Most days, it was near impossible for River not to hate himself. He was a mess of a person, never in the same mood for more than an hour, leaving a mess everywhere he went. Some days, he felt as though he was making progress, or maybe not doing a terrible job getting through the day. Some days, he felt as though he was moving in reverse. It was difficult to remember the little things, although he’d been told it was important. I got out of bed today. I pet a dog. I stayed calm when I was upset. He’d taken to starting the day with affirmations - a task given to him by his therapist, who did her best to understand. There was no way for River to survive without the imitation of others. Since moving in with Salem, he’d taken to witchcraft and music and leaving the house. When he lived alone, he had no idea what kind of person he was.
The house was quiet when he was home alone. Being alone was either very dangerous or very calming, and there was never any telling which day would be what. He was dizzy, and blamed it on not having eaten all day. River couldn’t cook, and Salem was never home for dinner. Eating alone was lonely and uncomforting.
As a child and teenager, Zina was River’s safest person. When she moved out, he felt a sense of emptiness that could be filled only with abstract art and cigarettes. He felt embarrassed and stupid, to be an adult man with no sense of himself beyond somebody else. People in the church community had said many things about River, and he used to think all of these things were true. River had never meant to be emotional, or destructive, or hateful. After lashing out at somebody he loved, he woke up feeling empty and guilty.
In his early twenties, River fell in love for the first time after meeting a girl at an art gallery. It was frightening and intimidating to fall for someone, and it took River nearly no time at all. Her name was Alexandra, and she loved art and philosophy. River’s friends thought she was pretentious, and maybe she was. Their relationship ended when, after River confessed he had no interest in sex, Alexandra strayed, and later admitted this to him over cups of coffee and bagels. In relationships, he spent most of his time trying to be someone who was worth being loved, and this never seemed to make a difference. At some point, he’d learned to give in. It always meant more to be loved than to be comfortable.
It was hard to be productive when you were alone. While River made his way through his flat of beer, he sat in front of the easel he’d had since teenagehood. As a kid, he’d painted a picture of a flower and a sunset, and he’d been quite proud of it. When he brought it to his mother, she’d tossed it straight into the garbage, telling him to focus less on stupid hobbies and more on studies. After that, he didn’t paint anything for years.
On the easel, he painted a nameless woman - one of his exes, or a woman he dreamed of meeting someday. It seemed hard to believe he’d ever fall in love again. It seemed even harder to believe there was a woman out there who’d fall in love with him. You’re worthy of love and happiness, his therapist had said once, as if she expected him to believe it. It was dark. Salem worked twelve hour shifts, five days a week, and oftentimes more. In the absence of somebody he loved, River often forgot they ever existed at all. It was hard to focus, and River’s head pounded as he tried to paint. The basement of the townhouse was cool and comforting - but River sweated through his clothes, and didn’t know why.
Like most people, he was comforted by music. He listened when he painted, though the neighbours lived close and complained if he was too loud. Growing up, he was sheltered from most types of music: and most types of media in general. Moving out brought both a sense of freedom and a terrifying sense of emptiness. Adulthood had once seemed so far away and exciting, and children were stupid.
“What do you think happens when you die?” he’d asked Zina once, when they still lived together. It was expected of them growing up to believe what they were told without question, and River had, for many years. As an adult, he’d spent more time questioning life than doing much of anything else.
“That’s easy,” said Zina, who’d always been decisive. “The good go to Heaven, and the evil go to Hell.”
Sometimes, the words out of other people’s mouths left River disgusted and baffled. Others would likely say the same about him. “You still believe in Heaven and Hell? That’s stupid.”
She wasn’t one to let the words of others get under her skin. Unlike River, Zina knew her worth, even if it took her a little to remember it sometimes. She’d shrugged, “Okay, then, smart guy. What do you think happens?”
River wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but he was smart enough to know that there was no life after death. “Nothing, Dumbass. You die, and that’s it.” He never meant to be rude. Sometimes, it was just too much effort to filter himself. Some of his siblings had learned not to take his attitude personally. Many others had not.
It took a lot for River to get drunk. He had his first drink on his eighteenth birthday, with the friend he was living with at the time. He’d enjoyed the escape and the ease that came with alcohol, but now sometimes regretted having ever tried it at all. It was chilly and very dark when he set down his paintbrush, and he’d had a lot to drink. The lines of the painting were shaky and jagged; his hands were shaking badly. “You should go see a doctor,” Salem had said, not too long ago. “Are you losing weight for no reason, or do you just not eat?”
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It was half past midnight. River was lightheaded and dizzy, and picked up his phone, which was old and cracked from the times it had been dropped or thrown.
“Here, I painted this for you. It’s you.”
One of River’s ex-girlfriends had told him about love languages. At first, he’d thought it to be a stupid concept. River wasn’t good company. He wasn’t affectionate, or touchy, or empathetic. But he loved to paint, and he loved to give gifts to the people he cared about. These days, there weren’t many people that deserved to be loved by him - because, despite River’s eccentric mood swings, he could love a person harder than they’d ever been loved before.
The taxi driver was an elderly, white haired woman. River didn’t take a lot of taxis. On the rare days he left the house, he’d usually wander until ending up somewhere completely unusual. “River?” said the driver, hanging a cigarette out the window. He didn’t have a lot of money. Nothing he got ever lasted long.
He was far too drunk to leave the house. Grumbling, he threw himself onto the back seat. “Sleeping Tulip.” It wasn’t uncommon for him to feel irritable, but he seemed to be grumpier than usual tonight. Sleeping Tulip was a small bar that was always overcrowded. That night, there was karaoke and bingo, as there was every Thursday. When River approached the door, he heard pounding music and laughter of patrons, and stumbled to the bar. “Black Russian.”
They should have known him by now. The bartenders were dressed well, tidy uniforms and name tags. River had worked briefly in the service industry, though never at a restaurant, and never as a bartender. “Need my ID? Here.” It was a slim card, off-white and bent at one corner. River never meant to be destructive. He simply was.
At the bar next to him, a beefcake of a man yelled at a young bartender. When a man slid a cup across to River, he gave him a pointed glance. “Don’t you have anything better to do than yell at a bunch of nineteen year olds?” He was guessing on the ages. Like himself, many people looked younger than they were. “Sit the fuck down, dude.”
River made stupid decisions. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t win in a fist fight - especially not against a man three times his size. Drunkenness brought out a rowdy and dangerous side of him. The bartender glanced at him, looking confused and grateful, getting to work on a different drink.
The bar stools were black and spongy, leaving little room for personal space. The beefy man turned to River, sweeping a hand across the counter of the bar. “What the fuck did you say to me? You look like you’d fly away if a strong gust of wind hit you the wrong way.” It was very hot, and very damp, and very loud. Attempting to pick up his glass for another drink, River found his arm numb and tingling.
“You heard me, asshole. If you have a problem, maybe take it up with management instead of harassing people who’re just trying to do their job.” It was hypocritical of him to say. He’d gotten irritated with service workers thousands of times. He took a big gulp, enjoying the burning feeling at the back of his throat. Finishing the rest of the vodka drink, River waved down a server. “Black Russian.”
There was a crowd gathering round. With the flashing of the lights, and the pounding of the music, and the stabbing pain engulfing River’s head, he wasn’t all too certain what happened. The big man yelled, and River yelled things he couldn’t quite hear over the blurriness behind his eyes. It was stupid to provoke an angry, buff man. It was stupid to do anything at all.
Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight.
River was angry. Even in his mid-twenties, he hadn’t learned to regulate his own emotions. Picking up his empty glass, he threw it loudly at the man’s head.
"Never back down from a fight,” Orion said, when River and his brothers were roughhousing. “Backing down shows you’re weak, and no son of mine will be weak.”
The man threw the first punch. There was a stinging in River’s eyes, and then blood pooled on the counter in front of him.
If little River met his twenty-five year old self, he would have been so disappointed to see what he’d become. Anybody who met River ought to have been disappointed by him. He could have made something of his life: gotten a job, or a wife, or some stability. Twenty-five was still young, but it felt as though he was running out of time to get his life sorted out.
Someone handed him a rag. When the crowd dispersed a little and River’s head stopped spinning, he lifted it from the countertop. “Hey, Salem.”
His brother was unimpressed, and probably had been in the middle of something when he got interrupted. “Did you come here just to start a fight?”
“No.” He felt childish now, to admit the real reason. He rarely had a good reason for anything. There was a throbbing in his nose. The rag would become full rather quickly. “I was bored. When will you be home?”
There was a scuffle at the back of the bar. River was wasting everybody’s time. Salem sighed. “When I’m home.”
Even being drunk wasn’t enough these days. River turned to the counter. “Can I get another Black Russian?” He spoke with a slur, startled by the sudden tingling in his cheek. It wasn’t painful. River found it difficult to speak.
“No.” Salem took the rag from River, though his nose still bled. “No more drinks. You were probably already drunk when you got here.” He watched, for a moment, the twitching of River’s cheek, the gibberish coming out of his mouth. “What’s wrong with you? Are you having a stroke?”
River couldn’t speak. He tried. All he could manage was a few brief incoherent phrases. As the pounding behind his eyes picked up again, he fell off the stool and onto the sticky floor.