It Only Takes a Moment

Content Warning: This story contains themes of existentialism, substance abuse, and mental health that may be triggering for some readers.  

New Message

Subject: Goodbye Bella and Ryan

Hey Bell and Ryan, it's been a while since I last messaged and I’m sorry for that. I’ve been busy with work and helping out at Tina’s. Before you think I’m three days in on another week-long bender—that this is another one of those messages—I’m not. I’ve actually been clean for nearly a week now. Impressive, right? So yeah, that’s not what this is. Instead, it’s goodbye—my very last goodbye. I’m going away for good this time and I don’t think we’ll see each other again, at least not in this life. But before I go, there are some things I need to tell you, things that you should know. Words cannot express what you and Ryan meant to me and I can’t be more grateful for the time we spent together. But as you know… It only takes a moment. 

Where did it all start? I think you knew as well as I that I’ve always been a little bothered by things around me, perhaps more than most. And while I feel that was always innate, it was what I learned from my house fire that truly began my descent. It being late November, I was knee-deep in that school year’s curriculum. Turns out grade seven mathematics was tougher than the previous year (who would’ve thought?). I was on the bus ride home from school and though I had homework, I had no intention of finishing it just yet; I was mentally drained from the day and just wanted casual conversation. So me and some other kid on the bus (Luke I think) were talking about god knows what, laughing about whatever kids laugh about. I remember knowing my stop was coming up but not caring as me and Luke were just reaching another fit of laughter. That’s when I noticed kids around me began to stir and crowd along the left side of the bus. They were looking out the windows, wide-eyed as though watching some grave spectacle. Still coming off my last laugh, I said something to Luke—I can’t remember what—something that should’ve made him laugh or at least crack a smile. But the joke was lost on him, his expression was solemn as he too stared out the window behind me. That’s when I turned and saw it: my house ablaze. Firefighters would determine that the fire began in the basement just hours prior as a result of a small rodent chewing a live wire. As a kid who couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, the fire didn’t really faze me. Losing everything and having to start fresh was a tough pill to swallow but I was grateful that was all I lost. No one was hurt, that’s all that mattered. What did faze me was the aftermath… When the insurance company would try to pass our home as sanitary and safe—when, in fact, it was the opposite—and my parents would battle them for all that we were owed. The battle would rage on for roughly five years and in those five years, they’d employ every immoral, depraved tactic they could to get their way, to pressure us to sign on a house that my parents expected would one day be the death of us. As you know, we were victorious in the end… but at what cost? Time. Precious time. In that void of five years, my parents—amid their battle—had become strangers to me. We’d lost so much time that we can never get back… all because of a rat. And as I stood there on the bus, looking out the window at the chaos as it ensued, I came to a realization: that anything can happen—that one moment you could be riding the bus, laughing with Luke, not a care in the world and the next you could be watching your house burn down in front of you—and that terrified me. I realized then… It only takes a moment.   

In the wake of that tragedy, I found myself thinking about—and in-turn obsessing over—that dreadful thought: that at any given moment something could happen. From then on, every stretch of calm seemed like the proverbial “calm before the storm.” Hanging out with friends, lunchtime at school, even alone time brought bouts of anxiety that swelled in anticipation of tragedy. So I enrolled in extracurricular school activities, I started new hobbies, and when I was old enough I took on as many jobs as possible. If I couldn’t stay still then I’d keep moving, keep busy, I thought to myself. I stopped hanging out with friends and did whatever it took to escape those moments of stillness that were fatal to me. The years flew by and before I knew it, I was off to college. In that brief space of time when I first arrived in my apartment near campus I had nothing to keep me moving. I’d always wanted to get into creative writing—especially of the horror/thriller variety—so I tried writing short stories. To keep busy. But I soon found that writing was torment worse than sitting still; it involved careful examination of my deepest thoughts which always led back to the rat, the insurance battle, and how much can happen in any given moment. I realized I wanted nothing more than to forget about all of that so when I began my courses I enrolled in multiple extracurriculars, joined a couple clubs, and found a part-time job at a nearby laundromat. To keep busy. To distract. And it would work out for a while. But as you and I both know… It only takes a moment. 

I was working late at the laundromat one night when I received a call from my mom. It was about my dad. He was ill… Terminally ill. I rushed to the hospital and spoke to the doctor who’d diagnosed him. He expected he’d die by the end of the month. And I remember feeling like I was right back on the bus, watching my world burn all over again. Only this time, the flames wouldn’t be extinguished by the day’s end, oh no, they would burn for a month and I would watch it all and be just as powerless as I was that day. But you’ve heard all this before, Bella. What you haven’t heard (what I kept from you) is what I did next, the second most regrettable moment in my life: I left him. And no words could justify how wrong that was of me, to leave my father to die alone with my mother in that hospital bed. I always intended to at least see him off before he passed but I had to escape, distract, at least for the time being. But no matter how much I tried, no amount of work, school, or hobbies could shake the dread I felt. So I took to the bottle, instead. To escape. Distract. I slowly stopped attending classes and whenever my parents asked me to visit, I’d say I was terribly busy and that I couldn’t make it. I’ll see him off, at least, I thought. And though they called often, I eventually stopped picking up. The next few weeks were a blur: Bailey’s and coffee in the morning, beers or vodka in the afternoon with whoever wasn’t attending class, and shots at night—by then dozens of people would drink alongside me—then I’d pass out and do it all over again the next day. This cycle would go on until one night when I received a text from my mom: it was dad. It turns out he didn’t even last the month. He died that dreary November night while I was getting hammered at a party, trying to forget about him. I called off the party, told everyone to leave, and for the next couple weeks I’d drink alone. At this point I was at an all-time low. I usually drank in solitude but every now and then I’d venture out to one bar not too far off campus. Most other college kids frequented the more ritzy bar not too far away so the place was usually pretty empty aside from a few regulars. But that night I noticed someone new: a sad woman, drinking by herself in the corner. The woman—who it turned out attended the same college as me—was named Bella. I bought her a drink and we talked for a while. She would tell me how hours ago her friend sent her pictures of her boyfriend at a party with another woman. She would vent about him, going over the warning signs, the red flags she should've noticed. And in that moment I realized that the woman was there for the same reason as I was: to escape. Distract. We’d talk until the bartender kicked us out. Then, drunkenly, we’d stumble back to my place to talk and drink some more. Though that night was a blur, I could never forget the laughs we had, the meaningful conversation, and her—your—embrace. But above all, I remember something you said around the end of the night. We were lying in bed, the alcohol was just wearing off. 

You looked across at me and said, “Do you ever feel like stuff’s moving too fast?”

I chuckled a bit (nervously, not out of humor), “Yeah, I get that. God, do I get that.”

“Yeah?” You rolled on your side to face me. 

“My dad passed some weeks ago.”

You sat up, “Oh God… I’m sorry to hear that. How’d it happen?” 

“Hmm… the doctor would tell you it was cancer.” 

“And? What would you tell me?”

I paused and thought back to the fire, the rat, the insurance battle, and how chance holds sway over all. “I’d tell you it was random chance,” I said, and took a swig from the nearby bottle of Jack’s.

She tilted her head, “‘random chance?’”

“Shit just wasn’t in the cards for him. Bad luck.”

She furrowed her brow, “that’s a pretty morbid way to look at things, isn’t it?”

“Morbid or not, it's been my life experience. Stuff happens in the blink of an eye, things change, and the best we can do is drink away the pain.” I went to take another swig of Jack’s but you pushed the bottle away. 

“No… No, you don’t ‘drink away the pain,’ you change with it.” Though I was mad you made me spill my drink, I slowly put down the bottle and listened as you began, “look, I don’t pretend to know how the universe works but there’s gotta be some method to this madness, right?” 

“Why? Because it makes it easier to accept the bad stuff when there’s a reason for it? Because people can’t stand being ruled by random chance? And let's back up, wasn’t the whole reason you were out drinking to escape? To forget about that dickhead who cheated on you?”

You scoffed and angrily retorted, “I wasn’t there to ‘escape,’ I was there to face it! To think about it and decide what direction I wanted to take it!” And after a moment, I assume you felt bad about yelling because you looked sympathetically toward me and, after taking a deep breath, began again. “Look, maybe you're right. Maybe things happen and we have no control over anything—I don’t know. What I do know is that no matter what, we got to be here, in this moment, right now. You and I. And nothing—not death or the chaos of life—can take that away. And if you can live with that, accept that, then I can too… And isn’t that enough?” 

I thought for a moment about what you said and related it to my life. I thought about how I handled the fire, how I handled my father’s diagnosis and later death—neither of which were ‘handled,’ but instead coped with through whatever mechanisms (addictions) allowed me to forget, escape, distract. What you said, “Isn’t that enough?” replayed over in my head. And as I pondered that question—as we stared into each other’s eyes, neither one breaking focus nor advancing—I said to myself, it is enough. It’s enough to be here, right now, with no clue as to what the future may hold. It's enough so long as I have you by my side… And with that resolution, I simply nodded. And from that moment and for years to come, I didn’t care about what may happen next. I was hopeful. But, again… It only takes a moment. 

I’m telling you this now because I should’ve told you how important that night was to me, that what you said saved me from an early grave. And as I relive that night and what it led to—our love, our marriage—I realize the universe can’t be ruled entirely by chance, that there must be some level of fate. destiny. And if that’s true then I wonder: was it chance or fate that decided yours and Ryan’s deaths? Did chance determine I should receive a text right as I rounded that icy bend? Was it fate that placed that black pickup on the other side of the road, just out of view? Perhaps both. Hell, maybe neither and instead this was the work of God, his way of testing me to see if I’d fall back into my old ways—well, I guess we’re both disappointed, then. And although I’d like to pass blame on chance or fate or God, I know deep down that I was the final factor that led to your deaths. You once taught me to accept what life has given me—and despite the pain I feel in doing so—to do that I have to let you both go. And now we’ve come full circle. The reason I’m doing this—the reason I’m writing this—is because these people, these very nice people, are helping me get better. But heroin’s a tough one to kick so they’re sending me to a rehab clinic which means I’m going to be gone for a while. And I can’t keep writing to you like this, I can’t keep pretending you’re both alive. So yes, this is my goodbye—my very last goodbye. I’m going away for good this time and I don’t think we’ll see each other again, at least not in this life. Words cannot express what you and Ryan meant to me and I’m so sorry about what I did to you both. And despite whatever may happen next, whatever tragedy may befall me, I’m just so lucky I got to spend my years with you. They were the best years of my life and I can’t be more grateful for them. And as I’m sitting here in my chair, thinking back to the night we met, thinking about what you said, "isn’t that enough?” I realize that for some of the best things to occur… It only takes a moment.