CHAPTER 1 || IRONY

“You…you need help…and…and this is the best way—“ his words trailed off, choking on himself in hopes to suppress the wave of emotions flooding in.

The man in a gray suit with a combed over receding hairline interjected, “This is the best facility in the world.  We can help you.”

The young tomboy with disheveled hair stared ghostly and blankly ahead of her, not uttering any words, not responding to any of their pleas.

“Am,” the young friend gathered himself, breathing in yet another sigh to supplicate the emptiness of her response, “Please…I can’t go on watching like you this.”

Another friend, a manager, an older sister figure, reached for her hand and through her sobs she also pleaded, “Please…you need to do this for yourself.”

A moment of silence took over the room.  The only noise that can be heard aside from light sobs is the sound of the air conditioner that came from the floor vents.  The California sun blistering and bright while colors of newly blooming spring season painted the scenery from the living room of this Malibu beachfront.

The subject and focal point of discussion and intervention in this room sat dead center in that living room.  Her eyes focused blankly ahead at a passing butterfly that grazed the garden in her backyard.  Her fingers twitched incessantly.  Her eyes blinked occasionally.  And at this point, there was not much you can say about her expression.  Her friends have lost the ability to predict or decipher her intention, her motive or her desires.  There was no telling how she could react.  There was no guessing what her next move was.

But they knew all too well that even as they begged imploringly on their knees, Amber Liu was her own being.  She won’t budge too easily.

In a flat and disconcerting voice, she broke the silence, “Are you guys done?”

There was no answer from the crowd.  Her two close friends, whom are also her managers, and the doctor, the unwanted visitor, watched as she stood up from the couch grabbing her phone and car keys from the table.

“Amber, please.”  Victoria, that was her name, pleaded.

She sighed as she eyed them all expressionless.  And with another indifferent tone, she said, “I’m leaving.  Don’t follow me.”

She headed for the door and for a moment she was relieved that they didn’t follow.  But before she could reach the door, she felt a tug on her arm.  Ignoring it, she pulls away without even looking back.  She exits her house, jumps into her car and drove the hell out of that neighborhood.

She knew she had problems.  She was well aware of her issues.  How can she not know when her issues themselves are exposed freely for all to see?  Every outlet in the media there is excelled at reminding her that she was another young talent who’s crashing to the bottom after barely reaching the top.  But isn’t that an inner battle she has to fight herself?  Isn’t this her fight and her fight alone?  And aren’t her feelings and her issues hers to sort through, not for others to scrutinize and debate over?  At least that’s what she argues.

This is my .

Let me deal with my .

Let me deal with my my way.

She floors the pedal, scoffing as she remembers what she always tells her, “Your ‘’ rant is just a sorry excuse.”

She never took it for rudeness so much as she embraced her bluntness.  She never harbored resentment for she understood her concern.  She never reacted in spite in concession of the truth.  But it was only to her.  Because she knew…If there’s one person in the world who understands me and can readily forgive me, it was her.  It was Krystal.

But that’s the problem.  Krystal was the problem.  That was the sick and twisted cycle of reasoning she has come to believe.  And in believing she became desperate.  She wanted to hurt her, she wanted to hurt herself just so that she’ll come back, so that she’ll look at her again, so that she has to forgive her again.

But that’s the problem.  She knew that Krystal knew all too well that she was the problem.

It’s been a year.  And she’s certain that she still knows.  Even when new dating scandals have broken out the past months, even when they have framed her ‘Out-Of-Control’ on tabloids, even when she found herself on her birthday drunkenly stumbling on her gated neighborhood just to tell her she was sorry, Krystal knew.

“I forgive you but I can’t do this with you anymore.”

So tell me what to do without you.

“Amber, you know I love you…but I can’t…not like this…I can’t help you.”

Oh, but you’re the only one who can.

Amber floored through the freeway without a destination in mind.  She just drove and left the world in the dust along with everyone and everything that chased after the remaining pieces of her soul.  She had to hold on to the last piece of her hubris even when there was nothing pointing to a reason that she needed to.

If she can’t help me…

I don’t want to help myself.

“Put this on, before the paparazzis sees you again,” Jackson found her disappointingly so in the pool deck of an A-Lister’s penthouse apartment in downtown L.A.  Intoxicated and rancid fail to describe the disheveled appearance of his best friend propped underneath and on top of half women at the same time.

This has become routine for Jackson.  He doesn’t know why he still sticks around but he knows one thing, if he doesn’t, who else will?

Amber got up as she pushed her way up from bodies and from the twenty-ton brick that now tormented her delicate head.  Jackson tossed a black hooded jacket and quickly threw a pair of sunglasses and a snapback that only bounced off from her dazed and half-dead body.  “Hurry up, you got to get out of here before word gets out.”

Amber, too tired to process and form a sentence, only replied with a grunt.

“I’m serious, Am.  If we don’t get out of here now, we won’t need to stage an intervention to get you into rehab.  The police will haul your themselves.”

That “R” word had a way of jolting her to full consciousness.  And without having to say anything further and sparing the quick witted, smart- remark at the tip of her tongue, she stood up and finally opened her eyes fully, absorbing the blinding light of the California sunshine that only perpetuated the ever-increasing torment she was feeling in her skull.

As she stood up to stretch, she slowly and grudgingly put the hoodie over herself, ruffled her hair before she slipped on the hat and right as she put on her sunglasses and began walking towards Jackson, a sight before her solicited a double-take.  She stopped and stared at the massive billboard that was in front of her.  She took off her sunglasses, squinted, rubbed her eyes, squinted again until it all began to process.

“Yeah.  That’s right.  You just realized it, huh.  Krystal was right there the whole time watching you have with other girls,” Jackson had to point it out.  He didn't mean it spitefully.  She knew better than to hold that against him.  But it's a half-joke too ironic, too mockingly on point and too blaring for this early Californian morning nonetheless.

Touché.

Amber tipped her head back and closed her eyes scoffing at herself.  As painful as that one little motion was, physically and emotionally, she finally spoke to whisper no truer words, “Irony’s a .”

She slowly moved her head back to take the irony in full view.  She was thirty-five stories high in downtown L.A. and ironically perfectly inline with the massive billboard advertisement facing the penthouse directly.

“We gotta go,” Jackson nudged her arm.

She obediently followed.  It was like she had no choice.  The sight of Krystal, even if it was just a picture, rendered her hopeless by the very literal and romanticized definition of the word.

Jackson was right.  If he hadn’t arrived sooner, this would have been another “PR” mess, what her publicist advised her to steer clear of.  And Jackson was right in that while she was busy ing all those other girls, granted she was out of her mind, Krystal was right there, granted she wasn’t really there, but metaphorically in Amber’s twisted mind, she was.

Amber was thankful for Jackson, though she expresses her gratitude in a very elusive way.  And he knows; Amber hopping into his car without objection or complaint was her way of showing her appreciation for his friendship and loyalty.

Jackson let out a telling sigh eliciting a reaction, or a response, or even words, just any words at this point, from the nauseous but fully conscious, unreadable yet very predictable, best friend next to him on the passenger seat.  But knowing Amber, knowing himself, knowing their friendship, he will end up initiating.

After some silent minutes, initiate he did.  “Am…We need to talk about—”

“Jack…I know what you’re going to say and I think you can also guess what I’m going to say.”

“But you need—”

“I know I need help.  But look at me.  Jackson, you and I both know me very well.  And we both know rehab isn’t the answer.”

“Amber, it’s more than just—”

“I know.  It’s more than just rehab.  But rehab can’t fix…this.”

Jackson knew it was a useless plea from the beginning.   Jackson knew Amber was right.  Rehab can’t promise fixing.  And frankly, she needs more than a fixing.  Why?  He knows she’s smarter than rehab.  He knows she can fix herself if she wanted.  He knows the problem is less behavioral than it is philosophical.  He knows that her problem is not something anyone and anything can fix because he knows that she’s the virus plaguing her identity and the cure simultaneously.  He knows all of this.  And he knows it’s a hopeless case on his end.  But because he cares too much for her, thinks too highly of her, he had to try.  Isn’t it true that even if the best tried and tried their best they did, it’s guaranteed that nothing in this life is guaranteed?  That’s one way he has come to accept his dear friend, he thinks.  He has to channel his inner Jesus to be able to handle the perpetual bull that comes from being her friend and her manager because with Amber, what you’re hoping to get is never guaranteed.  Pat her on the back or punch her on the face?  Sometimes, he doesn't even know.

Letting out yet another sigh, Jackson, once again, resorted to pointing out the obvious truth, “You’re ed up, you know that.”

Amber chuckles at the delightful comment and says, “At least I can admit that.  Isn’t that the first step of progress?”

Scoffing at her remark and adding a light endearing slap on the shoulder, he eggs on, “Pfft.  But you’re too ed up to take another step after that.”

He could be right.  But it was a step she’d rather dance around.  Instead, she resorts to a more self-deprecating approach.  “By the way,” she hasn’t asked these kinds of questions in months, “Is she back in L.A.?  Do you know?”

Jackson knew the answer.  He knew that she’s back in town.  He knew that she’ll be staying here for a while.  But he also knew he could lie, at least for that moment.  He also knew that he’s too deep into this loyalty thing to deprive her of that one thing that could bring her a source of momentary joy.  And he also knew that that momentary joy is laced and riddled with long-lasting torture.

So he tells her, “If you want to know, you figure it out yourself.”

The car was struck with silence once again.  Amber sunk into her thoughts again mainly because deep down she already knew too before she even asked.  She knew she was back but she just needed to hear it straight from someone else’s confirmation.  And once again, she's back in square one--actually she has never left this sick cycle of thoughts.

The problem is, she's the problem.  Krystal is the problem.  Krystal is my problem--

But before she can let her thoughts further consume her, the grumbling of her stomach and the throbbing of her skull vied for her undivided attention.  After all, before she can tend to the issues of her emotional needs, she needs to deal with her physiological needs first, according to the brilliant and the timeless Abraham Maslow.  Therefore, tapping Jackson on the arm, she confessed with a joking sincerity and seriousness, "Jackson, I think I'm ready to take the next step in my progress of rehabilitation."

Almost shocked and alarmed by her friend's sudden revelation, Jackson glanced at his side, completely buying it, asking, "Really?"

"Yeah."

“Okay, so…what now?  What’s the next step?  How can I help?”

“Well…” trying to suppress her laughter, in equal seriousness, she said, “The next step is at the next exit.  It’s a wonderful rehabilitation center—it’s known as God’s gift to mankind to help mend broken souls like yours and mine…  It’s called In-N-Out Burgers.  And I think I’m ready Jackson.”

Jackson shook his head and the two friends simply laughed it off.  It's the saddistic way they’ve learned to cope and stay sane in L.A. mornings like this filled with pleasant ironies.

A/N: Hehe...for some reason, I'm like grinning after proofreading this chapter.  I don't know if it's because I think it's ridiculous how I'm writing another story or because of the charm and the effect that angst stories has on me in a weird, covuluted way.  Anyways, my hope is that you just enjoy the ride with me!  ^_^