TITLE - i belong to the hurricane LOCATION - Rowan’s apartment TRIGGERS - blood, broken bones, generally triggering and unhealthy response to grief. SUMMARY - i hope you’re all very pleased with yourselves look what you did to Rowan.
Frozen.
The exact moment when life takes an unexpected lurch- the same moment he’d pondered when he’d reunited with Ben earlier in the week. A completely normal moment now seared into his memory. The cigarette that had been clutched between his fingers fell limply as he stared at the offensive headline- on his Facebook feed of all things- that proclaimed Celia Santos to be dead.
Minimizing the window, Rowan dialed Celia’s contact number. He’d thought himself clever- Celia and Monty fondly IDed as satan santos and saint santos respectively- now it just made a cold stone of dread drop in his stomach, thinking of the devil and an end met by fire. It’s not true. He told himself, lurching to his feet as he began to pace. It’s some fake headline, she probably paid for it herself- anything to be the center of attention.
(The hateful words rang hollow in his mind, but like every other negative event or emotion in his life Rowan denied it.)
Celia’s ringtone sounded in his ear and he listened to her voicemail impatiently, ignoring the part of him that hesitantly wondered if it would be the last time he’d ever hear her voice.“Celia.” Rowan snapped after the beep, his voice sounding worried even to his own ears. “I know last time we hung out was weird but this isn’t a joke. Answer your fucking phone.” He smashed the end button aggressively, still pacing from his kitchen to the living room couch and back. In his mind he could see her smirking as she hit ‘Ignore’- he could also clearly picture a sheet covered body being removed from the smoking ruins of one of Blur’s back rooms. He felt as if his lungs were constricting.
He made it nearly thirty seconds before he hissed a filthy curse word under his breath and began to redial Celia’s number. “I’m fucking serious Celia, this isn’t funny and it isn’t cute. If you really fucking did this without telling me then you’re exactly the kind of goddamn sociopath everyone ever said you were, and you can lose my number.” His voice was trembling more than threatening, and he couldn’t bring himself to care how weak it made him seem.
Please, she can tell everyone she meets about Nathalie and I, just as long as she’s here. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t-
A subconscious barter with a god Rowan didn’t even believe in.
This time he called back immediately, and his voice came out as a hoarse sounding shout. “Celia, answer your goddamn phone!”
She couldn’t be dead.
He dialed again, not bothering to leave a message this time.
She’d just been there, less than twenty four hours ago.
He dialed again, the ragged sound of his own breathing echoing hollowly between the rings.
She didn’t seem like the kind of person death could touch.
He dialed again, shouting another curse as her voicemail began.
Please don’t be gone.
He dialed again, hand shaking. “Celia please.” He’d be embarrassed about the tremble to his voice later, if he was wrong. “Please. Just answer the phone. I’m begging you. I’m literally begging you. Please. Just answer the phone.”
Please, please no. Please answer Celia, please. Please don’t be gone.
He dialed again, his vision beginning to blur. “You win. You fucking win, you can tell everyone what a little bitch I am and laugh about how scared I was, just- just answer the phone. Please. I’m saying please Celia, you know how often I do that.”
He dialed again.
Rowan threw his phone across his apartment, barely noticing the dent it left in his wall or the way it shattered into several pieces. Everything he was seeing seemed very distant to him- like the Rowan who had been sitting on his couch mindlessly scrolling social media had suddenly departed and he’d been inexplicably left in his place. A low, ragged sound was building deep in his chest, a wordless expression of sorrow, pain, loss that couldn’t be put into his words demanding to be released- whether he was prepared to express it or not.
And the rage. Rowan was suddenly angrier than he’d ever been in his life. The pain- the grief- felt like gasoline for the small glow of anger that he always carried with him, and everything in his mind was ablaze. It demanded destruction, and Rowan had never been the kind to starve his demons.
Rearing back, he swept everything off the island in his kitchen with a ragged cry- dishes shattering as they crashed against the floor, pill bottles scattering noisily, papers gracefully sloping across the room- the island stools too bounced across the floor aggressively as they were thrown.
A loud, wordless wailing sound registered distantly in his ears before he realized it was him. That he was crying, for the first time in years, for the first time since he’d been kicked out of his childhood home. Instead of the realization doing anything to calm him, it made him more furious than before and he reared his fist back blindly, slamming it repetitively into the nearest wall until he couldn’t feel anything except the pain in his hand- couldn’t think of anything except the impact of the next blow, until it felt like it was endless. Like he’d always been more black hole than man- just a gaping abyss of grief and rage ready to ruin anything that got too close.
Eventually, when the pain had forced him to stop, maybe sanity would prevail. The anger would drain away, leave him cold and crying in his empty apartment. He’d call O- not because he had any hope Celia wasn’t dead but more for the closure of hearing it from someone who would know. He’d go to the hospital, have them do something about his hand.... He’d try to think of something after that.
But for now, Rowan Tandel stood alone in the chaos of his empty apartment, surrounded by the ruin of his grief, the silence broken only by the sound of his fist connecting with the wall, the blood trickling down his elbow slowly dripping against the hardwood floor, and the quiet sound of his own muffled sobs.