Famous musician, Cory Hartley, has plans to end his own life. When rekindling an old flame that never died, Cory finds himself at a crossroads, as he copes with the traumatic death of his best friend. Forced to face the past that's haunted him for a...
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Cory had rewritten it several times—no matter how he phrased it, he always ended up with the same note.
He didn't want to blame anyone for this; it wasn't anyone else's fault but his own. This was Cory's decision—no one else.
He was taking his own life—into his own hands. No longer would Cory Hartley be taking orders and letting anyone control his life—not even Aidan.
There he went again.
Cory cracked his neck, then his knuckles before dropping the ballpoint pen onto the piece of paper. The song "Know You're Right" by Nirvana blared throughout the large empty house as Cory made his way back for another drink.
The point of the note was to give reason; the reason being that this was for no particular reason—just a lot of small reasons that had compiled over the course of his life.
The hopelessness had snuck up on him; Cory hadn't seen it coming—not really.
The point of leaving the note behind was to give everyone he knew solace; to take full blame for his actions, to bare sole responsibility. This was Cory's decision—the only part of his life that he could control.
The only problem with this, however, was that every time Cory tried to explain his reasons, he found himself blaming the circumstances to which brought him to this point.
The issue with that, was that those circumstances always led back to one event—back to one person.
Cory wanted (needed) to keep Aidan out of this. This wasn't Aidan's fault—he was no longer alive to speak for himself; but he was the one who had put Cory on this trajectory, there was no denying that.
The night terrors, the insomnia—the insomnia that led to the night terrors; it had become exhausting. The fear that invoked Cory's every thought each time he let his mind wander too far.
Each time he thought he could breathe again, he was suddenly blindsided with panic that would strike him down no matter where he was at the time it decided to rear it's ugly head.
Cory found that he wasn't good enough—perhaps Aidan had been right after all.
Cory looked to the pill bottles lined neatly in a row on the counter next to the crystalized tumbler of whiskey. All had been prescribed by a questionably verifiable doctor. He knew not to take them all at once—to space out the doses in order to get the job done.
He couldn't let this fail; he couldn't stomach looking like an idiot when being hauled off to the nearest hospital to have his stomach pumped.
Cory's 30th birthday was right around the corner, and though he'd never be able to join that infamous "27 Club," it would be nice to never have to see 30.
The thought prompted an image of Alida's face—the way she smiled the last time he saw her walking down the sidewalk from across the street.
He wondered who had been on the other end of that call; if it was a boyfriend—a husband. Alida would be 27 now; she'd be 28 in the coming month of July.
Cory wondered what Alida would think; if she'd care at all when his death made headlines. He had taken so much from her, it seemed pretty reasonable for her to be grateful he could no longer have the power to take anything else away from anyone—ever again.
It pained Cory more than anything that death had taken the wrong life—that Alida had to suffer such consequences because of him.
He loved her—more than anything, Cory still loved her. It was unfathomable that after 10 years, Cory's heart still ached at the thought of her.
He nearly convinced himself that he didn't anymore, that what he felt was simply a reminiscence of his first taste of love.
The moment Cory realized that his persuasions had been an absolute delusion, was when seeing her again. The mere sight of Alida trigged emotions deep within himself that he forgot even existed.
He wanted to run to her—he wanted to tell her how empty life had been without her, and how badly he wanted to make up for the time he'd lost with her.
You don't deserve her.
The voice echoed, causing that elated smile on Cory's face to shape shift into saddened defeat.
Alida was happy—he could see it—the last thing he wanted was to take that away from her too.
Cory had to take the blame—this was ultimately his decision, and his alone. He realized that while writing his final goodbye; he didn't care what anyone else thought—his note was only meant to be seen by one person; he didn't much care for anyone else—he didn't care enough to give them solace.
He had to tell her the truth—he had to tell her how sorry he was. Cory had to confess to Alida the reason—the real reason—he had taken off after the accident.
Cory needed to confess his feelings before he could let go. He needed her to know that he wished things had been different; that he would give anything to change the past to see where their lives would've ended up together.
Cory knew this was unfair—he knew that leaving a note addressed to Alida would forced her into a spotlight; but Cory had to come clean.
Cory had to tell the truth—he had to tell Alida that he was responsible for Aidan's death.
With this revelation, Cory slides his phone out from his pocket, reaching out to his old assistant; one of the many he had fired within the last year.
All he needed was an address, and he would be on the first flight back to his hometown in Upstate to give Alida a proper goodbye—before he could let go.
