Knock Him Off His Feet

39. That'll be the Day

XAVIER

"Put the gun down. You don't know what you're doing—"

"I know exactly what I'm doing!" he hisses, waving the tip of the gun in my face, getting closer than I feel comfortable with. "I'm killing off the fuckwads that think they can beat someone like me."

He slurs the last of his words, evidence showing that he's not completely there, not that his pale skin and black eyes aren't enough to prove that.

"Relax," I tell him, though I wish I hadn't.

I watch in horror as his fingers clasp the trigger of the gun, slowly pulling on it and teasing me to the point where my lungs feel like they've been squeezed like wet rags.

"George?"

A feminine voice, one that pulls at my mind from all angles and turns my insides to dust, resonates through my ears, burying its nails in the darkest pits of my mind.

I know that voice. I know it as well as the back of my hand, as the day my brother took his last breath.

Sharky lowers the gun with a scowl, turning behind him to watch a pale figure emerge from the darkness, a red fabric coat clinging to her body like a life source, the stain of dirty blonde hair tied up into a curt little bun.

And eyes darker than the deepest parts of any trench in the sea. Eyes as dark as mine.

"Aline?" my voice whispers in disbelief, the boy I was when I was nine crawling from the past and planting itself in the present.

It's been so long since I'd last seen her, and I know every atom of my being should yearn for the woman I used to call Mom, but all I feel is anger. My heart is an element on a stove, heating up the pot that holds my blood.

"W-what are you doing here?" I growl, averting my eyes from the crazed young man in front of me, focusing all my attention on her instead. "You're dead. You're supposed to be dead."

I don't even believe my own words. I've never believed them since the day she crashed that car and took the life of her very own child. I didn't think it was an "accident" either. She killed him on purpose, I always knew that.

Something always told me she wasn't dead. Now proven to be right, she stands in front of me with the colour of sin staining her thin lips, and cracked lines forming at both sides of her dull dark eyes.

She looks like Foster, which is insanely ironic. Foster had her eyes too, but his hair was blonde; a light colour with streaks of brown running near his side burns and the back of his head. He also walked like her: graceful and elegant, strong and brave.

When I look at her, all I see is my brother. All I feel is him: his dimples on her face when she smiles; the calm of his voice when she talks.

It makes me want to snatch the gun from Sharky's hands and shoot myself instead.

"Hello Xavier." She places a smile on her face, and I know I shouldn't have these thoughts, but I wanted to slap the grin off of her and throw it on the ground.

When I remain silent, she sighs and gives a sad nod before tossing her eyes to the floor. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"No, actually," I answer, ignoring the man as high as a kite in front of me, giving us the weirdest looks imaginable. "I couldn't care less."

"Xavier—"

"Say his name." My voice comes out stronger than I really feel, which makes me think that I just croaked out the words rather than growled them.