I can't exactly remember when I'd drifted off. Maybe it was just after hearing the words that I needed to hear from Xavier, or maybe it was hours later.
Whichever it had been, when I finally did awake the next morning, I did so with the casualness of someone who was so used to this. But of course, this was not something I was used too. The very truth of the matter is that I was still a stranger in this home.
Sleep was such a welcome thing though. With all the mess and anarchy that had flown through my life these past couple of months, it felt like such a reprieve was needed. There was no worry about needing to bolt out the window, nor was there ever any worry about becoming a moving target. Honestly, it was just nice to wake up and not feel like you had to watch your back.
Eyelids still heavy, a groan escaped me as the piercing light of the morning sun cracked through the curtains. I rolled my body closer to Xavier's bed, instantly regretting my decision. My lungs filled themselves with an all too familiar pained fire. Thoughts were swimming rampant in my head, as my bruised body registered its own alertness with every movement.
Last night was weird. It started out in the worst possible place. Like the bar could not have been any lower. And over the course of a single night, hope sprang.
Maybe it made me a bad person to pine for something that might not even happen. Clearly Xavier was still on the hook with his girlfriend, and even if he wasn't, who was I to say who he would wind up with next. As much as I pray for something to happen, I'm not willing to do it in spite of his own happiness.
"Mornin'," I manage, my one good eye limping itself back into the land of the living.
As soon as everything adjusted itself again, I could make out clearly that I'd just said something to no one in particular. The sheets which had adorned his bed just hours prior seemed now to be casually dismissed at the foot of his bed in an organized chaos. The impression of him was still left in his pillow, but it became clear that he had left the room some time ago.
A lazy, sort of wistful, sigh escaped my lips as I turned onto my back, wincing through the pain of it in the moment.
It dawned on me very quickly how stuck I was, not that that was necessarily a bad thing. From the pictures we crossed on the way to his room, I knew that Xavier had a father still in the picture, as well as two sisters. No mother, but I already kind of knew that. Regardless, no one except Xavier knew I was even here at this point in time. To just come out of his room would have been a ballsy statement if people knew who I was, but something about me being an almost stranger made it worse.
Until Xavier came back, I couldn't make a move. Even when he did, the only two options would be to awkwardly meet his family, or to climb out a second-story window. Neither of those options felt like they were particularly appealing.
My body forced itself upright, the muscles holding me there reminding me once again how painful my movements were making things. With shaky hands, I swept back through my hair, before eyeing the door intently, as if just the mere presence of my gaze was enough to make Xavier show up in a wisp of smoke.
"Can we not talk about this now," comes a voice. It's faint, but the distinctive low timbre is enough to make me know it's Xavier. His tone is soft, but also sharp, cutting through the bullshit of whoever he is talking too.
I'm almost surprised when the voice that replies in kind does not match his tone or presence. Instead, it is higher, airier, and most importantly, filled to the brim with worry.
This must be one of the sister's whose faces filled the family portraits.
"Xavier," the voice becomes a tad shriller, as if expectant of this to stop the wrecking ball of a boy I'd come to know. "You can't keep doing this to him." Her words are enough to stop my heart for a second. "You can't keep doing this to us," she continues, her voice dropping slightly, but her tone still carrying through the walls.
"It's not a big deal," he replies, low and stable.
Even without looking at him, I can tell he's lying. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know when a boy like Xavier is lying to you. The girl must notice it too, because she doesn't take her foot off the pedal.
"You leave whenever you want, and come home whenever you feel like it." Her tone is made to make him aware that she can see right through him. She sighs, and it's one that makes the air in the house feel toxic, like she's been keeping this all in for so long. "How is that not a big deal."
The argument is closer now, just in the hallway on the other side of the bedroom door. Footsteps ring so heavy whenever someone moves, and the boards creak from the combined weight of their pain.
I want to make my presence known, but now is probably not the best time. My involvement is just going to make the situation worse. In no reality, similar to this, would seeing a boy come out of your bedroom with bedhead be a good thing.
"Maybe you should leave me alone," he growls.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"What's that supposed to mean."
His tone is accusatory, but his language is laced with explosiveness. He is a stick of dynamite lit from both ends, ready to blow, but remaining calm until the spark reaches him. I think he's hurting in a way that I can't even begin to describe right now.
The voice of the girl drops down, sensing the escalating tension that is coming between them. It's something she has done before; walking as daintily and light-footed as she can on these eggshells to prevent the worst from occurring. Even when she moves closer, her steps are only referenced by how softer her words feel.
It's like a dangerous game of cat and mouse, where the mouse knows that in order to win, they must use an abundance of grace.
"No one's been right since mom," she says. Pain is something that hides in her voice, but it's something that she manages in her own terms. "We're all trying to move on."
'Is that such a bad thing?' seems to lie in the undercurrent of what she's saying. But she doesn't come out with this, mostly because if she does then she'll push Xavier further and further away. And right now, she's trying to throw him a life-line, something to help him back to shore.
"We shouldn't even be moving on in the first place," he responds, angrier than he had been a second ago.
His sister's words have missed their mark entirely. Not that this wasn't to be expected.
"Xavier, you have to understand that-"
"No, you need to understand that it's not right to just cut her out like she didn't exist." His words are loud and forceful. My breath hitches just a bit with how scared it makes me feel.
There is so much agony in his brain that it's twisting itself into the only thing he knows how to feel; anger. It's anger that makes him do what he feels like. Everything he does seems to be motivated by just how pissed off he feels at the world. It's like he has all of his emotions, but they all seem to be muted against the one that speaks the loudest.
I want to understand this. I want to understand how anger comes so quickly to some, and how often it feels like the first response. I want to find the root of pain, knowing full well that it's aggression.
Because maybe by understanding Xavier and his own motivations, I can understand my own hurricane of a father.
"We all understand how you're taking it hard. But at the same time talking is not going to kill you," she responds, an unwavering tenacity keeping her rooted on the floor. "In fact, not talking is killing you." She laughs, but it's one of those condescending half-laughs that shows her hand. The girl is just as pissed, but seems to have a tighter grip on the reins of her anger. "If we don't talk about it then it's just gonna fester and..."
She dangerously trails off. Her words have lost their momentum, and her tone becomes softer.
"And what Glory?"
There are a few moments of silence between the two of them. It doesn't seem like Xavier is fully grasping the situation. Or if he is, he's not showing it to his sister.
"I'm just scared that you'll hurt yourself."
Her words leave me aching for more. I want to know what she means, but it's made evidently clear that Xavier doesn't want to discuss this right now. The thought of him taking his internal pain and throwing that externally is a scary one. It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it.
Xavier says nothing, and instead turns to enter his room. I know this because a moment later, the door swings open.
In a singular moment, I can feel the entire puzzle shifting. He pauses as his eyes land on me, somehow forgetting that I'd even been here all along. The door is wide, and his hesitation allows for me to get a better look at his sister. She's a fairly tall girl, built with all the same features of Xavier; same dark complexion, same short black hair, same look of disdain in their eyes whenever they found something that they shouldn't have found.
We share this awkward stare with each other, her wondering just what I'm doing here, and me wondering whether she's going to make a scene. After all, this is pretty much scene-worthy material right here.
Glory is the first to break her eye-contact as she looks back to Xavier, who is staring directly at me, wondering if I'm going to make a move. I'm not sure what kind of move I should make. Somehow jumping out the window doesn't feel as bad an idea as it had before.
She moves in closer, her footsteps cautious.
"Xavier," she speaks, her voice brittle and weary.
He doesn't respond, and instead becomes a swarm of emotions. There is a dark cloud that looms over his head, and it makes him seem familiar in so many ways right now. His fists tense, and his head bows, as if he's wanting to do two different things at the same time. Wars are brewing inside him so fast, so furious.
When Glory reaches out a hand, he moves. It's a quick movement and one that shows his true emotions. His hand immediately swats at hers, and his eyes grow darker.
From my experience, now would be the moment where he makes his moves. But he doesn't. Instead, he bows his own head again, and tenses up. Before I have the chance to register him further, he is like a bolt of lightning, storming down the stairs and out the front door in a speed that I could only expect from an Olympic runner.
The door does not close, because he does not have the energy to close it behind him. I, on the other hand, do not have the energy to follow after him.