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Carmy often found himself lost in thought, especially during the quiet moments in the early morning or late at night when the hustle and bustle of the restaurant had died down. The kitchen, now a silent witness to countless days of chaos, felt almost serene. It was in these moments that he couldn't help but wonder if anyone would miss him like they missed Mikey. Mikey, with his larger-than-life personality and the indelible mark he left on everyone he met. Mikey, whose absence was a gaping hole in their lives, a wound that never seemed to heal.
Some things, they're solid, they're built to last
Some things, they fall apart, they break like glass
Sometimes it's scary what they call "love"
And how fast what is can turn to what was
He thought about the way people spoke about Mikey, their voices tinged with a mixture of sadness and fondness. Stories of Mikey’s wild antics and his undeniable charm were shared with a reverence that bordered on legendary. Would anyone talk about him, Carmy, with the same affection and respect? He doubted it. He had always been the quiet one, the one who stayed in the background, more focused on the craft than the camaraderie. Mikey had been the heartbeat of their family, and without him, it felt like they were all just drifting.
Carmy’s thoughts often spiraled into darker places. He wondered if his absence would even be noticed. Would Richie or Sydney or Tina look around the kitchen and feel a pang of loss if he were gone? Or would they simply move on, finding a way to fill the void with someone else who could keep the kitchen running? He imagined the restaurant without him—the orders still being shouted, the dishes still being served, life going on as if he had never been there. It was a chilling thought, one that made him question his own value and the impact he had on those around him.
Sometimes, in the middle of a busy service, he'd catch a glimpse of the others—Richie’s boisterous laughter, Sydney’s focused determination, Tina’s quiet strength—and he’d wonder if they understood how much he relied on them. How much he needed them to validate his existence, to prove to himself that he mattered. He couldn't shake the feeling that, unlike Mikey, his departure would be a whisper rather than a roar, a slight shift in the rhythm rather than a whole system crash.
As he scrubbed a pot or diced vegetables with meticulous precision, Carmy’s mind would drift back to those who had left before him, those whose absence still echoed through the corridors of his life. Would his name be spoken in hushed tones, a reminder of a life that had been cut short? Or would it be quickly forgotten, buried under the weight of everyday responsibilities and new memories?
Waking up this morning and I'm drunk again
Without you here
Went outside and I lit up a cigarette
And it made me think
Carmy stepped outside The Beef, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The first drag filled his lungs with a familiar burn, the smoke curling around him like a silent companion. He exhaled slowly, watching the tendrils dissipate into the night air, his eyes drifting upwards towards the stars.
The early morning sky was clear, a blanket of stars twinkling against the inky blackness. Each pinpoint of light felt like a distant, unreachable beacon. He wondered if anyone ever noticed the stars beyond their light pollution and busy lives. Would anyone notice him if he were up there, just another speck in the vast expanse? The thought settled heavily in his mind, an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his chest.
Carmy took another drag, the nicotine failing to soothe the growing pressure within him. It was a familiar feeling, one that had been building for as long as he could remember. It was a terrible, silent despair, a need for release that had no outlet. No scream, no wail, no sob or weep could adequately express the turmoil he felt inside. He was trapped in his own mind, unable to find a way to break free.
He stared at the stars, seeking answers in their distant light. The silence around him was deafening, his thoughts swirling like a storm he couldn’t escape. The memories of Mikey, the relentless pressure of the kitchen, the expectations he placed on himself—all of it merged into a suffocating void. He felt like he was drowning in his own emotions, unable to make a sound, unable to reach out for help.
If I died last night in an aeroplane
In a pile-up on the interstate
If I closed my eyes and went up in flames
If I took too much, and I suffocate
The cigarette burned down to the filter, and he looked at it, his mind still in turmoil. Without fully realizing what he was doing, he pressed the lit end against his wrist, the sharp pain a momentary distraction from the chaos within. The searing heat cut through the numbness, and he felt something—anything—other than the crushing weight of his thoughts. He watched the smoke curl up from his skin, the pain grounding him in the present moment, if only for a second. He flicked the nub into the gutter.
The sky remained unchanged. The stars uncaring. Carmy stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling the enormity of his insignificance. The world would keep turning, the stars would keep shining, and life would go on, whether he was a part of it or not.
He didn’t cry, though he felt the urge clawing at him from the inside. Instead, he remained silent, the pressure building with no release. The night was cold, and he shivered slightly. Carmy flicked his lighter on and off, the small flame briefly illuminating his face before plunging him back into the darkness. The rhythmic click of the lighter was oddly soothing, a small act of control in a world that often felt chaotic and overwhelming. He held the flame a bit longer each time, feeling the heat build against his thumb. It burned, but he didn’t mind. The pain was a reminder that he was still here, still alive, still feeling something, even if it wasn’t what he wanted to feel.
It would tear me apart, it would haunt me forever
So much you'd never get to know
He watched the flame dance, its flickering light casting fleeting shadows on the brick wall in front of him. The night was quiet, the usual noise of the city muted by the late hour. The stars overhead continued their mocking, indifferent to his struggles. He wondered if they had witnessed Mikey’s pain, if they had seen his brother’s final moments. Would they bear witness to his own if he decided to follow the same path?
The thought lingered, heavy and oppressive. He had always felt like he was living in Mikey’s shadow, trying to live up to his memory while grappling with the same demons that had consumed him. The pressure was unbearable at times, a constant reminder of his own perceived inadequacy. Would people miss him like they missed Mikey? Would his absence leave a void, or would life simply move on, indifferent to his departure?
He flicked the lighter again, the flame igniting with a small burst of heat. He held it close to his thumb, the pain a sharp contrast to the numbness inside. He needed to feel something, anything, that would break through the fog of despair that enveloped him. The burning sensation was a fleeting connection to reality, a temporary anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
As the flame died once more, he continued to stare at the sky, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He felt the terrible pressure building, the kind of despair that needed an outlet but refused to manifest in tears or screams. It was a silent, consuming anguish, one that gnawed at him from the inside. He felt like he was suffocating, trapped in his own mind with no escape.
Carmy remembered the moment he got the call about Mikey like it was yesterday. He was in the middle of prepping for dinner service, the familiar rhythm of the kitchen a comforting backdrop to his thoughts. The phone rang, and everything changed in an instant. He dropped the knife he was holding, the clatter of it hitting the stainless steel counter echoing in the suddenly silent kitchen. The words on the other end of the line were a blur, but the meaning was clear. Mikey was gone.
He remembered running down the hall, his legs barely carrying him as his mind tried to process the news. The grief hit him like a freight train, a crushing weight that left him gasping for air. He blamed himself immediately, replaying every interaction, every conversation, searching for the signs he missed, the moments where he could have done something, anything, to save his brother. The guilt was suffocating, a relentless tide that threatened to pull him under.
Can't stand the thought of you getting that call
Dropping your phone, running down the hall
Blaming yourself for when shit hit the wall
And drowning my memory in alcohol
He wondered if they would react the same way if he killed himself. Would they drop their phones, their worlds shattering with the news? Would they run, desperate to make sense of the senseless? Would they blame themselves, questioning every word, every action, searching for answers that might never come? The thought of inflicting that kind of pain on anyone, especially the people he cared about, made his stomach churn.
He tried to imagine their faces, their reactions. Sydney, with her fierce determination and unyielding support, would probably be the first to arrive. She’d hold it together, for a while, but he knew the cracks would start to show. Richie would be a mess, his tough exterior crumbling as the reality set in. Tina, Ebraheim, Marcus—they all had their own battles, their own ways of coping, but he knew his death would hit them hard.
He couldn't bear the thought of them blaming themselves, drowning their sorrows in alcohol, trying to numb the pain. He’d seen firsthand what that kind of grief could do, how it could hollow out a person from the inside, leaving only a shell behind. He didn’t want that for them. He didn’t want them to suffer the way he had.
But the despair was still there, a constant companion that whispered in his ear, reminding him of his failures, his shortcomings. He flicked the lighter on and off, blowing it out whenever it's light got too big, too bright, too much. Maybe that's why everyone thought him an asshole, blowing out, extinguishing anything good for himself. Though he knew he had to, he didn't deserve it.
Carmy stared at the sky, surprised at the light that seemed to rise from the sun. Was he really here for hours? He didn't know. His thoughts were a tangled mess of memories and regrets. The chill of the early morning air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed, lost in the whirlwind of his mind.
If I went to Heaven, it would still be Hell
Without you there
His thoughts drifted to Sydney. She challenged him, pushed him to be better, to figure out how to run a fucking restaurant. He remembered the late nights they spent planning menus, the way she could cut through his bullshit with a single look, her laughter a bright spot in the often grueling days. He hated to fuckin admit it but he was intoxicated by her.
He chuckled softly to himself, the sound almost foreign in the quiet dawn. She had become such an integral part of his life, more than he had ever expected. It was her unwavering support and relentless drive that had kept him going on the days when he felt like giving up. She was there, in the trenches with him, every step of the way.
He realized then that he had gotten "too attached" to this family. It wasn't just Sydney. It was Richie, Tina, Ebraheim, Marcus—every one of them. They had become his lifeline, the ones who pulled him back from the edge, even when he didn't want to be saved. He felt a mixture of gratitude and fear, knowing how much they meant to him, how much he needed them.
As Carmy stood there, feeling the warmth of the rising sun on his skin, he heard the door behind him creak open. Richie stepped out, his eyes immediately landing on the burn mark on Carmy's wrist. Without a word, Richie walked up and smacked Carmy upside the head.
"What the fuck, Carm," Richie sighed, his voice a mix of anger and concern (half startled he hadn't seen that ghostly motherfucker, shit). "Don't be doing that Mikey shit, scaring me, cousin. Come on, let's get you inside."
Carmy barely had time to register the words before Richie was guiding him back into The Beef. Once inside, Richie pulled him into a tight hug, the unexpected gesture both grounding and overwhelming.
"Fuck, man," Richie muttered, his voice softer but no less intense. "You gotta tell me you're fuckin' good, okay? Jesus. You can't be pulling this shit. Not after Mikey. We can't lose you too."
I'm sorry, I hate this
I've never felt so alone
I need you now, so come over
I just want you to know
Richie’s hug was a no-nonsense, bear-like grip, wrapping around Carmy with a raw intensity that left no room for misunderstanding. He pulled Carmy in close, his arms strong and steady, as if trying to anchor him against the storm of his thoughts. The embrace was firm, almost rough, and had a way of squeezing out some of the fear and anguish that had been building up. Richie’s body was solid and warm, a stark contrast to the cold that had settled around Carmy, providing a kind of practical comfort that didn’t dwell on soft words but on the sheer presence of being there.
Carmy felt Richie’s rough hands clenching his back, the way his cousin’s grip tightened as if he was holding on for dear life. The smell of smoke and his aftershave easing the tension in his shoulders. The hug was straightforward, no frills—just a raw, genuine show of care. Richie’s breath was warm against Carmy’s ear, his voice a low growl of concern as he muttered, “Don’t fuckin’ scare me like that.” The hug was a simple, effective reassurance, a grounding force that reminded Carmy he was still connected to something solid, even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
"I'm sorry," Carmy whispered, his voice barely audible. "I just...I don't know. It's hard."
Richie pulled back slightly, keeping his hands firmly on Carmy's shoulders. "I know it's hard, man. It's fucking brutal. But you don't have to go through it alone. We got you, okay? All of us. We need you here."
Carmy nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thanks, Richie."
"Anytime, cuz," Richie replied, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "Now, let's get you cleaned up. And no more of that self-destructive bullshit, alright?"
Carmy managed a weak laugh, the sound feeling foreign but welcome. "Yeah, alright. No more bullshit."
If I died last night in an aeroplane
In a pile-up on the interstate
If I closed my eyes and went up in flames
If I took too much, and I suffocate
Would it tear you apart, would it haunt you forever
So much you'd never get to know