Restart - An Original Novella

Chapter VII {The Heist} Part 1

I can't believe this. I can't.

Michael, with his kaleidoscopic eyes and long hair that curled around his face and a drop-dead-gorgeous smile. The one that held me close and told me he loved me and kissed me like we were the only two people in the world.

He can't be dead.

Perfection like him seems immortal.

And he was whisked away from this earth because of a car crash?

That I, of all people, survived?

Which basically sums up to everyone except me dead?

An empty, painful numbness spreads through the empty shell of my mortal body.

"How?" I whimper.

Darlene sits up, wiping the tears from her beautiful face. "Something about a faulty heart valve the doctors overlooked. I wasn't listening."

How could they overlook that? Hatred and anger bubbles up in me. Why didn't they overlook something in my body that could result in me dead instead of an angel? I knew that hospital was up to something! As if keeping me alive was a gift, instead of torturing me to live in this world. And taking everyone I love away from me and seeing how much I liked it.

Well, I hate it, thank you very much.

I sink to my knees. It's very easy to cry now. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Familiar. Darlene has done this enough times for me to recognize the warmth of her hand and the way she touches me just so. She pulls me towards her, and we weep together.

****

Tuesday, May 24th

I've thought about it overnight.

Something is wrong with all of this.

The tangram isn't whole. It's broken. And something's suspicious about how it all doesn't fit together like it should.

It all comes around to the sticky note.

Look for it. That was the message.

There's no way it could have been a coincidence. He dies two days after giving me a cryptic order? After doing everything but banishing me from his life? We had never even seen each other after my last hospital visit. And all of a sudden he contacts me and then he's gone forever?

Don't tell me that's normal.

And I'm not sure if I'm right, but I think I know where to find whatever Michael was trying to direct me to.

The only way to get there is through Steve. I can't tell him what I'm about to do. My plan has to be executed in a sly, clever manner.

Slowly, methods and gameplay strategies make their way to my consciousness.

****

Thursday, May 26th

Dinner at the Lynches is a quiet affair.

Tonight, however, I'm willing to fill the silence that usually permeates the kitchen table.

"Steve, I think I'm ready to go back home." I stuff a neat piece of diced steak in my mouth.

I practiced that line in front of the mirror. I had to execute it. It had to be perfect — the ideal combination of phrasing, word choice, expression, and tone.

And I've nailed it.

Steve looks up, a mix of surprise, pity, and compassion written all over his face. I press on after swallowing. "I've collected myself. I need to get this done. I'm ready to leave this place forever."