4

The horror still shakes Curtis. He's sitting by an ambulance, a medical team checking him and Josh, and breathing in from the oxygen tanks gives a lucidity to his thinking, to the reality that he'd barely made it out from a horde of Muslims.

He doesn't want to think about the cafe owner's screaming, or how a living human being could burn away until all life is gone..

This is the cruelty of human beings. The rashness we can treat one another, as enemies, and proof that barbarianism still resides in our blood. In fact, might I say that we've suppressed our animalistic instincts behind civility and political correctness, and the Muslims show a rawer side that we disassociate from, like an unacknowledged shadow.

The Muslims have kidnapped the cafe waitress – Josh tells the police interpreter this, and the officers murmur to one another in French before thanking him for his account of the events.

It's overcast and dark; the cafe fires have been put out. Some officers come with CJ and Josh to the checkpoint where they left their baggage. The van has been towed to the side, the back opened, and some luggage left unzipped. Police are investigating the area for the sudden murder of their officers and two young men.. the whole checkpoint is cordoned off.

Ivan and Martinez lie in closed body bags. Curtis scrambles over to unzip one of them – but gets told "Trust me, you don't want to, the face is so horrible.."

Then Curtis, wanting only to get the image of Ivan getting splashed out of his head, breaks down in tears. He cries out, pathetically unable to do anything, only bashing his fists against their vehicles, and when officers try to placate him, he fights and shoves one of them away – they know better, and so let him play out his inner struggle.

Curtis slunks to the ground, panting. "Why did this happen.. is this a dream?"

Investigator Bezu Fache comes to the fore. "Non, Curtis, it's not – you got caught in the eye of the storm."

A spotlight has their figures casting shadows against the fog. Fache decides the best course of action to calm Curtis down, it is by calmly explaining what they've made of the situation so far (appeal to the mind instead of placating the emotions). The Uzbek man who drove that truck and murdered the people was on a mission of delivering armaments to cells across the city. He's high on Captagon (amphetamine + theophylline, chemical courage), and in conjunction with his short fuse, he blew up the checkpoint upon seeing the newly implemented 'search and frisk' policy in action.

Heavy skid marks to the side of the road. He drove that truck around the van and burst through the gate, while running over the bodies.

They won't be able to easily identify the van because usually, the delivery boys find sanctuary in the Muslim zones – think of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where Indiana Jones has just stolen that truck with the ark, and the Egyptians hide his truck afterward from the Nazis.

Then to make it more difficult, they modify the truck's license plate, body paint and even the body frame if necessary to have it continue the mission disguised. The police don't have much jurisdiction in these zones, thanks to the Muslim council – formed a few years ago, who would protest against any Muslim mistreatment.

"You were extremely lucky to be alive," Fache remarks, "and in one piece. I wish I could say more, but I hold no promises. Those two.." he gestures at the bodybags, "were your cherished friends, no? And you held such a strong friendship with them."

Curtis nods.

"Love and trust – a scarce luxury amongst our times. Remember them and honour them in your heart, Curtis." He pats Curtis by the shoulder.

They're too exhausted from today's ordeal to bother continuing on with their road trip. Luckily their luggage is intact.. and as for Ivan and Martinez's stuff? Just make a discreet call to their family and mail their luggage back to their homes. Oops, I got sidetracked; anyways, the only other option is stay at a hostel, and when they've processed that brain fart out of their heads, find an option to leave France for good.

Just to show them a fledgling of that genuine French spirit, Fache offers them both a dinner at his personal favourite restaurant – Chez Ernie, where the food is served by the chef himself to his best clients.

Ernie himself is so kind; he makes his own wisecracks and jokes out loud to himself, serving the dishes, and it just takes Josh and Curtis's minds to a much better, relaxing place.. the food is just so good, the oysters, the curry-fried pork with dashes of onion, the lemon-lime cake for dessert..

They leave the restaurant fulfilled as fuck, and thank the good detective so much. Josh is picking out a hostel to stay at (those are cheap btw) on his phone, when Curtis sees with his eyes.. a park. No.. an indoors garden. A pathway leading down to someplace that's glowing bright colours, with an illuminated billboard beside – "The Garden of Hopes."

Curtis, feeling intrigued, asks Josh to visit there. And Josh: "No, we can't afford to be sidetracked."

But Curtis doesn't seem to hear, as he finds himself stepping down the passage – he feels the atmophere enveloping him deeply. He finds again the scent of nectar.. of Lillian, and then some more, as strange new scents come to his nose. Naturally sweet and dainty. And when he turns around a corner, he is greeted by the sight of phosphorescent flora, growing from obsidian pedestals, the tree leaves emitting blue and violet, with all the flowers ranging from a pristine red to yellow – like aquatic life brought to you in garden form.

It is a plaza filled with everlasting peace.

Curtis sits by a bench and relaxes himself – his mind drifting away to serenity. Dreamy feelings fill his attention, and a small part of him wonders how he hasn't stumbled across or heard of this place earlier. He would've believed in the romance of Paris, blossoming fruitfully in his heart.

Josh has followed Curtis downstairs- he too is in awe.

It seems so comfortable that Curtis considers just sleeping here instead of a proper hostel for the night, rules be damned. "Let's hope the security guards don't spot us.." Josh goes.

So they sleep under the phosphorent leaves.

They wake up, totally refreshed, and to the tune of a gardener named Quon who's trimming some leaves from a ladder. She's humming, and as the leaves fall they don't lose their lustre – it looks like a rain of colours, and for one brief moment, it feels like that ball dance all again where Curtis is holding Lillian, feeling her energies as she twirls under the vibrant lights.

If only his phone hadn't run out of power, he would've made a quick reference to the place's address.

They still have money – a few hundred Euros on their bank accounts. Oh, they have another option; it's taking the TGV. Ivan's option of the road trip to the north and the ferries is quite roundabout. If say, they can arrive in a different city with an international airport, they can just bypass the Paris congestion that has everyone's feathers ruffled.

So after finding a bite to eat from a nearby bakery, it's off to the TGV. It takes a while to fumble for a taxi (Uber drivers? No way, you can't trust that), and on the ride, Curtis asks Josh to hold his hand tightly – not in a gay way, but more like something of assurance to hold onto, to trust.

A news alert blares on the taxi's dashboard. The route they were on has a bunch of rabble-rousers, so the driver tells them to hang on, as the onboard GPS calculates a different route through the city, across the Pont Alexandre III bridge.

The bridge.

It's devoid of anyone, but there's ferries crossing underneath it. The taxi driver grinds the car to a crawl, and Josh + Curtis are totally confused as to why. Deep down, they know something's not right, and upon asking the driver, he tells them normally people would be all over this bridge – it's a tourist attraction. In riots or dangerous situations however, the bridge becomes a deathtrap; it's a long way to commit crossing.

The driver consults the onboard computer, swiping away the official taxi alerts and consulting the social media instead. In light of the cafe incident yesterday, French rioters take their stand against the current government, and are willing to shoot/beat any Muslims they encounter on sight. The voice is spreading – "Our France, forever!"

There's smoke, and just behind them, the rioters are progressing – you hear their unified chants, along with some light explosives popping.

The driver, wearing a turban (he's Sikh), knows that if he gets caught out by the mob, they'll decimate him for sure. He's on the young side of taxi drivers, panicking like he's too young to die, so he just floors the cab forward across the bridge – Curtis and Josh internally clenching from the sudden acceleration, and on the other side are the police..

The police are armed with riot gear, they have a converted fire engine with them. Spotting the taxi advancing on them with the rioters in background, it's only natural to assume that the taxi could've been commandeered with explosives..

"TAXI!" their commander goes. "STOP YOUR ENGINE!"

The taxi veers forth.

"Hey, you should stop!" Curtis goes, tapping on the dividing glass. "Pull over!"

But the driver doesn't seem to hear. He's mumbling something to himself, a sort of prayer.

"Stop the fucking car, now!" Curtis screams, with Josh ramming the glass, expecting to get shot at any second now by the police. This doesn't happen; the taxi's engine is shutdown – remotely by the police, and the car skids with the wheels failing to maintain their prior momentum.

It skids off the road, collides with the bridge bannisters, enough that the taxi's front has gone over the edge..

The driver is quivering in his seat, pissing himself.

After a bit, Curtis and Josh clamber out of the car, smoke pouring from its front and drifting south along the river. They're dazed from the collision, unsure whether it's safer with the police or the incoming rioters, who are just crossing the bridge.

A few policemen nab them, with one trying to pull the taxi driver out of his seat.

They're handcuffed, dragged back to the vicinity of the fire engines, and are interrogated in rapid French that none of them comprehend. Meanwhile, the commander orders the gathering crowd: "This is National Security! Disperse at once! Your protests are but a waste of energy and time!"

The crowd doesn't care. In their midst they've brought some old trucks – improvised explosives attached to their trunk, like fireworks, and it's their trump card when the people clear the way for the truck drivers to rev down the road.

"Stop them! Shut their engines down!"

The police, in their cruisers, try to lock on the incoming trucks whose engines are like a shrill, mechanical yelling – no on-board computers.

Josh sees this coming. There's no way the police can hold them off – he instantly kicks the holding officers. "CJ, we gotta dive! We have to get off the bridge!"

A panic sets in. Could CJ really float with his hands cuffed behind his back?

"Open fire!"

The police try to shoot down the truck drivers. Roars of deafening gunfire, with the firetruck hoses turned on, full blast – hoping to stop or swivel the trucks off path.

It's two trucks, one on each lane. The left truck's windshield is geysered with bullets, its driver erupting into pieces and the engine getting totalled – a spark erupts, and in a cascading explosion its engine goes, followed by the gas tank and the explosive payload it's been carrying.

The shockwave flashes through everything in a 0.3km radius, and it rips through Curtis and Josh as they're just tumbling off the bridge into the waters below – shredding their clothes, bursting their eardrums, and sending them tumbling off from the force; the taxi dislodged and falling to the waters.

The other truck has its contents sent flying outward, like volatile shrapnel, which detonates mid-air as the truck just crashes through the officers into one of their firetrucks.

A second explosion – erupting much larger from the first; the vehicles up into the air. Fireworks puff and pop, and a huge torrent of steam comes from the ruptured firetruck (carrying water tanks). Anyone in the vicinity, if not blown away or on fire, has to deal with the scalding humidity.

You can't see what's in the smoke, but the rioters cheer at their major victory, and advance onward. Their voices will not go ignored.

By then, Curtis hits the river and it hits his body much harder than he expected. His mind rattles from the sudden burst of water, the explosions, the total chaos of everything. Then he realises he needs to take a breath.

He sees he's almost hit the bedrock, as pieces of the bridge, and a few body parts land slowly in the waters. Nevermind that, he kicks his legs the hardest he's ever done; his pants have snagged on a piece of metal, and he wags his foot, ridding himself of it.

His lungs are on the verge of bursting; he's going to drown – he sees the rippling surface, and after a while of endless kicking he breaks for air.

The noise and chaos sounds too much, and his head bobs back underwater, only for him to go back up and breathe the arid smoke. The river naturally carries him away from the bridge, and he finds a glimpse of the ensuing rage up there – the people chanting for a better France.. where is Josh? He's nowhere to be found.

Curtis finds himself passing under other bridges, the Seine river flowing westward. He looks to getting himself back on dry land, and back-kicks himself to shore.

The police boats pass him by, but they're too occupied with the ensuring rioting, the flaming bridge to notice – a thought crosses through Curtis's mind, over his handcuffs; it's going to be a bitch to remove these metal fuckers, not to mention people'll just ask.

He'll say he got caught up in the riots and someone handcuffed him in a rage.

When he ends up by a pack of parked boats, a fisherman sees him. Helps him up with a pole on his shirt onto the boat.

"What happened to you?" the fisherman says, drying off the dripping wet Curtis with a towel.

"It's a long story," Curtis says, shivering. "They're rioting, and I got caught up in it."

"I've heard – it's so horrible! But.. why are you in handcuffs?"

"Ermm, I bumped into the police.." Curtis looks at the river for Josh, to no avail, the ripples of the wave fading away the colours of the sky and reflected buildings - the feeling of being truly alone dawning on him. No friends left to turn to. No family.

No Lillian.

Just that memory of a name once half-remembered – of that woman by the beach.

Clare.

The fisherman is pressing him now over the handcuffs. Curtis knows that he's not talking himself out of this situation, so he fools him into thinking he's going to cave in – then jukes around the guy, knocking him over, and scrambles to the boat's bridge so he could get off and find a way to the TGV station.

He hears the fisherman yell for him. He's like a headless chicken when running, and almost falls over as he gets onto stable ground of the walkway.

Other people nearby see the event. Curtis runs, panicking; those movies where you see teens make a break for it from their abductors come to mind. "He's an abductor!" Curtis yells. "He handcuffed me."

Tourist abductions do happen, and even though people don't quite make out what he's saying, they know his American accent, and with the fisherman yelling for Curtis to be stopped – the onlookers dogpile the burly fisherman.

One of them helps Curtis out of his handcuffs – a pocket knife through the lock does wonders – and after hearing advice to catch a cab to the American embassy and being given thirty euros, Curtis thanks the guy, and takes off for the streets.

It takes a long while for the taxi to reach the station, being that there's so much traffic being segued from parts of the city that are under rioting. The constant news being blared about it over radio, the kids in the nearby car too busy in their VR goggles to care, Curtis starting to feel hungry, tired out.

The East Railway station. Its architecture echoes the aristocracy of olden times blended with modernity.

Curtis gets off from the taxi. There's swarms of people – not really lining up for the till so much as being bunched together as much as space affords them to. People have been thinking of leaving Paris and France for years, like a brooding thought, and the explosion of violence today is a catalyst that triggers their decision.

It's funny how Curtis only has his wallet and spare change, while everyone else has their life tucked away in luggage.

The line proceeds slow. Before he knows it, there's more people lined up behind him, stretching out the entrance of the building. He's hungry as a motherfucker, aching for some food. Anything for a nice Subway half-footer sandwich in his mouth.

So Curtis leaves the line, knowing it means having to be at the far, far back again. As he walks, he sees the walking food vendors popping out of their corners (lunch break) to offer food, snacks and a free complementary baguette to the people in the lines, and Curtis is just a hair's width away from shouting out "Goddamnit!"

He winds up at a Subway in a food court, and with the last of his pocket change, gets that half-footer he's been saliviating for. Om nom nom.

A sleazy fellow at a table. His name is Vincent (and looks like Vincent Cassel). He reveals himself to Curtis as a transporter – meaning he literally transports lucky people onto the TGV train directly, no frills, just pay the price of two tickets and skip the hassle of the lines, baggage/security checks!

Does he accept VISA? He has a phone and a card reader jack accepting VISA, MasterCard, coin, Swiss Miles.. and only one spot left!

"Wait, do you charge extra if it's a different destination?" Curtis says.

Nope. Only thing that matters is that he gets Curtis (and some other people waiting) on the trains they want.

And without skipping a beat, Curtis swipes his card on the reader, and they shake on a deal.

Vincent leads Curtis over by a janitorial entrance, and in a utility room, there's a bunch of anxious Muslims with their luggage, with a few tourists. "Let's go, let's go-" he checks his watch- "Not much time before they start to check train tickets!"

It's a hurried pace to get to the train. They have to wait for Vincent to pause the security cameras, pause for any guards or busybodies, before they're on the move to the lower train platforms.

The TGV trains are triple-deckers. Luggage is stored on the bottom deck, and the train staff never check there. Vincent, working as a janitor with maintenance privileges, opens the emergency doors for each of the trains for the stowaways to close behind them.

"Thank you so much," the Czech tourist goes, on the same train to Strasbourg as Curtis is.

"God bless you all," Vincent says, before Curtis pulls the hatch door closed, and they're in an array of compartmentalized luggage.

An electronic horn sounds; the train departs.

While the small Muslim family huddle together, the mother feeding her little son some Turkish delight – the tourist jests small talk, as if to lighten the entire mood. "We going off on a wild adventure, eh?"

Then the sudden rush of acceleration has everyone feeling like it's a horizonatal roller-coaster, stomachs churning. The father whispers to his two daughters how it's only acceleration, and that the feeling will soon pass.

The Czech guy, his name Milos, is just a travelling salesman in a white hat and a suitcase, and talks about how awesome Paris is, how nice the people he dealt with are, the food – it is just such a shame that it's grown far too dangerous for him to ever consider coming back.

"You should visit Prague! It's so wonderful there!" he tells Curtis.

A while later, Curtis has to pee. The Muslim father tells him to watch himself above decks, as a few ticketing officers are known to have photographic memories – they can catch a new face even after going though hundreds of passengers.

Curtis clambers around the floor of luggage, before finding the stairs and awkwardly looking for the washroom in what looks like the second-class passenger area.

He finds a cubicle door. It's in use. Damn, and he's on the verge of exploding in his pants..

The door slides unlocked. When it opens, he sees her blonde hair, her eyes and her lips.

It's Clare.

For an instant, he forgets all about his bladder problems, while she returns his gaze curiously.

2

It gets late at night, and Curtis is thinking of taking a blissful bus ride back to his flat - feeling relief of miraculously finding that woman. Clare says that it isn't safe at night; there are people who want to assault him for being black, being potentially a Muslim - I imagine in this future that things have become irreversibly divided in France.. in Europe generally.

In the ending to Days Before Christmas, when I wrote Clare being in a brighter future where she reunites with Martin - I was more naive at the time. I hoped that the world would progress in a brighter direction, to reflect Clare leaving behind her nightmarish reality to become a shining star of a person. But as I've gleaned, it isn't working out that way. There's a huge contradiction in the European psyche where they see the solution of standing up for their boundaries as racist and xenophobic, while turning a blind eye to the toxic influence of Islam migrants who don't want to integrate with European values, but conquer everything from within.

I'd say it's like a person who's grown accustomed to being in a relationship with an abuser; instead of seeing it for what it is, they easily snap and blame other people, other factors - like their own family trying to reach out to them. In their mind, it's their fault the abuser is mad and unhappy with them, and by some grace of God, would they make some amends and make things happy again -- the man endlessly pleads to the gatekeeper as he ages and withers away to let him pass before the door of the Law, but to no avail.

This is something I wanted to illustrate, having myself been in relationships gone terribly sour. At this stage in the story, I aim to make the reader uncomfortable - feeling uprooted and disoriented and betrayed by the familiar turned ugly, while wanting a foothold to hold onto for assurance.

Anyways, CJ returns home. He only has enough money for a single bus fare - it's September, his monthly pass has expired. When he gets on, he takes a seat by the side door, and he gets some uncomfortable leers from a Frenchman in front of him. For the first time, he doesn't feel welcome, it's not like home anymore. Another symptom of his innocence being stripped away. He waits for the man to get off at a stop, but the man still stays on the bus.

Then a pretty couple gets onto the bus, with the girl being pregnant. They notice CJ in his hoodie (already barely hiding his discomfort). After a moment of consideration, they sit by the Frenchman, where CJ avoids their gaze - he blares out music full-blast from his earbuds, trying to take his attention off of them.. a sort of silent intimidation.

A mental image of a rosary in heavy shadow, mid-air, rotating, with a thin metal chain attached. CJ's heart palpitates with a strange anxiety.. not unlike that of imagining something major yet to come.

Clare's words echo in CJ. He suddenly remembers how that rosary, with its ruby centre, was around her neck, when the bus is interrupted by a molotov cocktail shattering, flames erupting over the windows, melting them into modern art. The molotov wasn't even aiming at the bus, but rather it's thrown as part of a riot.

In France of this time, there are no-go zones where Muslim-inhabited banlieues are secluded from the rest of French residences. Buses are not allowed to cross through them, so this riot takes place by the border of one such Muslim banlieue - instigated by young, angry French youth who want their own pure France back.

CJ ends up getting off the bus prematurely, runs away from the commotion the rest of the way home. He hears sirens approaching, riot patrols clamping on the violence.

..

Her affection, her love isn't there anymore, and he knows it.

"Why have you forsaken me..?" -- the same words inside CJ could just as well go for anyone who has lost faith, lost hope or connection in what they've poured their hearts into. It's a question screaming its soul out for an answer, no matter how insipid or grotesque.

So he'll see Lillian, one more time. He looks over the previous conversations they've had together, and a thought occurs to him: what if he could peer into what she was doing at the moment when she sees his messages? He asks this possibility with his friends and one of them, Dmitriy, an experienced cracker, enables CJ to do just that.

At his residence, CJ sends Lillian an unsuspecting holographic recording (message) of himself, to check in on her - he waits a few agonizing minutes for his message to be seen (not heard), and he imagines it could be like in one of the movies he's saw, where a kidnapper has stolen her away and is just reading all the messages she would've received. If that were the case, he could be a real hero.

What he sees is different.

She's dressed as a punk rocker, seemingly expressionless as she looks over what she's just received, before turning around to pick up a microphone and sing, soulfully, her long hair wavering in tune with her fierce energy - no audio (a limitation of the cracking tool).

The image of her fades out.. an intense jealousy swells in his heart now, consuming his emotions with a blackening, numbing pain. She was doing all that, and never even told him. She's intentionally keeping him out of her loop.. why?

CJ plays some basketball outside alone. He does lay-ups, slam dunks, three-pointers on that aged basket to keep his mind off the emotional pain. He's loved basketball since he's seen Space Jam -- it's a piece of home he carries with him. At Chicago, he'd play around evening in the alley, before he'd know it, other people would join in on the fun for a pick-up game. It always makes him smile.. before all this.

It's cloudy. CJ puts his own basketball away and gazes out at the coldness that the seasonal change has brought out in the streets. He flashes back to Lillian -- she's resting in his arms - they're on a bench at the park, the most sweetest scent of nectar from the flowers. She is adoring his face with her gaze, her hands gently coaxing his ears, and he just knows if he leans in to know her soft lips by his own - the same as asking his family for a hug when he felt down or lonely - the same as hugging his plush M&M Orange when he was younger and nervous of the dark, the soft plushness letting him know that there will be a tomorrow, and that it's enough just to relax and simply be, resting still with the glow in the dark stickers in his room, and the noises of his own breathing upon his bed. It would be alright.

It would be alright..

He feels vulnerable, and something in him just breaks, and he begins to sob, alone and to himself, not knowing why.

At the residence, CJ is packing his items into luggage, melancholy weighing in his movements. Clothes, toothpaste, laptop, while disposing much of his school notes in the wastebasket. They're useless scraps of paper, all except the ones with his memorable doodles and made-up rap lyrics =)

Then he stumbles across his school yearbook. His attention droops on it, and he opens up the pages. Beyond the customary photos of every student, are the captured moments which he's lived at the school. Tobogganing down the snowy hills in winter. Being in the halls when someone rode a scooter, blaring out French rock from his phone (there's Curtis by his locker).

The graduation ball.

Curtis and Lillian dancing in the dimly-lit gym, disco lights illuminating their faces intent on one another to the music. All his memories emerge out of nowhere, and it's like he wants to hug someone deeply for every single, stupid, little, silly moment that he's lucky enough to have had -- no one's around.

He knows what he has to do now.. he just needs to meet up with her in person and maybe, just maybe it would turn out to be a simple misunderstanding that he could laugh it off when he gets back home, and turn this lingering unhappiness of his upside-down.

"Please don't, CJ. Seeing her one last time is going to make it harder for you," his friends go. Even his own friends aren't supportive of his predicament anymore.

CJ doesn't want to hear it - he ventures out to find Lillian.. if she's even still around in Paris anymore, for she was also an exchange student whose family happened to care enough to make a temporary living in this place of romance.

Afraid of showing up at her place directly (leading to an incredibly awkward encounter with her together with her family), he scours the places where he remembers she loves to go. McDonalds, the park, the classy art theatre.. feels more like aimlessly roaming in nostalgia than a purposeful search, but he finds fliers on the wall - a gig, with Lillian as the singer! Today's the last night to see it!

The venue takes place at "La Fontayne" club - which through experience, CJ knows the address to be around the richer avenues. The ticket price is around twenty Euros - too bad, it's sold out.

No turning back now.

CJ sneaks in through backdoors, where the crew are too busy prepping the instruments and lighting to notice while it's raining heavily outside. He acts like he is doing some useful stuff (like drinking the provided fruit punch) to blend in.

Amidst the swirl of self-organizing chaos manifesting itself into a show, CJ spots Lillian by the makeup mirrors, having already rehearsed, loudly chattering with her bandmates about the events of their last night's wildness.

He's briefly relieved to be able to see her with his own eyes again, and it seems like looking upon her naturally animated self is enough to bring joy to his beating heart.. until he remembers he doesn't belong here, with her.

It's announced the band will be live in a minute. A crew member spots him. He doesn't have a backstage pass, so he quickly backs into a nearby hall and ducks into a washroom stall. His heart is pounding from sheer adrenaline, he's just comprehending what craziness he's leapt into. At the same time, he knows he's not one of those people who just suck it up and mope when things are going wrong in their lives. That's worth something.

The reason he is here is because he believes in himself enough to still give a fuck.

The crew members enter the washroom with security, and Curtis can hear them talk about "securing the area from a potential code brown." He only knows they're talking about him, and he gulps as they search around, flashlights prodding the urinals and then the stalls [the stalls here don't have the gap underneath the doors].

Each door opened sends a shiver through Curtis, while he hears the audience roar from the curtains unfolding and Lillian chalking it up on the microphone.

The security guards bust open the stall next to Curtis, followed by violent struggling - there was a junkie who was busy speedballing (heroin + cocaine), and it takes all the men just to subdue him, and soon leaving the washroom and Curtis safe.

CJ creeps out, and from the shadows of the backstage, absorbs every facet of the wild performance. The way the drummer slams his kit, the guitar and bass, the way she sings - albeit not flawlessly, still has this engaging passion (subconsciously reminding him of the first time he almost climaxed with her).

They want more.. Curtis wants more. In another world, he'd be by the front of the audience and Lillian would just wink at him, for seeing his soft face is encouragement.

The show is over - everyone roars with craze, and Lillian wishes them all a happy, safe travel back home. When the curtain falls and she packs up her microphone, Curtis takes this as his cue to stand up to her. It's now or never. He starts emerging from his hiding spot, only to see her embrace the lead guitarist in a passionate kiss, a full blown make-out session. His emotions freeze, and it's like his chest is threatening to explode from the sudden massive build-up.

The backstage is all but abandoned now, leaving a lone spotlight shining on Lillian and the guitarist. She wraps her arms around his neck while he takes her, moaning. Lifting her up underneath her legs-- carrying her to a waist-high speaker by the wall, and while she has her hands feverishly all over his chest, the guitarist unbuckles his pants and reaches beneath her black skirt.

A jolt of spontaneous ecstasy from her, her leg trembling. The guitarist is pushing deeply and deeply, over and over, again and again, letting animalistic urges whelm his consciousness.

Curtis watches. He is terribly aroused (he could start to smell their combined sweat and heat and bodily pheromones - Lillian's, mixed with this guitarist's), and so confused as to the turmoil of raw emotions he didn't know he'd possessed, swirling, caving his good senses in. He hears her vocalize out her cries (of pain? no. of sheer euphoria that she never shared with Curtis), all as her hand clasps the nape of the guitarists' neck.

"No," he says, not wanting it. "NO!" He screams her name in an explosive rage.

It shocks Lillian and the guitarist (Cesar) out of their ravenous desire, and if you were here in this moment, it is Curtis, tears streaming down his cheeks, sadness and anguish filling the void where Lillian's love once was. Cesar quickly tucks his glistening penis back into his pants, before approaching Curtis - he's somewhat exhausted, upset over the intrusion.

Curtis focuses all his despondent rage on Cesar, and attempts to charge at Cesar, who simply sidesteps and in the process throws CJ tumbling across to the floor. After a second of looking upon CJ, Cesar kicks him hard.

"Stop it! Cesar!" Lillian manages to pull Cesar away. "Curtis.. um.. I never expected you to show up."

When Curtis gets up from the ground, trembling, the look of pain in his eyes catches them off-guard. "I've been waiting for you so long," he goes. "Why did you leave me.. why didn't you tell me you were singing at some gig.. you don't even care about me. Tell me you don't care about me. Tell me I mean next to nothing to you anymore!"

"Is this some lover of yours Lil'? This negro-- ha. Ahahahahah! Don't make me laugh - Lil, get him outta my sight." (I've always found it fascinating when you have beautiful women pair up with people who you see act heinously, like Cesar here, even if only because of status, power.. security under the guise of men giving off domineering signals. Or because inside they've come to feel like this is how love for them is like, this is what they deserve.)

"Why are you so upset about me?" Lillian says, almost dumbfounded - but really suppressing a truth in her mind so she could cope with her day-to-day troubles. "Aren't we just.. friends?"

Friends.

"No, Lillian.. I love you. I loved you since I got to know you from McDonalds.. we shared that royale with cheese meal together, and your cats. Ever since, I grew to love everything about you.." His next words, amidst his sniffles, he knows are so cheesy, but it's the only words he has to put that feeling which permeated his summer. "I loved your humour about so many stuff.. I loved how gentle and delicate you were with your cats. I love your unique spirit underneath you. Just being with you made me so happy. You made my summer. I'm glad for that."

Cesar spits at CJ, then picks up his jacket and storms out the door, one last contemptuous look at CJ, before leaving the two lovebirds alone.

"Curtis," she goes. "I hardly even know you. And you don't know me. We only met because of that stupid ball, and you just.. gah! I hate how you're so demanding of my time. Calling me at least twice every day, wanting me to talk and hang out with you always. It's exhausting, I can't be there on top of you 24/7!" She is fuming now. "You know, you're really this needy boy who's pathetically hooked on what I do, like I'm your drug who gets you high, like I'm your dream girl who's going to spend the rest of my life with you."

"No.. no.."

"I really just want you to be happy by yourself. Thanks to you, my night is ruined, I have to pack and sleep for my flight home tomorrow. I gotta go." She picks up her packed kits and knapsack. "Please stop clinging onto women for everything. You'll find success in life. Ciao."

"Lillian!!" Curtis reaches for her, managing to find hold on her black punk-rocker shirt. "How could you, you selfish cunt--"

"Let go of me!" She thrusts him away.

Security guards toss Curtis out of the club, into the rainy night, where Curtis looks up from the gutter and sees Lillian get inside a car, her brothers eagerly prodding her about her concert.. who cares, her car drives away.

People leaving the club look at him - they don't think much of him besides that he's just some drunkard.

"I HATE YOU LILLIAN!" He gets up and in some defiance, thrusts his hands against the air and the falling rain. "I fucking hate you! Rot in hell!" And Curtis screams into the rain in one last, desperate gasp, and his body muscles failing him, from exhaustion and the coldness drenching him, he lets the ground swallow him whole.

"No, no, please, come back.."

The sound of painful, stifled cries. It's Curtis, refusing to accept what must be. Sobbing, breaking down, feeling like a sad shell of a human being.