Oliver S.C. Eston died in the disturbingly large bathtub of a rich, nameless man. He lived on the upper-east side of Manhattan, same as Oliver. This was a fun coincidence, and it would be the only fun part of the evening, and the morning after, and maybe even the rest of his life. The man had been a friend of his father’s, of course he was, only his father could tolerate such an openly sleazy man. Oliver, at the least, had friends who attempted to hide their sleaziness.
It was raining, the day the rich upper-east-sider took him in, which added to the drama of the scene. His father had just kicked him out, a heartbreaking thing for most, a regular tuesday for him. This was utterly, exceptionally sad for most people, he knew that. But at some point, you just had to lie down and take it, and stop fighting it. Oliver had gotten used to that, he was fine with that.
Usually.
Usually, he either got kicked out because his father had drunk too much and Oliver had had the sheer audacity to have his ‘mother’s eyes,’ or he would’ve run away. Because, again, his father would’ve gotten drunk and decided to beat him with no reasoning other than his existence weighing on him. This time, he was mad, it was silly to be mad, he knew that, but he was still red-hot, red-faced, furiously mad. Because the bastard had the gall to kick him out after he had beaten him. This was a very teenage thought to have, getting so worked up over a tiny detail that didn’t really change the outcome. But he had to be angry, he needed to be angry more than he needed to breathe. He was running on pure spite, he had to be angry. He’d been so angry for such a long time, and he knew that he would break-down if he wasn’t.
Oliver had met his father’s sleazy friend at an overly elaborate and expensive ball the prior week, where the meal consisted of 17 tiny courses, and the people talked in posh, aggressive, words. The man had introduced himself, which Oliver hadn’t paid attention to, and then shook his hand. The handshake was firm, the man had stared up into Oliver’s eyes with a strange knowing glint in his eyes, and slipped a card into his back-pocket when no one was looking, it had an address written on it in tiny cursive. And Oliver had known then, at that moment, that if he played his cards right, he could get the man to do a hell of a lot of things for him.
So when Oliver had been thrown out, with blood-stained teeth, glass-shards in his hair, and no place to go, he had walked the three blocks to the odd, sleazy, man’s house, and knocked on his gold gilded door. He opened the door immediately. The man was wearing a peachy-gold, fluffy robe. It was atrocious. But he was smiling, so Oliver did his best to smile back.
“Oliver!”, he exclaimed, “You came!”
“Er, yeah,” Oliver half stuttered. The glint in the man’s eyes came back. It was just so much more predatory than he’d remembered it, but it was the same. The man gestured, roughly for him to get in.
“You got a coat?”, the man asked.
“No, I-” he stopped, not really knowing what to tell him. The man raised a platinum blonde eyebrow at him, “ I don’t really have anything.”, He admitted.
“Ah, well, that’s all fine,” the man looked at him like he was something to eat, he felt like a lamb to the slaughter, “you won’t need anything while you’re here with me.”
“Oh, I’m not planning on staying long-”, Oliver tried to say, but he was cut off,
“Nonsense.” The man said, there was a sudden edge to his voice, but it disappeared the next time he spoke, “You look like you’ve been through something horrible,” he said, trying to be gentle, “Please, come in. We can talk then.”
The two men stared at each other for five full seconds, and Oliver felt like he had died and was dragged up, back into life. Again, and again, for each of the seconds he stood there. He was the one who gave in first. He sighed and walked into the building. It looked identical to his own house, trying too hard to be elegant and rich but ending up being tacky and tasteless instead. His father’s friend had moved to the bar, because of course he had a bar in his hallway, and poured champagne into two elaborately decorated glasses. His father owned the same ones, everyone in the mile radius around them, owned the same glasses. There hadn’t been an original thing in these buildings since they had been built in the mid-80s.
Oliver stared at the man, then the walls, and finally the fluffy, could-white carpet. That’s when he realized that he hadn’t put on shoes. His feet were cut up, his nose was bleeding. He was going to stain the carpet, soon.
A drop of blood fell to the carpet.
He clutched his hand to his face, covering his nose.
He mumbled an apology.
The man said something, he couldn’t understand it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, louder this time, “What did you say?”
“Would you like to use the restroom?” The man asked, “You know, clean yourself up a bit?” His voice sounded almost angry now, Oliver didn’t know why. He wasn’t particularly fond of the man, he didn’t like him. Not even a little bit, not at all. But he didn’t know if he could handle one more person disliking him. Through all his, very justified, teen angst, Oliver was still a people pleaser at heart. He thrived off of people’s approval. So he put on his best face, thanked the man, and followed him into an, once again elaborately decorated bathroom.
It was, of course, nearly identical to one of the bathrooms at his father’s house; gold and marble adorned the walls. It would’ve been pretty, it should have been pretty. But Oliver didn’t have it in himself to put his rose colored glasses back on. He stared at the large mirror in front of him. And what he saw wasn’t the tiny, scared young little child he felt like. When he looked in the mirror, his recently tear-filled eyes met an angry, 17-ish looking boy, with a bleeding gash above his eyebrow, bruises on his face and neck, and too-long hair. He smiled, something he did when he was sad, or mad, or anything that was intense and not happy. He didn’t know why he did it. It might’ve just felt good to know that he could fake ‘happy,’ even when he wasn’t, and no one would know. He smiled again, showing all his teeth, they were blood stained, he had bitten his tongue earlier.
Oliver stared at himself until his father’s friend called his name from further in the house; until the face in the mirror stopped looking like a face at all. Then, he cleaned himself up, put on his best face for the 7th time that day, and ventured back into the house. When he walked into the room the man’s voice was coming from he was met with a large couch, it was gold, of course. His father’s friend was sitting on it, man-spreading, smoking a cigar. It was such a stereotypical scene it felt like the man should’ve belonged in a very pointed political cartoon. He looked like he should’ve been the picture of a headline in a political article, `The Rich are Destroying the World,’ it would say, and it would be right. This man was a walking stereotype, any other time Oliver would’ve found this funny, but he just wasn’t in the mood for that right now. He wasn’t really in the mood for anything.
Oliver was snapped out of his thoughts by the man calling out his name and telling him to sit down. So he did, and the man offered him the glass of champagne, while sipping his own. Oliver looked down at the glass, which was not appropriate to put champagne in, down in his lap, it looked a bit cloudy, like something that wasn’t supposed to be there was in it. But he knew better than to trust his eye-sight, so he took a sip. He shouldn’t have trusted the man so much, even with this little thing. Everyone knows the rule about taking drinks from strange men, it’s simply ‘don’t.’ The champagne tasted okay, there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It tasted like nights staying up late as a child because his father needed to show off his ‘picture perfect family,’ sneaking in sips to indulge the curious child.
He shook away the memories, downing the glass. The man jumped on the opportunity like a harpy, taking his glass immediately,
“Would you like another glass?” He asked, less as an actual question, and more as a way to just tell him that he was getting another glass. He went into the other room, and came back with a new glass, this one was usually for wine, but it was filled to the brim with champagne, it was still blurry. Oliver knew he should’ve said something, just asked why it was so blurry. But the alcohol was blurring the edge of his vision, and clouding his mind. So this was fine, this was great, he actually felt okay. He drank nearly half of the new glass, but the man immediately topped it off again, at this point he didn’t care enough to be suspicious about it. Though it was suspicious, it was text-book. Something bad was going to happen. But for once, Oliver wasn’t angry, he was just tired.
He was so tired.
He wanted to be done.
His phone vibrated, it vibrated in the way it only did for one person. It pulsed, like a heart-beat. He sobered, for a brief moment.
“I’m sorry, I-” he paused for what felt like the 100th time that night, his head was reeling, his arms felt like lead, he felt like he was washed in sad fluorescent blue, “I need to go to the bathroom.” He blurted out, it came out half slurred. The world spun and came in and out of focus as he stumbled to the bathroom.
And then it hit him.
He realized that this was it, this was the end. Oliver had never died before, but here he was at 17 he was the oldest he would ever be, and he had never felt younger. His phone vibrated again, snapping him out of it. He stumbled into the bathtub, he needed to lie down, and the bathtubs in these houses could substitute for a bed. He’d learned that when his father had put cameras in his room because he was worried that he was, “sneaking boys into the room,” and he had camped out in the bathroom for a week straight. He picked up the phone.
“Oliver,” his voice breathed, almost breaking.
“Sri,” he breathed back, his voice still slurred, his breathing slowing down. He didn’t feel better. It was getting worse, “listen.” He tried, but it was too little too late.
“Oliver, are you drunk right now?” Sri spat out ‘drunk’ like it was a nasty word, like it hurt him to even say it.
“Yes, I think so,” Oliver didn’t feel like it was him talking, it was like he was watching himself from outside of his body, “Sri , something is very wrong here.” He heard himself say, clutching his hand on his temple. His skin was cold and clammy.
“What happened? Are you okay?,” Sri was throwing questions at him faster than he could answer, but finally he slowed down and said, “Do you need me to come get you?” But Oliver couldn’t hear him. He had figured it out, connected the dots. He knew what was wrong with him. Not generally speaking, but he knew why he felt like he was on death’s door.
It was because he was.
“No,” Oliver said, he’d lost enough people, a few friends, an aunt, other family, to overdose to know what was going on, “Oh my god, he slipped something in my drink.” It came out in a shouted whisper.
“What?” Sri shouted, “Oliver, please,” he pleaded, “just tell me what’s going on with you.”
“I got kicked out,” Oliver half mumbled, his fingers going numb, “he smashed a bottle on my head and threw me onto the street.” His voice broke, and he was crying, he was sobbing. And Sri was talking but he wasn’t listening; he should listen to him. Sri had always known how to make him feel better, he always said the right things, “It’s fine, I’ll be fine.” Oliver cut Sri off, he didn’t have much time left and he didn’t want to waste anything.
“You won’t be fine.” Sri said, his voice wet. But he got the point when Oliver said his name again, “Fine, fine, okay, who slipped you something? Do you know what it was? How can I fix this?” He sounded frantic, it made Oliver smile, it made him happy that someone could care so much about him. It wasn’t good to smile over this, Sri would be broken for years at the end of the night, and Oliver would be dead.
“We can’t fix it.” Oliver sighed, his lips were tinged blue, he had stopped crying, “Just talk to me, I like hearing your voice.”
“I-” Sri sounded hesitant, his voice was wet, he was still crying. Oliver could imagine what he looked like right now, he flushed a shade darker when he cried. His brown skin would be dotted by freckles, and his cheeks and around his eyes would get auburn. His eyes would glitter with tears. He would be-
“Beautiful.” He spoke without meaning to.
“What?” Sri was still crying.
“You’re beautiful.” Sri didn’t say anything, but he was crying even harder now.
“Hey,” Oliver said, trying to keep his voice happy, light.
“Hi,” Sri sobbed, half laughing through it.
There was a knock on the door,
“Oliver?”, it was the man, “Oliver are you alright in there?” His voice sounded mean, predatory.
“Yes, I’ll just be a few minutes,” Oliver called out, or at least he tried to, his vision was blurring now, his body wasn’t his anymore, “you know that I like you, right?”, he spoke back into the sopne. There was a sniff.
“Yeah, I like you too,” Sri half sobbed.
“You’re my best friend,” Oliver continued, Sri sobbing in his ear. The man’s incessant knocking on the door had become loud banging now, “And I don’t have long left.”
“I know, I know, please,” Sri sobbed, “just tell me where you are.” Oliver wished it would be that simple, he really did. But Sri didn’t know what kind of a horrible world this man lived in. He could easily ruin Sri and his family’s life with the snap of his fingers and the signing of a check.
“I can’t,” he said, “ I want to, love, I swear.” His vision was blanking out now, his eyes tried to focus one last time and then completely went blank, “I don’t have long left.”
“I know.” Sri wasn’t sobbing anymore. He just sounded small. Then he took a deep breath and started talking, “Remember when we first met?”
Oliver hummed ‘yes’, that was all he could do. The Man was screaming at him through the door now, but he couldn’t be bothered.
“You punched me, in 2nd grade, that was how I lost my first baby tooth.” Oliver wanted to reply, to say something, anything, but he couldn’t. He was completely numb, “I know that it was an accident, you wrote me a letter to apologize.” Sri sighed, “And it wasn’t because you were forced to. You just did it because you didn’t know how to apologize any other way.”
Oliver tried to laugh, the man was trying to bust through the door, he would get in soon, but Oliver would be dead before he could.
“And from then on you wrote me a letter for everything,” Sri’s voice kept getting smaller, Oliver tried to stay with him. He really did, but the world was so cold and sleep was drawing him in, “you were such a sweet kid, and you’re still such a sweet person.”
Oliver made up his mind then. He had to tell Sri.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without y-”
“I love you,” he cut Sri off.
“What?” Sri sounded confused, and a bit sad, “Yeah, man, I love you too.” Oliver groaned, half out of pain, his heartbeat was sputtering now, and half out of annoyance. He didn’t have time to explain this, he just needed Sri to get it, he just needed the man outside the door stop pounding for five seconds.
“No, Sri, listen to me, I love you.” He managed to get the words out, his lungs felt as if they were collapsing. They actually might’ve been, there was a wheeze in his breath. He wasn’t afraid of rejection, not really, he would be dead in less than 20 minutes, it really didn’t matter. He just needed Sri to know.
Outside the muffled voice of the man that killed him, though that might have also been Oliver himself and his poor judgment of character, spat that he was going to find the key. Sri sounded like he was about to cry, sob, whatever.
“Oh, god,” he sounded broken, “you really are going to die.” He was trying not to cry, and Oliver wanted to do anything he could to help. But it was hopeless, his one little error in judgment had led to his death, “I love you too,” Sri sobbed, “I’m mad about you.”
And Oliver wanted to reply, he wanted to say something, anything, he wanted to run out of here, find Sri and hug him until his arms went numb. He wanted to go out star-gazing, and eat popcorn for lunch. He wanted to meet Sri’s parents, even though they’d already met, and learn how to cook with them. He wanted to kiss Sri until the taste of the bubblegum he always chewed was permanently planted on his lips.
But he couldn’t, everything was fading now, and there was a key rattling in the door.
His heart sputtered one last lime.
And then it stopped, for good.
The door opened, a figure stood in the doorway backlit by golden light.
His chest rose and fell weakly one last time.
The last thing he heard was Sri breathing in his ear,
“I’ll miss you, more than anything.”
And then the world stopped.
