The Last Time We Say Goodbye✅

CHAPTER 2

This chapter is dedicated to Sarahtreasure . THANKS for being the first reader to comment on this story.

AUSTRALIA

"Jesus!” The loud shriek of shock sprang out of Tristan White’s throat like a battle cry.

“Hah!” His heart and throat launched into another round of wailing.

Oh my God! What am I seeing?   

His heart constricted, his stomach doing a belly flop as the hot cup of coffee in his hands dropped and splashed on the floor.

His feet which now seemed unable to move, burnt from the hot beverage that spilled on it.

This is not happening to me. It can’t be happening. This is a dream. An episode from The Supernatural.    

Uncle Fletcher couldn’t do this to him. He told himself. His uncle loved him so much that he wouldn’t do this to his twenty-two years old nephew who came to spend the holidays with him. No. He won’t.

“He won’t do this to me!” Tristan howled. He stood at the door of his uncle’s bedroom, watching his uncle, who lay on the floor of his bedroom, dead as a doornail.

“No!” Tristan’s heart tore into shreds. “No!” His knees hit the floorboards.

“No!” His vocal cords nearly tore apart. His uncle, his only relative left on earth had stopped breathing. Not as a result of old age or a sudden heart attack but from suicide. The deliberate murder of oneself. His favourite person in the world ended his own life.

Chill bumps broke across his arms and crept into his heart.

At the centre of the room, where Uncle Fletcher lay, a gun was beside him and a bullet rested in the temple of his head. In one of his hands was a note. His suicide note, obviously. I won’t read it! Tristan’s mind yelled. I won’t read it! Wicked bastard. He killed himself without caring about me, without thinking of me. He didn’t stop to wonder how this would affect me for the rest of my life. Selfish bastard. I won’t read his final words. Let him and his suicide note burn in hell.

“Burn in hell!” He shouted as a sea of tears poured down his cheeks.

“Burn in hell!” The tears flowed nonstop, blurring his vision. I’ll punish him and not read his final words. I’ll not read it. Never ever read it. What does he want to say in the note? I’m sorry? I’m sorry that I murdered myself? Tristan shook his head. No apology could fix what his uncle has done. No begging could heal the wound his uncle has created within him. No pleading could make him understand why Fletcher did this. Hence, he won’t read that note. However, the part of his mind that still adored Fletcher kept tempting him to step into the room and read the note.

No. I won’t. I won’t go and read it. I won’t!

He had loved his uncle, Fletcher like a father and he believed Fletcher loved him like he was his son. But what Fletcher just did wasn’t what any good father would do to their son. No good father would do this! No father who cherished his son would put a bullet in his head knowing the trauma his would go through, being the first person to find his cold corpse. Tristan sobbed. After his parents and his grandparents died, Fletcher raised him and in all that time, Tristan assumed they shared a bond. A special bond that only fathers and sons shared however, at this point, Tristan could see clearly. It was only him who felt that bond. All that familial feelings had been one-sided. I was in desperate need of someone to call ‘father’ and so, Fletcher stepped in, just to please me and not out of genuine love.

He backed away from the room. Wiped the tears on his cheeks, with his hands trembling like a corncob in a hurricane. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled 911. Less than twenty minutes later, the house was packed with cops and cleaners, while Tristan sat on the floor of the living room all bundled in a thick blanket and shaking like the grounds of California must have done during that horrible 1989 earthquake.

“I’m so sorry, Tristan” Megan, one of Fletcher’s close friends that was a lesbian and also a police officer said. “If there’s any way I can be of help-” She raised her hand to touch him, but he shifted his body “don’t hesitate to call me”.

She stayed by his side, obviously expecting him to say something but he didn’t. He simply remained silent in the protection of his blankets and continued shivering.

“Should I call a doc…?”

“Don’t call anyone. Just leave” His voice, came out weak “tell everyone to leave” He said and clenched his eyes, despite that, he still felt the warm trickles of tears squeeze out of his eyelids and run down his face.

“I want to be alone” He whispered.

Then he heard Megan telling everyone to hurry up so that they could give the bereaved a chance to mourn. Ten minutes later, Tristan was alone in his uncle’s home. And for the next few hours, he maintained his position on the floor of the sitting room, weeping and juddering.

What made Uncle Fletcher kill himself?

What prompted him to commit suicide?

Recalling the previous night, his uncle showed no sign of worry or anxiety. Did he obtain a bank loan and now found it difficult to repay? What! His mind screamed. What pushed him to do this? He jumped on his feet like a swarm of bees was headed for the spot he was sitting on. He lifted the glass flower vase on the table in the centre of the room, and hurled it. “What!” He yelled. His hands shook. What made him do it? What made Fletcher end his life?

His blood started burning up with fury. Intense fury. Mad anger. He carried the glass stool beside him and flung it “What!” The stool landed halfway across the room, with the glass on it, shattering.

He looked up at his uncle’s bedroom. That’s where I’ll find my answers. He thought. That’s where I’ll know what pushed him. Swiftly, he raced on the stairs and barged into Fletcher’s bedroom. Come rain or shine, he would find the reason behind his uncle’s suicide. He would know what pushed him over the edge and made him feel as if death was the only way out.

He lifted Fletcher’s bedspread. Pushed his bed from the bedstead. And with a mighty strength that Tristan would not have been able to explain the source of, he turned the heavy wooden bedstead upside down. Pushed it out of his way. And started searching the bed for any cuts through which his uncle may have hidden a bank loan document. He tapped every area and found no sign of anything hiding in the bed. He headed for the wardrobe, threw out the shoes and clothes.

He marched to Fletcher’s bookshelf. Lots and lots of books on Archaeology graced the shelf. Within any of these books, especially the large ones, the document could be within it. One after the other, he flipped the pages of each textbook. Once he finished flipping through, he flung the book across the room until he reached the final book on the shelf. Expecting to find what he was looking for within this book, however, at the end of its five hundredth page, he obtained nothing. Only jottings of what his uncle had been reading.

“Where is it!” He banged the shelf. “Where’re you?” He hit the side of the shelf and unknowingly pushed it. Exhausted, he sat on the floor and started weeping again. What! His soul cried. What made Fletcher hurt me this terribly? For ten years, he tried being a good son to his uncle who also had no one, no wife or kid. What happened? What pushed him to do this? Then he heard a sound from above his head on the wall.

He looked up and watched the bookshelf he hit, slid to the right. Wow. He never knew that there was anything behind the shelf. He stood up. And looked at the hidden compartment. He tried pulling the handle but it didn’t open. Beside the metal handle, was a set of buttons to punch in the password. The letters of the English alphabet was on it. Tristan didn’t think twice, he knew what his adoptive father would have used as his password. So, he punched in his name: T-R-I-S-T-A-N.

Two seconds later, the mini-door of the wall compartment opened and life as it used to be for Tristan White changed drastically forever.