FicWad

It felt like someone decided to wake him up by opening his temple with a jackhammer. He groaned, shifting within the mess of covers and blankets that his bed became during the evening and well into the night. He attempted to bury his head beneath the pillows to escape the feeling, but it was futile; the noise that was so easily tearing into his head continued, unrelenting and merciless like an angry animal mother. He groaned again, somewhat louder, but then suddenly the noise was cut off and he heard a voice that seemed to swim into his head and echo off itself. It sounded so, so loud.

He could not remember much of anything that happened yesterday. Everything was either a blur or completely black; he really managed to do a number on himself. The swimming voice came closer, it seemed, and it grew louder, but then stopped suddenly. He was tapped on the shoulder and heard a whisper he could not quite make out. He lifted his head from under his pillow and the whisper was repeated, this time clear enough for him to make out. It still seemed to swim within his head, though, like the shellshock voice effects always portrayed in war movies.

"C'mon, big guy, up."

He opened his eyes, blinked repeatedly to remove the blurring, and then made out the still somewhat hazy appearance of his cellphone, the glowing blue screen and numbers the most light within his room. It was painful to even look at such a dismal amount of light. It was open and directed towards him.

"Wha?" He slurred. He realized how bad his mouth tasted. He resisted the urge to vomit. He hated to throw up, completely dreaded the very idea.

"Don't make me turn the lights on to get you moving. In your condition, I wouldn't be surprised if they killed you," she attempted humor. At least, what he hoped was humor. He felt like it could be a possibility. "Grab the phone I'm holding out for you. Someone named Bob."

He reached out and grabbed the phone, covering the light with the palm of his hand so he wouldn't have to stare at its painful glare. He held it up to his ear.

"Bob?" Matt asked. He sounded extremely hungover. "Nnnnot too lowed, kay?"

"Matt? Are you alright? Whose that with you?" Bob asked quietly, not bothering to hide his concern.

"I'm... I'm not good, Bob," Matt said slowly. His head was killing him and his body ached. He wanted to head back to sleep. "The gurl with me is Marrryyyy. Shhe drove me home."

"What happened, Matt? What the hell happened?"

"I don't exactly remember, Bob. Fuck, my head hurtsh."

A few moments of silence and then Bob told him, "I'm coming over. Put Mary back on."

Matt signed and held out the phone for Mary. "Fer you again."

She took the phone and for the first time, as the blue light from the small screen passed over her body, that she was only in her underwear. He dimly wondered what exactly happened last night. Then he put his head back on his pillows and fell asleep within moments.


Bob was there within fourty five minutes, knocking urgently on the door until Mary answered, dressed in only one of his shirts and her underwear the bottom of his shirt just barely covering her panties. Bob was highly startled but, being the professional manager that he was, hid it and said nothing. He was too worried about Matt to bother with anything else at the moment. Not even bothering to remove his shoes, he made his way to Matt's room, leaving Mary at the doorway; Bob had been in Matt's house on multiple occasions and knew his way around well enough for it to be a second home. He had to pass the living room on the way to Matt's bedroom and the room had completely reeked of alcohol.

"Matt?" Bob whispered as he walked into the dark bedroom. The window, although shaded, still allowed enough midday light for it to appear twilight in the room, allowing a glimpse of Matt's vague outline tangled among the blankets. He was curled up in a nearly full fetal position. Bob's heart gave a painful throb.

The shape shifted and a slurred, slow voice responded. "Bob? I'm shorry. I'm sho... so sorry."

"It's alright, Matt," Bob told him kindly. "You didn't do anything wrong, buddy."

"B-bullshpit. I can't even remembah wut I did yesshterday. So damn drunk."

Mary walked in and went to the edge of the bed and kneeled down, eye level with Matt. "Sweetie, you id nothing wrong. I made sure of it."

His eyes traced her frame, her soft skin and cute face. His eyes finished their exploration and he locked with her eyes. Mary could see pain within the bloodshot, red eyes and swollen eyelids. It seemed to scream at her. "We didn't end up. . . we both didn't. . ." He couldn't finish his sentence.

"Have sex?" She asked him, bluntly. A tease of a smile showed up on the left side of her lips. "No. Drunk sex sucks, so I hear." The tease broke into a full smile and she winked at him.

He nodded and then felt like he was about to vomit, so he simply swallowed repeatedly, fast. He hated throwwing up as it is, but to do it in front of people he knew was even more humiliating.

Bob ran his hands through his own short blonde hair, thinking. "Do you remember what set you off so badly, Matt?"

Matt grew incredibly quiet. His face clouded over, his eyes grew distant. His head was killing him and it was a bad idea to think, but he tried, anyway. He couldn't remember. Or maybe he just did not want to remember. "Something... something with Sophie, I'm pretty sure. I think... Oh... Oh God."

He remembered enough and wanted to go back to sleep, but he owed Bob and explination, as well as Mary. He looked at the two and felt a tear slip down his face. He would not allow any more tears, not in front of them. He doesn't need pity.

"I remember... I saw a magazine... Had 'n inverview with Sophie... She has a kid, Bob. The last four months I spent with her, she was pregnant. She never told me." He paused. The truth was going to hurt like a bitch. He shut his eyes tightly, as if he could hide from it by refusing to look. "She cheated on me, Bob. She fucking... she fucking cheated."

Both Bob and Mary were silent, unsure of what to say. Matt groaned ever so slightly and attempted to get up in a sitting position but only succeeded in raising his back slightly and resting on his elbows. He eyed them both from sunken and dark sockets but horrifyingly clear eyes. He was always told how beautiful his eyes looked, but one ever saw them when they were full of tears. They were even more clear and seemed alive. The window to his soul, wide open for all to see. He felt so hurt, sick and shamed. His manager, one of his best friends, was seeing him at his possible worst, as well as the kind stranger Mary. He was better than this, damn it. Man the hell up.

"Bob, did I have anything planned? I'd... rather not be leaving my house today."

"Nothing today, Matt," Bob told him softly.

"Good... I think I need more sleep."

"Sure thing, Matt. I'm going to be hanging around for a bit, just in case you need anything, alright?"

Matt nodded and let himself slip back into laying on his back, then shifted to his side, facing towards them. He looked at both in turn, then attempted to smile.

"I'm sorry that happened, Matt," Mary told him. "And the way you learned it..."

He nodded and let himself fall back asleep. Bob gently tapped Mary's shoulder and led her out of the room, shutting it quietly behind them.

"I have no clue who you are, but I have to thank you. You probably saved his life. I'm not a religious man, but I do believe in fate, and I think that was what's at work," Bob confided in Mary.

She smiled softly, and Bob was wondering how exactly nothing happened between her and Matt. She's a young, adorable girl. "I'm Mary Obligowsker. I never realized how much of his story was the truth. I kept wishing the guy in the story would end up happy. The ending made me cry. I never would have guessed my favorite author was this tormented."

"One of the first thing any author is ever told is this: 'authors write best about what they know.' Now, was there somewhere you had to be today? You don't have a car outside, so I'll give you a ride if you need one."

She shook her head, short brown hair blouncing. "Not today. I'd rather stay here to make sure he's safe, anyway."

Bob looked at Mary and wondered for the first time about her age. He was both hoping and guessing late teens. "How old are you, Mary?" He decided to ask bluntly.

She visibly brightened. "You know it's not very polite to ask a girl her age."

"Very true," Bob responded, "And I'm sure my mother is absolutely rolling in her grave right now at my lack of manners, but if you could forgive me for being curious..." He smiled good-humorly.

She smiled back. "Alright, I forgive. I'm nineteen."

"Did you drink with him? You don't appear hungover."

"I had enough to manage a slight buzz, but I stopped myself; I was here to make sure he did nothing too stupid, not get stupid with him. I did not want to have him regret anything later, besides a massive hangover."

"Or yourself," Bob added.

She smiled, "I highl doubt having sex with my favorite author would be something to regret."

Bob laughed, not expecting such an open answer, before growing silent and asking, "So, would it be impolite to ask where your clothes went?"

Mary laughed. "It was highly uncomfortable sleeping in them. They should be resting on the dryer in his laundry closet."

"Right," Bob said.

The pair lapsed into a silence they were attempting to avoid. The silence brought with it the reality of the situation. Where are the rose colored glasses when you really, really need them? Tinted to near blinding darkness.

"His book is more truth than fiction, isn't it?"

Bob sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing her temples. "Heartbreaking, isn't it? He started it as a blog on a creative website. Someone anynomous to this day had loved it and actually convinced him to keep writing it. Most of his analogies were actual bloggings,as well, before he added them into the novel."

"Wow," Mary muttered. "To think he wouldn't have decided to write the entire thing without the encouraging of a stranger?"

"Yeah. The chance of a lifetime was nearly passed up. Its kind of frightening to think about. When he first tried to get it published, it still surprises me how a few of his first picks for publishers flat out refused him based solely on age and lack of experience. Everyone has to start sometime."

"I really love his style. There's only one other author I know that reads like him. Have you ever heard of Larry Buvilic?"

Bob casted a glance at Matt's door and then back to Mary. "Heard of him? I work with him. Hell, he's sleeping in the next room. I expect you to tell no one."

"Wait, you're telling me that Larry Buvilic is a pen name of Matt's? Seriously?"

"The story Matt wrote as himself and the story he wrote as Larry are two completely different genres. They both become very well first sellers. The second time they were re-printed, it wasn't the title of the story that was the biggest print, but his name in each. It was his idea from the start."

"When did he write the other? I can't see him writing Four the same time as Nothing Good About Goodbye. Completely different everything."

"He was finishing it when Sophie left him, actually. Did you notice the slight dip near the end? For a first time writer, he was eerily good at concealing his emotions from his work."

Another silence. Reality crept in like an unwelcomed guest.

"How much did he end up drinking?"

"More than enough, but slightly less than where he'd require medical attention. I know enough about alcohol poisoning to keep it from happening, but he really wasted himself like a pro. At least he's a happy drunk. Emotional, though. Not that it's a bad thing."

"Emotional is one of the many definitions of Matt. There's a whole list, actually," Bob chipped in.

"So, her name's Sophie?"

"Yeah, and a well known Sophie, at that. They both became at least somewhat recognized as influencial to an extent. Kinda funny how life works."

"Dunno any Sophies off the top of my head."

"Doesn't really matter, I suppose," Bob admitted.

A few moments of quiet passed and then Sophie asked, "Do you think he's alright in there?"

Bob walked to Matt's door, knocked gently, and then opened it. He quietly walked to where Matt was sleeping like a rock and just listed for a few moments. Matt's breathing was strong and slow, but he completely reeked of alcohol, as if he took a bath in it. Bob walked out a few moments later, hiddenly heartbroken at seeing the author - not only his client, but a great, great friend - in such a state. He closed the door and smiled convincingly at Mary.

"He's fine, just smells a little of alcohol, no need to worry too much. Are you sure I can't drive you home?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I want to make sure he'll be alright," she told him, smiling.

"If you're sure," Bob cast a glance at his watch. "Have you eaten? I'm pretty confident he wont mind me cooking up something."