Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place.
                         ~Sarah Dessen~

𝐌𝐚𝐱

Nobody ever prepares you for grief. And nobody ever learns how it feels unless you experience it.

It renders you speechless. It takes over your body, crams it and twists it like a small ball. It brings with it loneliness, and tears— uncontrollable tears that drip down your face like an overflowing stream on a rainy day. Sleep becomes a stranger because everything in your body is controlled by pain.

It's torturous. You walk around like a zombie wishing you could sleep and wake up when it's easier to wade through the emotions of anguish. But grief will not let you. It wants you to feel every second of torment. It's so diabolical it breaks some people into tiny pieces they end up in therapy for years seeking help on how to handle it, but the lucky ones learn how to deal with it.

I'm not sure which one of those I belong to yet. My heart was in pieces and something told me I would never have it whole again for as long as I live.

I will never again look at the world through the same coloured glasses.

I didn't know how to deal with this sadness, or who to tell. Dino and his friends told me talking about it wouldn't help, but I can't stop this intense pain in my chest. I haven't called my father, neither has he called me. You would think a father would be comforting to his son at this time especially since my name was all over the news and not just entertainment news. CNN has been running it every hour since the news broke. I was sure he knew I was in trouble, at least my siblings called. Ken wanted to fly over and be with me, but I didn't think having him around me would help.

He wouldn't understand.

I gave a humourless laugh, swiping a lone tear out of my cheeks as I thought of the unyielding man that was my father. Knowing his secret changed how I saw him—his hypocrisy —the way he pretended to loathe same-sex relationships, or perhaps he did. Maybe he hates himself for it too. I no longer crave his affirmation, I stopped a few years ago when I realized he would never love me. Sometimes I wonder whether he even likes me. But I never stopped from believing that I'm a Vanderbilt, that every woman I want should therefore want me back whether willingly or unwillingly as my father had me believe until Lia's father descended upon me like the devil, killing that presumptuous belief and leaving debris of destruction within me that would take a lifetime to repair if ever.

He not only scarred half my face, but he took away a life to punish me. He let me live knowing I would forever blame myself for Chris's death. I might not have pulled that trigger, but I might as well have. I can't stop smelling his blood in my body, the way his lifeless body looked on the floor beside me.

I was to blame. He was dead because I screwed up with the daughter of a Mafia don. I still couldn't believe it had happened. A part of me had still wanted to believe it was a dream right until TMZ broke the news that my bodyguard had been found dead.

I have been operating on perpetual adrenaline since that night. My face was swollen, the paparazzi had photos of me in a bucket hat, a scarf wrapped around my neck, a tiny part of it hiding my swollen face.

I had been questioned by cops about his death, and I said exactly as Lia's father through one of his family lawyers had told me word for word. He had said messing it up would take me to jail and I believed him.

Sitting in the dark in my apartment, my brain, without my consent allowed the memories to flood my mind.

The face of Matteo up close. The man Luca Bianchi's fans called his shadow. I wasn't aware he was a lawyer, Lia's family attorney at that. He was different in that room, he wore a grey Tom Ford suit, I knew it because I had several. A white shirt and black shoes. He looked like he was ready to step into a courtroom.

My first impression of him was shock. And then a little thrill because he was a popular face in Formula One. But when he introduced himself in a hard, uncompromising tone, I got scared.

He outlined the plan of how I would get out of Chris's murder without any suspicion. He spent three hours coaching me on how to answer questions from the police. Dino and his friends would vouch for me. The plan was perfect. It had no flaws. No wonder criminal organizations outsmart governments.

At the end of that meeting, Matteo had looked down into my eyes and said, "you better not fuck this up."

I had gone home, a new bodyguard whose name I couldn't seem to remember pulled me through the horde of paparazzi outside my apartment in time for TMZ breaking news.

With my heart still broken, I pushed the door open, throwing the hat and the scarf on the couch before sliding down on the floor, my back arched by the couch.

I felt as if I was outside, naked in winter. Cold seeping into my body, frozen in place. The world moved on, but without mercy, it left me to suffer, alone and broken.

When my phone started ringing. I didn't pick, I wasn't in the mood for a talk. But when I did not answer, my manager sent a small precise text.

Check enews, and call me back.

Moving my eyes to the television, I pressed the volume button to five so I could hear, the voice filling the darkness of my apartment.

Maxwell Vanderbilt, the main star of Children of Blood and Oil was summoned by police after his bodyguard, Chris Malony was found shot dead in an LA club parking lot early this morning. The star said he had been with him on Monday between 7 pm to around 8 pm and the private lounge servers and managers of the club remember him having a drink with his co-star Lia Boselli and her bodyguard. The twenty-eight-year-old star stepped out of his car in jeans, a hoodie, a bucket hat that covered his eyes and a scarf that hid half of his swollen face. Neither the police nor his team has disclosed whether the bodyguard's death and Maxwell's swollen face are related or whether his co-star will be questioned.

I breathed loudly, muting the tv again but my eyes remained fixed on it. I saw myself coming out of the car, my body had felt heavy for me to walk through those doors. My heart had raced, my fingers shook, and the hairs on the nape of my neck swirled around gently. It was the only comforting feeling I had felt at that time.

I wondered, as I saw the video of myself whether this was the end of my career.

Will I ever work again? Most importantly, would be I fired by the show. I wanted to continue with my career, I loved acting, perhaps it was a way of retaliating against my father's expectations of me.

I started to rise, but my legs gave in and I fell, my hands holding onto the coffee table. I hauled at the empty room, tears streaming down my face, my body curling on the floor in a fetal position.

I was alone. If Chris were alive, he would have been with me. Sitting somewhere in the room or asking whether I needed something to eat.

It was unfortunate, sad even, that I never treated him like a friend only like an employee. I took him for granted, after all, I paid for his services.

I never said thank you for the oranges he carried for me because he knew I liked them even though that wasn't one of his roles. He comforted me when I needed him to. Now I'll never have a chance to say the most basic word to acknowledge my gratitude.

With more effort than required in normal circumstances, I pulled my body up, walking up the stairs to my small study to write a handwritten letter to Chris's parents. I felt it was the least I could do.

I switched on the lights, looking around the small space as unwanted memories of the numerous times Chris came in to tell me it was time to leave swept into my mind.

Walking slowly, I took a pen and a piece of paper looking at it for a long time while I thought of what to write until a tear fell. Jerking it out of the clipboard with annoyance, I crumpled it into a ball, threw it into the garbage can beside the desk and pulled another one.

I leaned back on my seat, closing my eyes, letting tears flow down my cheeks.

Dear, Mr and Mrs Molony.

I began my heart in my throat. My hands trembled a little as I firmly held the pen.

My name is Maxwell Vanderbilt, your son's last client. It is with my deepest condolences that I write this letter. I have been with him for five years. Both in our twenties treading through the world that shines more than glitter. We both loved it—the excitement, the thrill of being in Hollywood equalled nothing we had seen before. He protected me, he looked after me, and although I'm not sure how he thought of me, I can honestly say I thought the best of him. He died a cruel death, and I'm not sure how to come to terms with that.

I'm mourning, as I'm sure you are. I have cried enough tears to fill the Indian Ocean. My heart is in pieces, I actually feel as if a part of it has chipped off and dropped somewhere within my body. But no matter how much pain I feel, I'm sure yours is more than that. I cannot imagine it, and I would be lying if I said I know how you feel. I do not.

I don't know how a parent feels after the death of their child. I have never felt such intense pain because I've never lost someone I loved to death.

It's cruel, don't you think? Death. It creeps on you when you least expect it, it steals away more than a loved one, for it leaves behind memories.

I especially do not know how to deal with those.

His laughter.

The smell of his cologne.

The sparkle in his eyes when he ate pizza. Do you know he loved Hawaiian? I told him often or maybe it was every time he ordered it that pineapples do not belong in pizza.

He would chuckle, throwing his head back and tell me I don't know what I was missing. I think I would prefer not to have the memories. I know it's selfish, but I want to escape from the hollowness of missing him.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop this anguish that has shoved itself in my heart and refused to leave.

How do I stop the tears?

How do I go on?

How do I learn to live without him? I don't know anyone else that feels as much as I do except for you. In a way, I write this letter with selfish intentions, I wanted to talk about him with someone who loved him, who feels as deeply and profoundly as I do.

I'm sorry I couldn't protect him. I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me. Chris was a good man, a good bodyguard and a friend. I hope, when you remember him, you'll remember me fondly as well. And if you ever need help, any help whatsoever, please call me on this number.

Yours faithfully
Maxwell Vanderbilt.

*****^**^••••

Hi, babes. I wonder if you're tired of Maxwell's Pov, but don't worry, Lia will be back next week.

Xoxo