Butterfly Effect

52. Confinement

Studying the disturbing image, a deep furrow creased his dark complexion as he strived to comprehend it.

It was incomprehensible. The pair seemed joyful, and although it was a single moment captured on film, he could perceive the unfiltered sentiment of affection in their gaze. A man and a woman, presumably in love.

Her broad grin gave her a youthful appearance, and the lustrous, weary hue of her emerald eyes appeared more vibrant. Her happiness was directed at the camera, while the man was seated behind her, arms encircling her waist and his chin perfectly poised on her shoulder.

It was evidently a cheap photobooth snapshot, with her positioned on his lap to conserve space. However, only one small tatted photo remained, the one he currently held, out of an original set of four.

He didn't understand how the happy man he was looking at could be a version of himself.

It made no sense.

And in some fucked up way, the girl in his arms was a version of her.

The whole situation filled him with anger as he snatched the small square and forcefully shoved it back into the depths of his open leather wallet.

Without hesitation, he closed the wallet and hurled it as far away from him as possible, its impact with the floor producing a dull thud.

Tilting his head, he became aware of the muffled sounds from the television as he let his head fall back onto the plush sofa behind him.

The living room was scattered with empty bottles of various alcoholic beverages, and he sighed when his eyes searched for one that still had some liquid left.

Nothing. Not even a drop. Five different bottles, all emptied.

Realizing he needed another drink, he reached out to grab the remote control resting on the armrest, not bothering to look as he aimed it at the television, the sound of it switching off echoing through the room.

He sat there in the dimly lit room, his mind still reeling from the image that had consumed his thoughts. The television's silence only intensified the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that had enveloped him.

His mind had been focused on getting another drink, but the moment he got up to his full height, stumbling slightly, he did not go into the kitchen.

His thoughts drifted back to the photo, the remnants of a love that once existed.

How could it be that he was looking at himself, yet he had no memory of this moment?

The confusion gnawed at him, fueling his anger and frustration. He couldn't understand why this image existed, or why it had been hidden away in his wallet.

As he reached for the discarded wallet lying on the floor, he hesitated for a moment. The urge to throw it away again was strong, but a small glimmer of curiosity compelled him to open it instead.

With steady hands, he retrieved the photograph once more, studying it with a mix of hatred and dread.

The couple in the photograph emanated a peculiar mix of familiarity and distance, leaving him grasping at fading memories in a frantic attempt to uncover the truth. But to his dismay, all he discovered were fragmented remnants of a past that refused to coalesce.

In a fit of exasperation, he tore the photo into countless shreds, scattering them aimlessly across the room. Yet, this act brought no respite, only a sense of futility. He had hoped that annihilating the image might somehow erase the overwhelming confusion and anger that consumed him, but it only intensified his feelings of being adrift.

Sinking deeper into the plush sofa, he shut his eyes tightly, yearning to shield himself from the cacophony of his thoughts. However, the darkness behind his eyelids offered no solace, only an eerie void mirroring the emptiness within. The weight of his actions and the burden of his past bore down on him relentlessly, threatening to smother him.

"I can't marry him when he's not you."

Her eyes, filled with uncertainty, haunted his every waking moment, replaying her confession over and over again. Her once soft and supple lips now trembled with a melancholic disposition.

The somber prince found himself consumed by his own melancholy, resenting the fleeting moment when he allowed himself to truly see her.

There was an air of solemnity surrounding her, as if her words were genuine reflections of her deepest emotions, exposing the truth. But how could that be when nothing about her exuded authenticity or honesty?

For an ephemeral instant, time stood still, and he felt the ache in her heart seep into his own. Though he couldn't comprehend why he experienced it, Keenan managed to push it aside when he caught himself drifting into dangerous territory.

He couldn't bear to witness her flaunting her picture-perfect life while his own crumbled into oblivion. Her idyllic existence, with a flawless fiancé.

With the flawless brother.

She reveled in a world of bliss, while he languished in a world of torment, all crafted by her.

He couldn't fathom how this time he had attempted to make it work. How he had endeavored to be the brother who found his own happiness first. He had done everything in his power to distance himself from that wretched bastard. He had been there first.

She was meant to be his.

First.

And now, just as always, Julian had emerged victorious.

Before self-doubt could consume his very being, his hands instinctively reached into his trouser pocket.

He couldn't allow thoughts of her to infiltrate his mind, at least not again.

He couldn't fall victim to her intoxicating spell, he refused to want to be the one to soothe her and tell her that it would be okay. Because it wouldn't.

He knew deep down that he couldn't trust her, couldn't trust anyone. The betrayal ran too deep, and he couldn't risk being vulnerable again. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

But as he clutched the small, metal object in his pocket, he couldn't deny the pull it had on him. It was his only solace, his only escape from the torment that consumed his every waking moment.

With trembling hands, he brought the object to his lips and took a long, slow drag. The familiar taste of bitterness filled his mouth, momentarily numbing the pain that threatened to engulf him.

The smoke swirled around him, creating a haze that matched the chaos in his mind.

He had become a prisoner to his own vices, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of addiction. It was a temporary relief, a fleeting moment of respite from the torment that plagued him.

But deep down, he knew that it was just another form of self-destruction. He was slowly unraveling, losing himself in a haze of smoke and despair.

As the room filled with the acrid scent of cigarettes, he made a silent vow to himself. He would find a way to break free from this cycle, to find a semblance of peace amidst the chaos.

But for now, he would allow himself to drown, to succumb to the darkness that threatened to consume him. Because in that darkness, he found a twisted solace, a distorted sense of comfort that he couldn't find anywhere else.

And as he took another drag, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever find his way back to the light.

Presumably not, he thought, after all, his father had made it clear that he was not worth any kind of happiness.

He was better off living in miserable solitude.

For it was all he knew.