Chapter 1: Gilbert Raeder
1013 Words
“How are you, Cody?” he asked, lowering himself onto the plush velvet sofa tucked into the corner of my room.
He didn’t just sit—he sank into it like a man bracing for impact, shoulders tight, knees angled as if ready to spring back up at the first sign of danger. He should’ve been. The air was thick enough to choke on, packed with the sour stink of liquor, cigarettes, and that far uglier scent I’d come to recognize as myself. The heroin made my skin crawl beneath my clothes, a ceaseless itch that felt almost alive, like something was burrowing under the surface.
“F-f-fine,” I slurred, the lie sliding out of my mouth with the grace of shattered glass.
He studied me with a blunt, clinical coldness that felt like a medical chart being filled out in real time.
“Really now? You look like shit.”
I barked a laugh, too loud, too sharp. “Look who’s talking.”
His eyes thinned into razors. “Hey, at least I’m not a thirty-three-year-old junkie.”
That one hit hard—hard enough to sober a corpse. It didn’t sober me, though. Not even close.
“f**k you, Gilbert. All you ever do is b***h and moan about how I used to be a child star.”
Gilbert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a grin slicing across his face like a knife made for close work.
“Well, guess what? They’re making a 2025 remake of Monsters in the Closet. Looks like you weren’t fully forgotten.”
“Bastards.”
“Why are you upset? This is your shot at getting back into acting. You could play the father.”
I snorted. “Me? You’re out of your damn mind.”
I pushed myself up from the recliner, and the room immediately twisted, the walls bending like wet cardboard. I stumbled, arms flailing as the floor rushed up like a pissed-off old friend.
“Why not? You look old as s**t. Perfect casting.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, lurching toward him, half-aiming for a slap that never had a chance. The floor won that fight without breaking a sweat. I hit the ground hard, breath exploding from my lungs in a pathetic wheeze.
A long moment passed. Gilbert watched me without a hint of triumph—just exhaustion. Then, quietly:
“You ever watch BoJack Horseman, Cody?”
The haze thinned instantly. “That’s my favorite show ever!” I beamed, proud as a drunk i***t could be.
Gilbert exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy.
“Well… you remind me of BoJack more than anything. Sarah Lynn too.”
There was no cruelty in his voice—just a soft, misguided attempt at honesty.
But his words landed like a blade, twisting deep where I kept the truth buried. I didn’t want help. Not his. Not anyone’s.
“I can’t help you if you’re not willing to change,” he said, all humor gone.
“Why the hell would I want to change?” I muttered, letting the words slur together.
“BECAUSE YOU ARE A PATHETIC PIECE OF s**t!” he roared.
Gilbert never yelled. Getting him angry was like waking a dormant volcano—rare, dangerous, and final. The whole room shrank around his voice.
“Oh,” I whispered, retreating into my lazy boy as if it could shield me.
He rubbed his face, his fury burning down to embers. “Call me when you’re not drunk. The movie won’t flop this time. I promise.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, skepticism dripping through the alcohol fog.
“Because Lionsgate is producing this one.” He stood in the dim kitchen doorway, grin faint but real.
My coffee shot out of my mouth in a graceless spray. Coffee—my only stimulant left since cocaine had become frustratingly scarce, a treasure hunt with no map.
“Say what?!” I sputtered.
“Yeah. Shooting begins in two weeks. Are you up for it?” He gave me a subtle nod, the kind that meant he’d already decided for me.
“Sure,” I mumbled, which in my state could’ve meant anything from yes to please remove that invisible snake from the ceiling.
“But you can’t use heroin on set,” he snapped, his tone going hard again.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you’ll nod off during filming. Every scene will take ten times longer. Do you have any idea how expensive delays are?”
He wasn’t wrong. Junkies don’t make reliable actors. Not outside of tragic documentaries.
“I’ll do it,” I said, staggering toward him. We shook hands—my grip loose, his iron tight.
“You better keep your word.”
“Don’t you even worry,” I muttered, brushing him off with an airy wave.
Gilbert didn’t move. His face softened—just barely. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” he asked, voice carrying something raw. Concern. Fear. Whatever it was, I hadn’t asked for it.
“Gilbert?” I called as he made it to the door.
He paused. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I whispered, my throat tightening around the words like they were barbed wire.
His smile was small, tired. “Anytime. Just remember the deal. If you f**k this up, no studio will ever hire you again.”
“Understood. See you tomorrow then?” I forced a half-grin.
“See you tomorrow.”
The door clicked shut behind him, a sound that echoed strangely in the dim apartment. For the first time in twenty-eight years, I had good news—real news. Something solid to look forward to instead of another high, another void, another day spent sinking deeper into a life I’d stopped recognizing.
But with that hope came a cold, hollow dread.
I just had to not screw it up. Not this time. Because this wasn’t just another chance.
This was the last one I was ever going to get.
- Writer
