’s been an accident…Seth took his boat out, probably thought he could handle the storm...found his jacket and shoes…found pieces of the boat against the rocks...there was blood...not sure if they’ll find him, but they’re presuming the worst...we’ll still look though...” Sandy said over Kirsten’s sobs. He stopped and reiterated the last part, though for who, Ryan wasn’t sure, before Sandy reached out and pulled Kirsten to him.
Ryan remembered it so clearly and yet, it was as though large gaps of time were missing from the hours before dawn, as though the portions of the day that would make the information sink in had been deleted from the hard drive of life. Seth was gone, but it wasn’t possible. Not Seth and not like that.
Summer had run out of the house and he hadn’t seen her since. Marissa had stopped by in the afternoon while her father checked on Kirsten and mentioned that Summer wasn’t taking the news well—that she wouldn’t speak except to say that it was her fault over and over again. Ryan could only laugh at Marissa’s admission. It was Summer’s fault. No, it was their fault. More his though. He should’ve gone after Seth. Ryan treated Seth the way he would’ve wanted to be treated, left him alone to process things, and he shouldn’t have done that. Ryan knew they were such different people. Seth didn’t need to be alone to harp on what he had seen. He needed someone to shout at or to help him make sense of it. Anyone that knew Seth for ten minutes knew that he was a talker, the type who worked things out with other people and out loud...not in silence and not alone. Seth had needed a friend and Ryan had refused him that. Ryan might as well have suggested Seth take his boat out in the tropical storm himself.
Ryan turned so that he was lying on his back. He stared at the ceiling, attempting to will sleep on himself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Sandy had said it, Caleb had reiterated it, and Ryan already knew it. Tomorrow was going to be the official day when the search was called off and the family was forced to accept what was already clear. Seth wasn’t coming home.
Ryan took to counting the small brown knicks aligning the ceiling tiles. He heard the door of the guesthouse open, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the collage of dots above him. It created small pictures—a rabbit, a face, a sailboat…
Fucking sailboat. What was he thinking? Why would he do that?
The bed dipped down and Ryan forced his eyes away from the ceiling long enough to see Summer lying down next to him. She followed his gaze upwards and asked, “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“This is like really bad, isn’t it, Chino?”
Ryan sighed, “Yeah.”
“We did this.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a real picker-upper, ya know?”
Ryan sat up and glared at her. He wanted to yell at her, shout that he didn’t understand why she had come by in the first place, that if only she hadn’t stopped by after the bad day he had—maybe none of this would’ve been happening. It would feel so good to put this on Summer’s shoulders, but he couldn’t. It would be a lie and he had a feeling Seth would haunt him forever if he did that. Instead, he let out a loud, exasperated breath and replied, “I don’t know what else to say right now.”
“Tell me this was a mistake. Tell me we’re going to find him…” Summer’s voice was muffled by the pillows and Ryan couldn’t recall a time when he had ever seen her cry. She came close to it when they had found Marissa in Tijuana, but not even then had she shed a tear in his presence. She bit her lip and focused back on Ryan, no evidence of tears, and said, “Tell me a terrible joke or something like Seth would.”
“I’m not Seth.”
“No, you’re not,” she replied. She sat up and looked out at the pool. The moon shimmered down on it and reflected against the glass doors. She heaved a sigh, rolling her shoulders as she did, and asked, “Did you tell anyone?”
Ryan wished he could pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, but he did. It was all he kept thinking about—to tell Sandy or to let it go, to focus on finding Seth or burying him—but when she asked the question, he found himself replying, “What?”
Summer rolled her eyes and answered, “Because maybe we should.”
“There have been more important things going on the last few days.”
“Things we caused.”
“We don’t know that.”
She laughed harshly, the type she usually reserved for a loser classmate worthy of her scorn, and said, “Yeah right.” She glanced at Ryan with an angry look and went on, “Afraid it’ll be the end of your free ride if you ‘fess up to what you did.”
“What about you? You really want Marissa to find out that we were kissing and that Seth caught us. That we were the reason that Seth wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Flatter yourself much? She’s over you. She said so.”
“I know enough about girls to realize that she wouldn’t like the idea of us together though. Besides I’m pretty sure it would make you persona non grata around most of the Newport Social scene if it came out that your boyfriend died because of you.”
Summer huffed, blowing frays of her hair back off her face, but didn’t deny anything Ryan said. She folded her arms and stared off into the distance. Ryan tried to follow her line of vision, but it was as though she could see through things, see something that he couldn’t. Ryan said, “If you want me to tell them, if you really think what the Cohens and everyone else need right now is to know what we did to Seth, we’ll go tell them right now. All it’s gonna do is ease our guilt.”
“I wish.”
“It’s not the right time for this, Summer. Tomorrow morning Sandy, Kirsten, and everyone else who cared about Seth will have to find a way to accept that he’s gone. The search was ending tonight and…do you really want to make things worse? Do you think we should make it all about us?”
“I just want him back,” Summer replied. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she brushed them away immediately. She scoffed and said, “My father told me that I had to break things off with Seth and...that’s why I came here...to try and...I don’t know.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the room, never meeting Ryan’s stare, and continued, “I keep thinking he’s still out there, waiting for us to find him and prove ourselves or something.”
“Seth wouldn’t do that.”
“Probably not, but I keep hoping…” she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and laughed bitterly, “And this is so not my thing. Look at me. Crying...worrying...this is why I tried to avoid those feelings for Cohen from the start. He was a nice guy and I’m not...nice.”
“You’re not completely terrible either.”
Summer rolled her eyes again and said, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Chino.” She sighed and replied, “I don’t know why I came here.”
“It was the last place we saw him.”
“Yeah, but,” her voice trailed off and she touched the painting on the wall. She shook her head and said, “That is still the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen.”
“It is pretty repulsive, but Seth saw something in it so I’m going to hold onto it for awhile.”
“I don’t want tomorrow to come.”
“Me either,” Ryan said.
Summer pushed the last of the tears away and smiled. She smiled as though her life depended on it, as if by smiling she could erase the evidence of her tears from memory. She offered, “And you were right earlier. Now’s not the time to say anything.”
“Am I right?”
“Look Chino. One misunderstanding, one stupid mistake, has already caused so many problems. I think maybe we should forget it,” Summer stated. She waited for Ryan to respond. He could see it in the twitch of her lips. She wanted his approval, his agreement on the topic, but he wasn’t sure he could forget what happened.
He couldn’t say anything. He was never good with words and making things right. So he did what he could. He nodded his head.
Summer took that as a sign to go on, “I’ve already lost Seth. I can’t lose anyone else. That’s probably selfish and like horrible to say, but it’s true.” She traced her fingers over the outline of her reflection in the mirror and quietly said, “I don’t want this to be happening anymore. I’m not ready to let him go.”
Ryan thought of all these cheesy things he could say, things he had heard in movies and afterschool specials throughout his lifetime. He wanted to expel little nuggets like “it will get easier with time” or “he’ll always be with us.” He wanted nothing more than to offer those up, like penance, but he knew it was a load of crap. This wouldn’t get easier and Seth was taken too soon in some stupid boating accident that should never have occurred. Seth was dead and nothing would be right again. Both he and Summer had lost someone special and nothing could make that better.
He met Summer’s gaze and he knew that she wanted those trite euphemisms as much as he did. He offered his best attempt at an encouraging smile and replied, “We have to because he’s not coming back.”
She slid to the floor, her head collapsing into her knees, and said, “I know.”
That was all they said. She sat there against the wall, studying the painting and smiling at something Ryan wasn’t aware of while he laid back on his bed, pretending not to notice the weird atmosphere or the pang in his chest. He wondered what the following days would be like, if he was strong enough to not only get himself through it but also help the Cohens come to terms with things. He imagined all those stupid Newport shindigs he was going to have to attend without Seth there to make a running commentary, which always made things a bit easier. Everything was different now and, whether he and Summer ever decided to share the sordid details of the evening, he would always know that he was responsible for this.
Ryan had killed the most important person in his life. Not with his own hands, but his actions.
III. First Interlude - Where the Audience Learns Much More Than the Characters
If there was one thing Seth Cohen was never very good at it was dealing with pain. And, the first conscious thought he had as his eyes fluttered open was not “hallelujah, I survived” but “oh the pain—the horrible, terrible pain.” Seth coughed up water, spitting it out on his chest, as sunlight hit his face and blinded him. He struggled to move, but there was a throbbing sensation that emanated throughout his entire body as though it was on fire.
This was not good. This was so not good. Especially since he had no idea where he was or how he ended up in that particular location.
He grunted, exerting as much effort as he could, and managed to sit himself up and push the seaweed off of him. Seth strained his neck upward, looking for a familiar landmark that would help him get home. Home…shit. He could imagine his mother’s reaction—she was going to ground him for life, possibly kill him—if he ever managed to get out of this place.
Seth appeared to be stuck in a sand dune that was wedged between two small inlets. His options for escape seemed limited to swimming or climbing...and that was if his body was willing to cooperate. Seeing as he had nearly drowned (though how was still a mystery), there was a little thing called “not tempting fate” that Seth was going to abide by, which ruled out swimming as an option. That left climbing.
Seth looked around for any other possible escapes, taking into consideration how badly banged up he felt. Part of the problem was that Seth still had no idea where he had washed up or how it had happened – though the way his head was pounding he could vaguely acknowledge the involvement of alcohol. The only thing he was sure of in that moment was that if he stayed there, well, it would be bad. What he had to do was get further inland, wherever that was, no matter what it would do to his body. It was his only ticket to freedom and dying there was not at the top of list of his acceptable ways to die. Okay, it wasn’t at the bottom of his list either—hence the reason for getting the hell out of there.
It took five tries and a lot of “pushing through pain” and “sucking it up” (phrases his little league baseball coach would be happy to see he had not forgotten) before Seth was able to stand upright. And by upright, what he really meant was hunched over, one hand clutching his head and the other placed on his chest. He felt like his lungs would fall out if he let go of his grip.
Definitely not good.
He studied the hill, searching for a possible climbing route, and began walking carefully, using the rocks to steady himself. It felt like hours passed during the time it took him to get about ten feet off the ground—his legs were killing him and he decided this was what it must’ve felt like to get hit by a bus and live to tell the story. It was impossible to focus on anything beyond each step, beyond the moment, beyond the pain…
He told himself to think about all the good things in his life. His bed, his comics, his parents, Ryan, Summer...were they looking for him? Why the hell was he out by himself drinking? He wasn’t exactly Mr. Party Animal and Seth couldn’t imagine Ryan allowing him to wander off in a drunken stupor all by himself—the guy had a tendency to act rather big-brotherish toward Seth.
Something must’ve happened, but through the fog clouding his brain, he couldn’t think of what it was. As he searched his memory, focusing more on the how it happened rather than the how to get the hell out of it, Seth lost his footing. He rolled down the cliff and, like something out of a bad slapstick comedy, he hit every possible rock in his path on the way down…finally slamming into a palm tree at full speed. The good news? He appeared to have gotten down the hill. The bad news? He didn’t have time to think about it because, for the second time in forty-eight hours, Seth Cohen was knocked unconscious.
IV. Rebirth…Sorta
How Alexis Hardgrove found herself on that part of the beach at that specific time would plague her for months to come. She had never been a believer in fate or destiny, but surely there was some guiding force at work that led her to be on that beach right when she was needed most. Because there was no other explanation for it—like those stories of passengers who got off planes that ended up crashing—and this one moment in time had changed her life forever.
The thing that bothered her most, the cause of her sudden formulation of theories on destiny, was that she didn’t usually run in that area, usually opting for the canyons around her home, but that morning she felt compelled to run an extra few miles, as though someone was pushing her to find him.
Him. John Doe. Random battered guy at the edge of the road.
She had thought she was hallucinating at first. Surely, she was imagining things, caught up in the effects of a momentary lack of oxygen while she was running, but as she jogged closer...well, it wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her. There was a young guy, a little younger than her, sprawled out at the bottom of a rocky hill.
Alexis increased her speed and rushed over to the side of him. The only clear thought she had was that she had wished she had taken that stupid CPR class with her sister. Maybe then she’d be of some use to this guy. She touched him carefully, trying to feel for a pulse, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she noticed his chest rise and fall.
At least that was a start.
She touched him lightly on the chest, searching for any visible wounds, and jumped back when his eyes popped open. It was something out of a scary movie except than when he grabbed her hand, she wasn’t scared. It was more shock than anything. She smiled at him as he stared up at her, stumbling for the right words. She pulled away from his grip and said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, okay? You’re going to be alright. I’m going to find some help.”
She glanced around unsure where to go—this was a dead-end road and was rarely used unless it was the height of summer—to find someone to help him. A part of her was scared to leave him alone and the other part was most concerned with finding someone to help her get him to the hospital. She added, “Try not to move.”
He attempted to sit up and she placed her hands on his chest to steady him. He grimaced in pain and she immediately pulled back. She shook her head, “You shouldn’t be moving.”
“What happened?”
“I was about to ask you that question.”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded and replied, “That’s okay. There will be plenty of time to piece together—“
“No, I don’t know anything.”
“Huh?”
“My name, how I got here, what happened…I don’t know anything,” he replied, getting more worked up with each word. He clutched his head, letting out a soft groan, and coughed violently.
Alexis tried to make her voice as reassuring as possible, but her mind was reeling. These sorts of things didn’t happen in real life. She took a deep breath and said, “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about that right now. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry,” he repeated, lying back down and closing his eyes.
Alexis patted his hand and said, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
**
Alexis sat along side other random strangers awaiting news of loved ones in the hospital lounge and watched helplessly as the nurses wheeled the young man away, muttering words she didn’t understand but didn’t sound very good. The doctor had asked her for information, but she had nothing to offer. She didn’t know the guy…so why was she still there? Why was she so worried about someone she knew for all of ten minutes, most of which he had spent floating in and out of consciousness?
Alexis stared blankly ahead. She wasn’t sure how long she was there—time seemed to stop mattering at the entrance to the emergency room—before a nurse appeared. She looked at the girl and said, “Your friend is quite banged up. He has two different head wounds, one of which caused a slight fracture to his skull, and a few broken bones. But he’s going to make it.”
“Thank God.”
“He’s still in shock though.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“He’s not sure of anything at the moment, but from how badly he’s beaten up, the doctors are guessing it was a carjacking.”
“Did he remember who he was?”
The nurse shook her head and replied, “Not yet. That’s not too uncommon in cases like this. He suffered a traumatic event. The doctors will run some more tests to make sure it’s not a case of brain damage, but his memory will probably come back in its own time.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
She shrugged and replied, “Local police have been informed. The doctor let them know about his injuries and what he thought may have happened to him—the police will try to match up that information with any lists of missing persons in the area. Hopefully there’ll be a match.”
Alexis nodded although it seemed like too much to ingest. The idea of waking up and not knowing who she was…it was a frightening prospect. She could only imagine what the young man was feeling—pain, lost, scared. She asked, “Can I see him?”
The nurse nodded and motioned for Alexis to follow her. Again, Alexis couldn’t figure out what she was doing. She knew he would be okay—that should’ve been her cue to leave and allow the medical professionals to figure out the rest—but a part of her wanted to see it with her own eyes and make sure that this guy survived. Maybe it was true what movies and books led people to believe…maybe saving his life had intertwined his existence with her own.
Alexis stepped into the small room, the sounds of machines hissing in and out and light filtering in through the blinds. She hated hospitals. She couldn’t imagine anyone really enjoyed hospitals, but it was almost phobic in nature for her. Reminders of things she tried not to think about but that came rushing back with the antiseptic smells and weird noises. It was all too eerie for her liking, but she sat down next to the young man, wanting him to know that everything would be alright. It seemed like that was all she was capable of offering him—you’re gonna be okay.
She cleared her throat, unsure if she should wake him up and announce her presence, or let him sleep and sit there like some strange stalker girl without uttering a peep. His eyes opened and he turned to face her. He smiled and said, “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“You’re the only person I seem to remember.”
“The nurse told me it’s probably a side effect to whatever happened to you.”
“And if it’s not?”
“I’m sure your family will get you through this.“
“Right. Unless I don’t have any family. Then I guess I’m screwed, huh?” he replied. His voice was light and airy, but Alexis could tell he was feeling anything but. He must’ve picked up on her discomfort because he continued, “Hell, even if I do have a family, there’s still the possibility I won’t remember them. How awkward would that be?”
She sighed. She wasn’t prepared for how to handle a conversation with an amnesiac. She didn’t know what was a good topic to discuss, so she babbled. “I don’t usually run so far off the main roads—I guess it’s a good thing I did today.”
“Definitely a good thing. My blank mind and I thank you.”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. She said, “I’m Alexis Hardgrove.”
“Hi Alexis,” he replied. He pointed to the bottom of his bed where a chart hung from the frame and added, “I appear to be John Doe. It could be worse, I guess. I could be going by ‘no name’ or ‘helpless victim’ or something equally sad.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Sadder than John Doe?”
“Well, apparently Tom Cruise is taken.”
“Afraid so,” she replied. She lifted her hand and said, “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
He stared at her and she hurried back out to the waiting room. She picked up a magazine article she had been thumbing through and brought it back to his room. He glanced from her to the magazine and said, “Don’t tell me. I’m a Vanity Fair model. It makes sense.”
She smiled and replied, “Does it?”
He patted his chest and said, “It’s hard to tell with this hospital gown, but my scrawny bod is quite killer, I assure you.”
Alexis laughed and said, “As hot as that sounds, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Fair enough.”
“I remember seeing an article on a young guy who had survived an accident with no recollection of who he was…a year later his cousin sees him working at some bar. He got to officially retire his amnesiac name.”
“Amnesiac name? Is that a real thing?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it.”
“I figure since he no longer needs to go by Dave Gibbons, you could.”
“The problem with that being that I’m not Dave Gibbons.”
“True.”
“Have nothing that shows my name as being Dave Gibbons.”
“Let’s not worry about the particulars right now. It’s just a name to go by until the police find your family.”
“My family,” he sighed and glanced out the window. He said, “I keep feeling like there is a name bubbling beneath the surface, but I just can’t think of it. I try and try, but it won’t come to me.”
“It will all work out, Dave.”
He grinned and said, “It doesn’t sound too bad, all things considered.” He flipped through the pages of the magazine and held up an ad of sexy male underwear models. He asked, “And you still can’t believe that I’m a model? Dude, that’s just wrong.”
“Did you call me ‘dude’?”
He shrugged and said, “Don’t try to change the subject here. Are you saying I’m unattractive? I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t talk to a wounded amnesiac that way.”
She placed her hand on his arm and said, “I didn’t call you…you know what? Why do I get the feeling that you’re arguing for the sake of arguing?”
“I prefer banter.”
“I prefer neither.”
“Alexis, I think you’re lying to yourself about that one.”
“Dave, you need your rest.”
Dave nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment. They popped back open and he reached for her hand. What surprised her most was that she didn’t pull back, instead covering it with her own hand. He asked, “Will you be here when I wake up?”
Alexis shifted in her seat and said, “Sure.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your life, but—”
“—but I’m the only person you know at the moment,” she finished his thought. She smiled and said, “It’s okay. I’ll stay if you want me to. Besides the police have probably located your family already and you won’t need me anymore.”
He nodded again, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips, and closed his eyes. Alexis sat back in the chair, pretending to flip through the pages of the magazine while she watched his chest rise and fall. It was definitely true what they said about saving a life, because she felt completely responsible for Dave’s, or whatever his name was, recovery.
to be continued...but probably not...
wip_amnesty, I decided to go ahead and post this here. It's an O.C. fic set near the end of season one. Title: A Sad Orange County Tale
Author: Tommygirl/
storydivagirlFandom: The O.C.
Pairings: none really
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Seth walks in on something, gets drunk and sails, and bad things ensue...
Warning: It's amnesia fic and it features an OFC
A/N: Since it's not done, it's not beta'd, but I've been over it about a billion times since its inception to try to get myself to write more. It's sad because I really liked what I had written and what I wanted to do with it. I'm just uber lazy and get distracted by shiny new fandoms. Feel free to enjoy what's here. I make no promises that more will ever come of it though.
I. Seth Cohen’s Tragic Ending
Seth Cohen always expected that if tragedy befell him, there would be some sort of sign in the sky. A seer that warned him to beware the ides of March or a Final Destination sort of dream that clued him in to his upcoming misfortune. It didn’t work out quite like that though. How was he supposed to know that on some cosmic calendar somewhere, there was a small note that stated that today everything would change for him when everything else went so...typically? His day started like every other one before it. A little playstation kicking ass as he rolled out of bed, a large cup of caffeine as he watched in horror as his mother and father cuddled at the kitchen table despite his protests, driving to school with Ryan while they discussed upcoming weekend plans, and kissing Summer between every class.
Summer. Her smile, the dark brown eyes that worked like magnets, turning his own brown ones to metal and pulling him further and further in, the expression on her face when she thought she was being silly. He loved her, worshipped her even, more now that he knew her than he did when his infatuation was almost stalker-like in its existence. He never expected to find himself kissing her, more than once, or having the gesture returned, multiplied and so carefree.
It was one of those things that was precious to him. So fragile, so unstable. Seth knew that feelings could change within seconds...but he also knew that surviving something with Summer wouldn’t be like that time when he was six and his best friend, Billy, decided that Seth wasn’t cool enough to be friends with. Once it was given, it couldn’t be taken back…not without destroying him.
Destruction. Seth wanted to destroy something when he stumbled upon Ryan and Summer in an embrace. He went through the stages of grief. Denial, anger, mostly denial, sure that his aunt had decided to be funny and spiked his Dr. Pepper with acid. No matter how many times he blinked at the sight or allowed the “I can explain” mutterings from the two of them to filter into his conscious, he couldn’t accept it. He stood there, saying nothing like some sort of idiot savant, saying nothing even though he always had something to say, and took it all in. He stood there for what felt like hours, burning the image into his retinas, before turning on his heel and marching down the driveway. He didn’t know where he was going or why his feet were moving—all he knew was that he had to get away.
It wasn’t until the third shot of tequila that he felt anything. Then it was a groundswell of emotion, rising from his stomach and swirling all around him, derailing his plans and future and everything else in its path. The more he drank, the more it hurt. The more it hurt, the more he wanted to disappear.
He found himself leaning his head on a splintery bar in some seedy locale. It gave off that aura of loserdom that Seth felt encompassed his personality at the moment. He fingered the droplets on his glass and muttered to no one in particular, “She listens to Britney Spears. I should’ve known we were in trouble the minute I found the Baby One More Time cd in her collection.” He banged his glass down, getting the bartender’s attention, and motioned for another shot.
“I think you’ve had enough, sport.”
“Sports. That’s the other thing. She likes water polo. I ask you, does anyone really like water polo?” Seth bemoaned. He shook his head and added, “Ryan’s good at sports. I should’ve known something was up – that should’ve been my hint. Jocks are never good guys. Jocks pretend to be your friend so that they can steal your girlfriends and make you watch!”
The night went on this way. Him teetering back and forth between not feeling anything whatsoever and being inundated with pain. Him remembering all those reasons why he thought that his relationship with Summer was nothing more than fantasy on his part. Him thinking that if it hadn’t been Ryan it wouldn’t be so hard, because at least he’d still have his best friend. Him wishing he didn’t exist because maybe then the sting of humiliation wouldn’t matter quite so much.
He closed the bar along with an older man that Seth worried would be him in thirtysome years. Probably a guy with a crappy job, a car that died every other mile, and an ex-wife that left him for a woman (maybe a best friend-slash-sister type). He glanced at his watch, unable to discern the time through his alcoholic fog, and decided he wasn’t ready to go home. He wasn’t prepared to handle whatever awaited him in that guesthouse—like what if they were dating now? What if he had to observe Summer and Ryan, the two people aside from his parents that mattered most to him, together?
Seth wandered along the beach, skimming the edge of the water, unable to walk without veering left and right. He tossed the bottle haphazardly into the air and chuckled mirthlessly at the sound of glass hitting the rocks as it echoed into the night. He noticed his hand was bleeding and held it out in front of him, allowing the rain to absorb the copper red and wash it away. He laughed again—hysterically. He ran his fingers over his soaked through shirt, clutching at the fabric, and fell to his knees in laughter.
And then he realized he wasn’t laughing anymore, but sobbing.
This was truly sad, even for him, a guy who was long accustomed to his own lacking. It was strange, but he realized in that moment…he had never been this drunk before. This wasn’t the first time alcohol had crossed his lips, but drunken buffoonery? And because of a girl no less? A girl and a so-called best friend? It was an episode of Dawson’s Creek, a predictable plot point to a cheesy teen movie. After years of culling out an atypical personality and priding himself on his strange originality, he was nothing but a pop culture cliché. Patheticness, thy name was Seth Cohen.
The world spun around him. His breath was overrun with a heaviness that smelled of gin or vodka or whatever that guy at the gas station had given him. He was soaked through from the storm and the sand stuck to his toes as he trudged down the shoreline, falling more times than he could count. And the spinning...it was like one of those 70’s B-movies with the psychedelic colors and hippies dancing to horrible music.
Maybe this was why Seth didn’t make a habit of drinking. Not because he was a goody-goody or had some moral objection to it. It was more an act of separating himself from the others his age. It was one of the few things he prided himself on. Not giving into that stereotypical maudlin behavior of other drunken idiots of his generation. Throwing bottles, crying out in desperation…it was all a bit formulaic. He was supposed to be different, above all the ridiculousness that plagued his neighborhood, but one moment had wiped that from his memory. He was like everyone else. Pain was pain, and pain was best managed with large amounts of liquor.
The air reeked of disappointment: the ocean water thick as maple syrup as waves crashed into the beach and foamed at the edges. The rain pelted his skin and left small indents in the water as the blackness of the sky brightened every few seconds with a flash of lightening. The only light in a night full of darkness. One of the bolts hit a few yards down the dock and it all became quite clear to him.
Seth knew what he had to do.
He somehow reached the edge of the dock where his boat was though he moved like a long, drawn-out apology. He stared at it with satisfaction for a moment, kneeling down to loosen the anchors holding it to the docks. Sailing was the one thing he had always been good at it. His father said he was a natural. His grandfather said he was an athlete that could conquer the wildest of nature’s beasts. He reveled in the kudos that sailing bestowed upon him, convinced that the time he spent on the water while the rest of the kids his age were socializing without him was worth it. Sailing had been his refuge for so long, keeping him from embracing the lifestyle, attitudes, and parties of Newport society…how could he have forgotten his zest for sailing for so long?
Screwed up priorities, he deduced, tossing himself into the boat and trying to steady her.
He used to tell people that he was going to sail to Tahiti with the woman he loved. Loved. Past tense. That was all over now. It was funny how one brief instant in time, one inconsequential decision (in this case, to check on Ryan before heading to bed to see how he was dealing with the latest drama in his life), could change a person’s entire perspective on life and crush dreams into pulp. That one small action on his part had pulverized the life he had carved out for himself throughout the past year. It was funny how perverse the universe was. Funny, but not unbelievable.
Seth fumbled with the rope of the boat and somehow managed to get the boat out onto the water without much trouble. He grinned at his accomplishment and raised his sail, the ropes burning the cuts on his hands. He lifted his head to the sky, baptizing himself in the storm’s holy water, and attempted to keep his balance. He smiled, pushing the wet hairs off his face, and stood strong against a gust of wind.
The boat tilted from left to right, front to back, and left to right again. The water was choppy and waves thrust themselves upon his small boat. In the back of his mind, he decided that this was a very bad idea. He could hear his mother’s worried voice, chiding him for being so foolish, and see his father’s exasperated gaze. The voice got louder, or was that the thunder, but he didn’t turn around. He was going to make this trip if it killed him. Even if the girl wasn’t there and the dream was gone. He needed to go. He would call his parents from the first port he reached, once the world stopped spinning and a coherent thought formed on his lips. He would keep the call short and sweet, promising that he was okay and would be home soon, and make his way to another destination far away from the images awaiting him at home. His mother would understand, right? Weren’t mothers fine-tuned to their children’s radar? She would realize that Seth wanted to be anywhere but in Orange County and to be anyone but Seth Cohen, total moron and unbelievably blind fool.
Little did he know but Seth was about to get his wish when a large wave slammed into the boat. He hit the floor with a loud thud. He grimaced in pain, rubbing the back of his head where he had landed. His hand was once again covered in blood, but something told him (probably the large amount of pain radiating from the base of his skull) that it wasn’t from the cuts on his hands. He felt unbodied in that moment, as though he was watching some other idiot attempt to sail during El Nino from the safety of a movie theater. In his mind, Seth Cohen was fine, but this nimrod on the water was a dead man, and he watched with that drilling foreboding sensation, staring out into the blankness of the sky. Finally, it hit him that he was the nimrod and he tried to sit himself up, but his body refused to obey his commands. The flickering thought that this had been a very bad “uh-oh” lasted long enough for him to see a bolt of lightening strike the top of his sail, slicing it in half. The spinning stopped and the last thing he remembered was that there was too much water around him before the blackness of night overtook him.
II. The Guilt of Sins
It was after midnight. The clouds had rolled past on their long journey home and the full moon blazed through the bedroom window. Ryan laid on his side, pretending not to hear Kirsten’s shrieking coming from the house, Sandy’s attempts at comfort, or the doors opening and closing as the last of the stragglers left their “sympathetic” words behind, and stared at the stupid painting on his wall.
It was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen; as if the artist was so bored that he dumped a bunch of colors on the canvas and called it “art.” Seth forced him to get it from a street vendor. Ryan argued that he didn’t need it, but Seth made some inane comment about its symbolic importance and how being a part of the Cohen family required the presence of something heinous on his walls…or something equally weird. Ryan had rolled his eyes at the time and headed to work without a second thought, but Seth had purchased it anyway. Every now and then, he would take the ugly thing down, only to find it returned to its place on the side wall the next day. It got to the point where Ryan had learned to ignore it, but now the painting was all he could think about. The painting, the phone call, the look on Seth’s face last night when he stumbled upon a moment that made no sense to anyone, especially Ryan.
Nothing happened with Summer. He wasn’t sure if he could say that something wouldn’t have happened if Seth hadn’t come by to check up on him—calling out from the door that he wanted to make sure Ryan had survived the evening with Theresa. But nothing happened. Summer had shown up, drenched from the storm pounding outside, and started spouting craziness about love and letting go. All Ryan knew was that she looked miserable, a mirror image of what was stirring within him, and he had hugged her. That was all it was supposed to be, but it led to a brief kiss because she was there and because…he didn’t even know why. He wasn’t sure what her motivation was either. Ryan remembered saying that it was a bad idea, but he had kissed her all the same. When it came to things like that, Ryan took after his brother. Take what you want, fuck the consequences and fuck everyone else.
He figured he’d have a chance to work things out with Seth, to explain that he and Summer weren’t together—that whatever Seth had seen wasn’t about love or even liking, but needing something that wasn’t from a loved one. He thought there would be plenty of time to prove to Seth that he was the most important person in his life, the one person who had always been loyal to a fault, and Ryan wouldn’t give that up for a quick romp with Summer. Sitting at the table with Sandy and Kirsten, Ryan decided that he would find a way to make it up to Seth and be the type of friend, type of brother (because Seth was more of one than Trey had ever been), that Seth had been to him over the past eight months.
Then the phone rang. Kirsten had crossed the room and picked it up. She was ready to pounce, expecting it to be Seth asking for a ride home, and fully prepared to holler at Seth for putting her and Sandy through hell. For that reason alone, Ryan had almost jumped up to get the phone, figuring the least he could do was bare the brunt of Kirsten’s frustration. She began with, “You better have a good explanation for this, young man…” but the words fell off in the middle of the sentence, her face got ashen and the phone fell out of her hand. Ryan and Summer had exchanged worried looks as Sandy grabbed the receiver from the floor. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The silence in the air and the stricken faces said it all.
Ryan hated strained silences almost as much as he hated a phone call late at night. Almost as much as he hated the guilt oozing through him. He reached for Summer’s hand under the table and squeezed it. He wasn’t sure what motivated the gesture, except that he had this weird feeling that Seth would want Ryan to look out for her. Summer pulled away, shaking her hand free as if it was on fire, and rose from the table. Her eyes were watery holes as she glanced from Kirsten to Sandy to Ryan. She shook her head as though she was convinced that she could rid her mind of the thoughts plaguing her and asked, “What happened?”
Sandy remained silent while Kirsten turned away from all of them, only able to remain standing because of the counter propping her up. Summer’s voice became more urgent as she asked, “Was that Seth?”
Summer’s question was met with a muffled cry from Kirsten. Then the words streamed out of Sandy’s mouth in one long mass, “There’s been an accident…Seth took his boat out, probably thought he could handle the storm...found his jacket and shoes…found pieces of the boat against the rocks...there was blood...not sure if they’ll find him, but they’re presuming the worst...we’ll still look though...” Sandy said over Kirsten’s sobs. He stopped and reiterated the last part, though for who, Ryan wasn’t sure, before Sandy reached out and pulled Kirsten to him.
Ryan remembered it so clearly and yet, it was as though large gaps of time were missing from the hours before dawn, as though the portions of the day that would make the information sink in had been deleted from the hard drive of life. Seth was gone, but it wasn’t possible. Not Seth and not like that.
Summer had run out of the house and he hadn’t seen her since. Marissa had stopped by in the afternoon while her father checked on Kirsten and mentioned that Summer wasn’t taking the news well—that she wouldn’t speak except to say that it was her fault over and over again. Ryan could only laugh at Marissa’s admission. It was Summer’s fault. No, it was their fault. More his though. He should’ve gone after Seth. Ryan treated Seth the way he would’ve wanted to be treated, left him alone to process things, and he shouldn’t have done that. Ryan knew they were such different people. Seth didn’t need to be alone to harp on what he had seen. He needed someone to shout at or to help him make sense of it. Anyone that knew Seth for ten minutes knew that he was a talker, the type who worked things out with other people and out loud...not in silence and not alone. Seth had needed a friend and Ryan had refused him that. Ryan might as well have suggested Seth take his boat out in the tropical storm himself.
Ryan turned so that he was lying on his back. He stared at the ceiling, attempting to will sleep on himself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Sandy had said it, Caleb had reiterated it, and Ryan already knew it. Tomorrow was going to be the official day when the search was called off and the family was forced to accept what was already clear. Seth wasn’t coming home.
Ryan took to counting the small brown knicks aligning the ceiling tiles. He heard the door of the guesthouse open, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the collage of dots above him. It created small pictures—a rabbit, a face, a sailboat…
Fucking sailboat. What was he thinking? Why would he do that?
The bed dipped down and Ryan forced his eyes away from the ceiling long enough to see Summer lying down next to him. She followed his gaze upwards and asked, “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“This is like really bad, isn’t it, Chino?”
Ryan sighed, “Yeah.”
“We did this.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a real picker-upper, ya know?”
Ryan sat up and glared at her. He wanted to yell at her, shout that he didn’t understand why she had come by in the first place, that if only she hadn’t stopped by after the bad day he had—maybe none of this would’ve been happening. It would feel so good to put this on Summer’s shoulders, but he couldn’t. It would be a lie and he had a feeling Seth would haunt him forever if he did that. Instead, he let out a loud, exasperated breath and replied, “I don’t know what else to say right now.”
“Tell me this was a mistake. Tell me we’re going to find him…” Summer’s voice was muffled by the pillows and Ryan couldn’t recall a time when he had ever seen her cry. She came close to it when they had found Marissa in Tijuana, but not even then had she shed a tear in his presence. She bit her lip and focused back on Ryan, no evidence of tears, and said, “Tell me a terrible joke or something like Seth would.”
“I’m not Seth.”
“No, you’re not,” she replied. She sat up and looked out at the pool. The moon shimmered down on it and reflected against the glass doors. She heaved a sigh, rolling her shoulders as she did, and asked, “Did you tell anyone?”
Ryan wished he could pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, but he did. It was all he kept thinking about—to tell Sandy or to let it go, to focus on finding Seth or burying him—but when she asked the question, he found himself replying, “What?”
Summer rolled her eyes and answered, “Because maybe we should.”
“There have been more important things going on the last few days.”
“Things we caused.”
“We don’t know that.”
She laughed harshly, the type she usually reserved for a loser classmate worthy of her scorn, and said, “Yeah right.” She glanced at Ryan with an angry look and went on, “Afraid it’ll be the end of your free ride if you ‘fess up to what you did.”
“What about you? You really want Marissa to find out that we were kissing and that Seth caught us. That we were the reason that Seth wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Flatter yourself much? She’s over you. She said so.”
“I know enough about girls to realize that she wouldn’t like the idea of us together though. Besides I’m pretty sure it would make you persona non grata around most of the Newport Social scene if it came out that your boyfriend died because of you.”
Summer huffed, blowing frays of her hair back off her face, but didn’t deny anything Ryan said. She folded her arms and stared off into the distance. Ryan tried to follow her line of vision, but it was as though she could see through things, see something that he couldn’t. Ryan said, “If you want me to tell them, if you really think what the Cohens and everyone else need right now is to know what we did to Seth, we’ll go tell them right now. All it’s gonna do is ease our guilt.”
“I wish.”
“It’s not the right time for this, Summer. Tomorrow morning Sandy, Kirsten, and everyone else who cared about Seth will have to find a way to accept that he’s gone. The search was ending tonight and…do you really want to make things worse? Do you think we should make it all about us?”
“I just want him back,” Summer replied. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she brushed them away immediately. She scoffed and said, “My father told me that I had to break things off with Seth and...that’s why I came here...to try and...I don’t know.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the room, never meeting Ryan’s stare, and continued, “I keep thinking he’s still out there, waiting for us to find him and prove ourselves or something.”
“Seth wouldn’t do that.”
“Probably not, but I keep hoping…” she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and laughed bitterly, “And this is so not my thing. Look at me. Crying...worrying...this is why I tried to avoid those feelings for Cohen from the start. He was a nice guy and I’m not...nice.”
“You’re not completely terrible either.”
Summer rolled her eyes again and said, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Chino.” She sighed and replied, “I don’t know why I came here.”
“It was the last place we saw him.”
“Yeah, but,” her voice trailed off and she touched the painting on the wall. She shook her head and said, “That is still the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen.”
“It is pretty repulsive, but Seth saw something in it so I’m going to hold onto it for awhile.”
“I don’t want tomorrow to come.”
“Me either,” Ryan said.
Summer pushed the last of the tears away and smiled. She smiled as though her life depended on it, as if by smiling she could erase the evidence of her tears from memory. She offered, “And you were right earlier. Now’s not the time to say anything.”
“Am I right?”
“Look Chino. One misunderstanding, one stupid mistake, has already caused so many problems. I think maybe we should forget it,” Summer stated. She waited for Ryan to respond. He could see it in the twitch of her lips. She wanted his approval, his agreement on the topic, but he wasn’t sure he could forget what happened.
He couldn’t say anything. He was never good with words and making things right. So he did what he could. He nodded his head.
Summer took that as a sign to go on, “I’ve already lost Seth. I can’t lose anyone else. That’s probably selfish and like horrible to say, but it’s true.” She traced her fingers over the outline of her reflection in the mirror and quietly said, “I don’t want this to be happening anymore. I’m not ready to let him go.”
Ryan thought of all these cheesy things he could say, things he had heard in movies and afterschool specials throughout his lifetime. He wanted to expel little nuggets like “it will get easier with time” or “he’ll always be with us.” He wanted nothing more than to offer those up, like penance, but he knew it was a load of crap. This wouldn’t get easier and Seth was taken too soon in some stupid boating accident that should never have occurred. Seth was dead and nothing would be right again. Both he and Summer had lost someone special and nothing could make that better.
He met Summer’s gaze and he knew that she wanted those trite euphemisms as much as he did. He offered his best attempt at an encouraging smile and replied, “We have to because he’s not coming back.”
She slid to the floor, her head collapsing into her knees, and said, “I know.”
That was all they said. She sat there against the wall, studying the painting and smiling at something Ryan wasn’t aware of while he laid back on his bed, pretending not to notice the weird atmosphere or the pang in his chest. He wondered what the following days would be like, if he was strong enough to not only get himself through it but also help the Cohens come to terms with things. He imagined all those stupid Newport shindigs he was going to have to attend without Seth there to make a running commentary, which always made things a bit easier. Everything was different now and, whether he and Summer ever decided to share the sordid details of the evening, he would always know that he was responsible for this.
Ryan had killed the most important person in his life. Not with his own hands, but his actions.
III. First Interlude - Where the Audience Learns Much More Than the Characters
If there was one thing Seth Cohen was never very good at it was dealing with pain. And, the first conscious thought he had as his eyes fluttered open was not “hallelujah, I survived” but “oh the pain—the horrible, terrible pain.” Seth coughed up water, spitting it out on his chest, as sunlight hit his face and blinded him. He struggled to move, but there was a throbbing sensation that emanated throughout his entire body as though it was on fire.
This was not good. This was so not good. Especially since he had no idea where he was or how he ended up in that particular location.
He grunted, exerting as much effort as he could, and managed to sit himself up and push the seaweed off of him. Seth strained his neck upward, looking for a familiar landmark that would help him get home. Home…shit. He could imagine his mother’s reaction—she was going to ground him for life, possibly kill him—if he ever managed to get out of this place.
Seth appeared to be stuck in a sand dune that was wedged between two small inlets. His options for escape seemed limited to swimming or climbing...and that was if his body was willing to cooperate. Seeing as he had nearly drowned (though how was still a mystery), there was a little thing called “not tempting fate” that Seth was going to abide by, which ruled out swimming as an option. That left climbing.
Seth looked around for any other possible escapes, taking into consideration how badly banged up he felt. Part of the problem was that Seth still had no idea where he had washed up or how it had happened – though the way his head was pounding he could vaguely acknowledge the involvement of alcohol. The only thing he was sure of in that moment was that if he stayed there, well, it would be bad. What he had to do was get further inland, wherever that was, no matter what it would do to his body. It was his only ticket to freedom and dying there was not at the top of list of his acceptable ways to die. Okay, it wasn’t at the bottom of his list either—hence the reason for getting the hell out of there.
It took five tries and a lot of “pushing through pain” and “sucking it up” (phrases his little league baseball coach would be happy to see he had not forgotten) before Seth was able to stand upright. And by upright, what he really meant was hunched over, one hand clutching his head and the other placed on his chest. He felt like his lungs would fall out if he let go of his grip.
Definitely not good.
He studied the hill, searching for a possible climbing route, and began walking carefully, using the rocks to steady himself. It felt like hours passed during the time it took him to get about ten feet off the ground—his legs were killing him and he decided this was what it must’ve felt like to get hit by a bus and live to tell the story. It was impossible to focus on anything beyond each step, beyond the moment, beyond the pain…
He told himself to think about all the good things in his life. His bed, his comics, his parents, Ryan, Summer...were they looking for him? Why the hell was he out by himself drinking? He wasn’t exactly Mr. Party Animal and Seth couldn’t imagine Ryan allowing him to wander off in a drunken stupor all by himself—the guy had a tendency to act rather big-brotherish toward Seth.
Something must’ve happened, but through the fog clouding his brain, he couldn’t think of what it was. As he searched his memory, focusing more on the how it happened rather than the how to get the hell out of it, Seth lost his footing. He rolled down the cliff and, like something out of a bad slapstick comedy, he hit every possible rock in his path on the way down…finally slamming into a palm tree at full speed. The good news? He appeared to have gotten down the hill. The bad news? He didn’t have time to think about it because, for the second time in forty-eight hours, Seth Cohen was knocked unconscious.
IV. Rebirth…Sorta
How Alexis Hardgrove found herself on that part of the beach at that specific time would plague her for months to come. She had never been a believer in fate or destiny, but surely there was some guiding force at work that led her to be on that beach right when she was needed most. Because there was no other explanation for it—like those stories of passengers who got off planes that ended up crashing—and this one moment in time had changed her life forever.
The thing that bothered her most, the cause of her sudden formulation of theories on destiny, was that she didn’t usually run in that area, usually opting for the canyons around her home, but that morning she felt compelled to run an extra few miles, as though someone was pushing her to find him.
Him. John Doe. Random battered guy at the edge of the road.
She had thought she was hallucinating at first. Surely, she was imagining things, caught up in the effects of a momentary lack of oxygen while she was running, but as she jogged closer...well, it wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her. There was a young guy, a little younger than her, sprawled out at the bottom of a rocky hill.
Alexis increased her speed and rushed over to the side of him. The only clear thought she had was that she had wished she had taken that stupid CPR class with her sister. Maybe then she’d be of some use to this guy. She touched him carefully, trying to feel for a pulse, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she noticed his chest rise and fall.
At least that was a start.
She touched him lightly on the chest, searching for any visible wounds, and jumped back when his eyes popped open. It was something out of a scary movie except than when he grabbed her hand, she wasn’t scared. It was more shock than anything. She smiled at him as he stared up at her, stumbling for the right words. She pulled away from his grip and said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, okay? You’re going to be alright. I’m going to find some help.”
She glanced around unsure where to go—this was a dead-end road and was rarely used unless it was the height of summer—to find someone to help him. A part of her was scared to leave him alone and the other part was most concerned with finding someone to help her get him to the hospital. She added, “Try not to move.”
He attempted to sit up and she placed her hands on his chest to steady him. He grimaced in pain and she immediately pulled back. She shook her head, “You shouldn’t be moving.”
“What happened?”
“I was about to ask you that question.”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded and replied, “That’s okay. There will be plenty of time to piece together—“
“No, I don’t know anything.”
“Huh?”
“My name, how I got here, what happened…I don’t know anything,” he replied, getting more worked up with each word. He clutched his head, letting out a soft groan, and coughed violently.
Alexis tried to make her voice as reassuring as possible, but her mind was reeling. These sorts of things didn’t happen in real life. She took a deep breath and said, “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about that right now. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry,” he repeated, lying back down and closing his eyes.
Alexis patted his hand and said, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
**
Alexis sat along side other random strangers awaiting news of loved ones in the hospital lounge and watched helplessly as the nurses wheeled the young man away, muttering words she didn’t understand but didn’t sound very good. The doctor had asked her for information, but she had nothing to offer. She didn’t know the guy…so why was she still there? Why was she so worried about someone she knew for all of ten minutes, most of which he had spent floating in and out of consciousness?
Alexis stared blankly ahead. She wasn’t sure how long she was there—time seemed to stop mattering at the entrance to the emergency room—before a nurse appeared. She looked at the girl and said, “Your friend is quite banged up. He has two different head wounds, one of which caused a slight fracture to his skull, and a few broken bones. But he’s going to make it.”
“Thank God.”
“He’s still in shock though.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“He’s not sure of anything at the moment, but from how badly he’s beaten up, the doctors are guessing it was a carjacking.”
“Did he remember who he was?”
The nurse shook her head and replied, “Not yet. That’s not too uncommon in cases like this. He suffered a traumatic event. The doctors will run some more tests to make sure it’s not a case of brain damage, but his memory will probably come back in its own time.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
She shrugged and replied, “Local police have been informed. The doctor let them know about his injuries and what he thought may have happened to him—the police will try to match up that information with any lists of missing persons in the area. Hopefully there’ll be a match.”
Alexis nodded although it seemed like too much to ingest. The idea of waking up and not knowing who she was…it was a frightening prospect. She could only imagine what the young man was feeling—pain, lost, scared. She asked, “Can I see him?”
The nurse nodded and motioned for Alexis to follow her. Again, Alexis couldn’t figure out what she was doing. She knew he would be okay—that should’ve been her cue to leave and allow the medical professionals to figure out the rest—but a part of her wanted to see it with her own eyes and make sure that this guy survived. Maybe it was true what movies and books led people to believe…maybe saving his life had intertwined his existence with her own.
Alexis stepped into the small room, the sounds of machines hissing in and out and light filtering in through the blinds. She hated hospitals. She couldn’t imagine anyone really enjoyed hospitals, but it was almost phobic in nature for her. Reminders of things she tried not to think about but that came rushing back with the antiseptic smells and weird noises. It was all too eerie for her liking, but she sat down next to the young man, wanting him to know that everything would be alright. It seemed like that was all she was capable of offering him—you’re gonna be okay.
She cleared her throat, unsure if she should wake him up and announce her presence, or let him sleep and sit there like some strange stalker girl without uttering a peep. His eyes opened and he turned to face her. He smiled and said, “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“You’re the only person I seem to remember.”
“The nurse told me it’s probably a side effect to whatever happened to you.”
“And if it’s not?”
“I’m sure your family will get you through this.“
“Right. Unless I don’t have any family. Then I guess I’m screwed, huh?” he replied. His voice was light and airy, but Alexis could tell he was feeling anything but. He must’ve picked up on her discomfort because he continued, “Hell, even if I do have a family, there’s still the possibility I won’t remember them. How awkward would that be?”
She sighed. She wasn’t prepared for how to handle a conversation with an amnesiac. She didn’t know what was a good topic to discuss, so she babbled. “I don’t usually run so far off the main roads—I guess it’s a good thing I did today.”
“Definitely a good thing. My blank mind and I thank you.”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. She said, “I’m Alexis Hardgrove.”
“Hi Alexis,” he replied. He pointed to the bottom of his bed where a chart hung from the frame and added, “I appear to be John Doe. It could be worse, I guess. I could be going by ‘no name’ or ‘helpless victim’ or something equally sad.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Sadder than John Doe?”
“Well, apparently Tom Cruise is taken.”
“Afraid so,” she replied. She lifted her hand and said, “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
He stared at her and she hurried back out to the waiting room. She picked up a magazine article she had been thumbing through and brought it back to his room. He glanced from her to the magazine and said, “Don’t tell me. I’m a Vanity Fair model. It makes sense.”
She smiled and replied, “Does it?”
He patted his chest and said, “It’s hard to tell with this hospital gown, but my scrawny bod is quite killer, I assure you.”
Alexis laughed and said, “As hot as that sounds, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Fair enough.”
“I remember seeing an article on a young guy who had survived an accident with no recollection of who he was…a year later his cousin sees him working at some bar. He got to officially retire his amnesiac name.”
“Amnesiac name? Is that a real thing?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it.”
“I figure since he no longer needs to go by Dave Gibbons, you could.”
“The problem with that being that I’m not Dave Gibbons.”
“True.”
“Have nothing that shows my name as being Dave Gibbons.”
“Let’s not worry about the particulars right now. It’s just a name to go by until the police find your family.”
“My family,” he sighed and glanced out the window. He said, “I keep feeling like there is a name bubbling beneath the surface, but I just can’t think of it. I try and try, but it won’t come to me.”
“It will all work out, Dave.”
He grinned and said, “It doesn’t sound too bad, all things considered.” He flipped through the pages of the magazine and held up an ad of sexy male underwear models. He asked, “And you still can’t believe that I’m a model? Dude, that’s just wrong.”
“Did you call me ‘dude’?”
He shrugged and said, “Don’t try to change the subject here. Are you saying I’m unattractive? I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t talk to a wounded amnesiac that way.”
She placed her hand on his arm and said, “I didn’t call you…you know what? Why do I get the feeling that you’re arguing for the sake of arguing?”
“I prefer banter.”
“I prefer neither.”
“Alexis, I think you’re lying to yourself about that one.”
“Dave, you need your rest.”
Dave nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment. They popped back open and he reached for her hand. What surprised her most was that she didn’t pull back, instead covering it with her own hand. He asked, “Will you be here when I wake up?”
Alexis shifted in her seat and said, “Sure.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your life, but—”
“—but I’m the only person you know at the moment,” she finished his thought. She smiled and said, “It’s okay. I’ll stay if you want me to. Besides the police have probably located your family already and you won’t need me anymore.”
He nodded again, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips, and closed his eyes. Alexis sat back in the chair, pretending to flip through the pages of the magazine while she watched his chest rise and fall. It was definitely true what they said about saving a life, because she felt completely responsible for Dave’s, or whatever his name was, recovery.
to be continued...but probably not...
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Date: 2008-11-09 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 04:57 pm (UTC)