Supernovas & Escapism

Chapter Forty-One

      In a lot of ways, I guess I should have expected this all to happen tonight of all nights. The night that day breaks is also the same night darkness lurches.

     Truth be told, there was a lot of breakthrough that had happened, even if I wasn't ready to accept some of that breakthrough as of yet. Talking about my mom and how she had left this world had always proved difficult. Most people would pester me for a response, and here was this guy who didn't need to say a word to lure it out of me—all he had to do was be my best friend.

     But as the light of the Livingroom illuminates the hallway, I can only expect the worst.

     My hands are taut behind my back, making sure to make the most delicate movements. Everything in me was tired. It had gotten to a point where my bones rattled with every step. Exhaustion encompassed every part of me. If I'm being completely honest, the drive back home just felt like one big blur. Sure, it was a dangerous concept but I was here, wasn't I?

     The door closed slowly enough so as not to alert anyone around with a creak. Sounds of the night echoed through the hallway. Only when the latch clicked on the door did the final sound shudder through the silence. Clunk. I practically winced, forcing my eyes closed and baiting my breath.

     "Xavier," a voice rang from the end of the hallway. It didn't sound so much like a question as a statement of fact, my father counting off his children in succession. Glory never stayed out too late on weekdays, and Katy is like, twelve. Process of elimination leaves the one kid he can't control.

     The air leaves my lungs like a sudden punch to the gut. More than anything, I don't want to talk anymore tonight. My head feels done through a mixture of everything.

     But more than anything, I know that if I'm pushed, I'll cave. I'll tell him everything; how the guy I care about won't stand up for himself because he doesn't feel worthy; how our talks in streetlight fill me up more than anything else I can say; how I want to run with him, to escape and find freedom somewhere that isn't here. My father might put up a good measure of understanding, but even he has his limits. He'll chalk it down to my onset of irrational behavior that's only sprung from tragedy.

     That Tragedy.

     Fuck, I wish he would talk about her. Even if he was pissed at her, I wish he would just talk about how she used to be, and how he had loved her.

     Maybe then I wouldn't miss her so much. Maybe then I'd be able to relinquish control of keeping pieces of her in her own house. If someone could remember her as much as me, then maybe I wouldn't feel like an idiot.

     "Xavier?" he calls out again from his chair. This time he seems uncertain, a creak in the air as he attempts to move from his position.

     Nails dig so hard into my palms that I almost swear I can feel the blood trickling down. "Yeah?" I reply into the void, hoping that what's waiting for me isn't pity or anger. After silence, I trek into the living room, footsteps still cautious as if the space between us is filled with mom-shaped mines. My eyes manage to catch the clock to see that it's nearly five a.m.

     How long had we been out in the think tank? How long had I been restless in the car? How long did it take before the lights in Garth's house turned off and how long afterwards did I eventually leave?

     "It's late," he says gruffly, pointing to a seat in front of him as I round the corner into his field of vision.

     His face is a vision of worry. Every line on his face seems to carry a tenuous instability. If people's faces were like music, then he would be that blues song from a long-by day where blues music actually meant something. Hands are primed to the edge of his seat, almost squeezing the upholstery from them.

     And somehow, in his bitter moment, all I can do is crack wise.

     "Technically it's early," I respond, taking a seat on the couch across from him.

     If my dad finds this funny, he doesn't let me know. What was worry soon supplants itself into this fierce protective anger that I should expect from him by now. "Forgive me," he says dryly. "But when you don't come home, then I think I have a right to mistake night for morning."

     There's a small silence that lingers. I don't dare speak first, because if I do, he will jump straight down my throat. It's far too late for that and my brain can only take so much excitement for one day.

     Slowly, he rubs a temple, eyes looking straight through me.

     "Where the hell where you?" he asks in a voice so tender, that I know he's only holding back so no one else wakes.

     "Out." My tone is so curt and tight that it almost shocks myself

     "No," he says, voice rising. He has his finger pointed straight at me now, all accusatory and shit. "Enough of this Xavier. There's only so much bull that I can put up from with you before I find myself snapping."

     His teeth are bared, as he voices his concern through grit. "We are not done speaking till you tell me what the hell is going on."

     So much for crashing.