What Happens At The Ending Of Rant: An Oral Biography Of Buster Casey?

I was sent to a correctional facility by my family for five years. The first thing I learned there was obedience. If people told me to do one thing, I would never dare do anything else. The day my wife, Casey Anderson, came to pick me up, she stood at the entrance and said coldly, "If you dare say another bad word about Roger, I'll make sure you never speak again." The moment she finished speaking, I turned and ran straight into traffic. When she saw me get thrown by the impact of the car, she nearly lost her footing. At the hospital, my foster brother stood beside my bed with a sinister smile. "So you actually managed to survive. But that's fine. I have plenty of ways to kill you and make sure you never make it home." After saying that, he smashed the bowl of porridge onto the floor, then deliberately fell onto the shattered glass as he cried out loudly, "Bobby, if you hate me that much, I'll leave! Please, just let me go!" My mother and Casey happened to walk in at that exact moment. Casey immediately rushed over to help Roger up. My mother, meanwhile, slapped me hard across the face. "You'll never change, huh? If Roger's hand is ruined because of you and he can't play the piano anymore, I'd rather see you dead in this hospital bed." Obediently, I walked toward the window and jumped. The harsh, sharp-tongued woman who had always been my mother—and Casey as well—went completely pale with fear. I happened to crash onto my father's car. Trembling, he threw open the door and shouted for the medical staff. My consciousness gradually faded. Then, a system suddenly appeared and said, "Congratulations, Host. You have completed ninety-nine tragic storylines. Finish this final one, and you will be able to return to your original world and revive your younger sister."

After my younger brother died, my parents and grandfather all killed themselves. Each of them died in a different way, but they shared one thing in common: Before their deaths, every one of them had read my brother's suicide note. And in that note, there was only a single sentence. Reporters fought for a chance to interview me. The police interrogated me overnight. Countless people wanted to know what that sentence said. But I never told anyone. Until the tenth anniversary of my brother's death, when I saw a figure standing in front of his grave. At that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement. Because I knew my turn had finally come.

As Mom and Dad arrive at the company to hand it over to their biological son, Nick Yeager, I throw myself off the 30th floor. Blood splatters everywhere, and the crowd scatters in panic. Mom and Dad also scream in horror at the sight. But the moment they realize the dead person is me, the fear drains from their faces, replaced by nothing but disgust. "Back then, we brought home the wrong baby, so Nathan got to enjoy 20 years of wealth and privilege for nothing. Instead of being grateful to us for raising him, he kept making things hard for Nick after we acknowledged him and brought him home. And now he's killed himself at the office? What an ungrateful bastard!" The onlookers curse at me for having no conscience, saying that even in death, I won't let the Yeager family have a moment's peace. But in the end, no one expects Dad, who despises me more than anyone else, to hold my urn in his arms and beg me to come back with tears streaming down his face.

My wife, Rosalind Judd, has been tearing up our marriage certificate 99 times in the past ten years of our marriage. This is her usual tactic to make me apologize and make amends. The first time, I transfer 100 thousand dollars for Rosalind to come back from her travel abroad with her childhood friend, Jackson Lane. The tenth time, she ruins the anniversary I have prepared meticulously and forces me to immediately help him get back to work. The 50th time, she humiliates me in front of my client during the day and forces me to sign over the transfer agreement to a villa at night, while she has a candlelit dinner with Jackson. ... Now, for the 100th time, she forces me to transfer my company shares. Staring at the love bites on Rosalind's collarbone, I suddenly chuckle. Then, I board the plane decisively. This time, I no longer want her.

On the day I get discharged from the psychiatric hospital, my wife, Lisseth Gabler, speaks up all of a sudden. "When your mom was struck and killed by Donny's car, I was the one who hired a lawyer to defend him." My dad—the most elite doctor in the city—is still driving as he adds coolly, "I was the one who personally forged your mental illness records." Throughout the three-year torture I've received in the psychiatric hospital, I keep recalling the tragic way my mom died when she was struck by Donny Kaufman's car all the time. Meanwhile, my own wife chooses to defend him, whereas my own father has me admitted into a psychiatric hospital. I do my best not to collapse from the sheer shock. In a quivering tone, I ask, "Why?" Dad averts his gaze. Lisseth is the one who answers my question nonchalantly. "It's simple. You have everything. It's pitiful enough for Donny to be labelled as the illegitimate son. Now, I'm giving you two choices. Either patch things up with Donny, or stay in the psychiatric hospital for the rest of your life."

A lethal neurotoxin had taken hold of my lungs. My time is running out. My mother, Sofia, was the most connected lawyer in Palermo, excelling in burying crimes and twisting the law. When my brother Vincent mowed me down and shattered my leg, she called in every favor to clear his record. My father, Tommaso, the most feared private doctor in Sicily, faked my medical files, branding me unstable and delusional, all to mold me into the obedient son they needed. Then there was Lina, only daughter of Don Vitali, my wife. She said, “We let him out for Vincent’s liver. What if he says no?” Dad’s voice went cold. “He has two choices: lie quietly on that operating table… or waste away in the sanatorium for what’s left of his life.” I pushed the parlor door open, steady and slow. My voice was flat. “I’ll do it.” Every one of them let out a breath they’d been holding, showering me with hollow words. They didn’t know there was no life left to threaten. I had twenty-four hours. By sunrise, I would be dead either way. Funny… now that I’m in the ground, why are they all crying?