40
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Christopher Shaw's house
October 19, 2018
1:03 p.m.

CHRISTOPHER IS NOT BENT over the windowsill when I walk inside his room.

The disappearance of his image in front of it unravels something within me, freeing me for just a moment from my never-ending anger and giving way to an unknown worry. It's weird, not seeing him perched on it with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. In times of stress, when the world seems to have something against him, Christopher chooses to smoke near the window and gaze at the outside world.

It's his safe haven.

I halt when I see him lying on the bed and take quiet steps back, hiding behind the bureau I used as an obstacle on that night to escape --- escape from Christopher, which sounds absurd now.

His body is motionless on the bed, a pale figure dotted with blues and purples and blacks and reds that resembles a store mannequin. No, perhaps he resembles more a living corpse. The only indication of his vitality comes in the constant inflating and deflating of his scratched chest; a movement that's in rhythm with his calm breaths.

His eyes are wide and red as he looks up at the ceiling, the puffiness that surrounds them preventing him from blinking properly. Maybe it's a combination between the puffiness and the bruising that's painfully coming down. All I know is that he's barely blinking. The thought burns in my own eyes, as if I'm the one who is letting the day's hot air inside. I blink several times, my world becoming dark and returning to Christopher's image, over and over again.

Perhaps he's not here at all. I know what being stuck in your own mind looks like. I've seen it on countless of my father's patients, but also in myself.

He's probably replaying what happened on that night and at the diner, looking for what he did wrong and fantasizing about what he could've done right. Maybe he's back to his traumatizing childhood, seeing how his father beats the shit out of his mother and witnessing what W.S. was doing to Becky Rivers. In these memories, he probably imagines his nine-year-old self standing up to his father and changing him for the better with the power of his love.

Then realizes that it's all complete and utter bullshit. Love is not worth a damn thing when it comes to confronting evil in its vilest form. There's no way to change a sick mind, just like there's no way to change the past. The past is the past, the present quickly transforms into the past, and the future is all that's there. Even then, it all becomes the past and we're left with constant regret and guilt and past happiness that transforms to sadness whenever it comes to mind.

Fuck, I'm doing it myself right now. I turn my focus back to Christopher, who is still motionless on the bed.

A cigarette is stuck between his forefinger and middle finger, some smoke curling as it floats on top of its butt. The cigarette's butt is so long that it disintegrates in the air, some of its residue falling on the bed and forming dark gray dust. His left hand rests on his scratched chest, while he takes the cigarette to his lips with his right one. Smoke comes out from his open mouth until it billows all around him, a gray cloud that hides him for a moment until it reaches my lungs. The cough that threatens to come out gets stuck in my throat. Christopher doesn't seem to notice, which is odd.

It seems that I always watch him in secrecy.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down slowly, while his jaw clenches. Those are little tell-tale signs for when he's about to cry, but there are no tears in his eyes, no choked-up cries, no emotion whatsoever. His lips are moving, but I don't know if he's mumbling something or if it's just the result of a tremble. The red irritation in his eyes and the pink puffiness that surrounds them are enough evidence to know that he's done nothing but cry during these past few days. There's nothing left in him, nothing left to cry for. He's bled through everything.

My heart clenches painfully, making my body quiver from the sight. My eyes sting with his tears, the ones he has shed and the ones that are now trapped inside of him. His tears well up inside of me, burning in my throat and the tip of my nose, flooding me with desperation and guilt. I breathe through my mouth, trying to breathe out the melancholy that's taking ahold of my body. My eyes flutter shut for a moment, retaining the tears until they go back to where they came from.

I can do this. It's just a conversation, a patient search for his side of the story, and then I'm gone.

The room looks different during the day, under the golden glare of the bleeding sun in the sky. The sky seems to be bleeding today, too. The items inside the room are no longer indistinguishable shapes in a dark background or shapeless shadows that distort to become monsters in the night. They're finally parts of the room, parts of a whole.

There's a square of sunshine reflected on the floor, portraying the shadows of birds that pass by and the tree that's planted close to the window. The atmosphere appears to be lighter, no traces of darkness in it, as if revealing another part of Christopher that's not dark.

This tranquil atmosphere is softening my rage, quenching the anger and transforming it to understanding.

Taking a deep breath, I step away from the bureau and make my presence known by standing in the middle of the room. No reaction. I take a step back, my heart palpitating in my throat, and then take two steps forward. I can't help but think that I'm in between his innocence and guilt, the decision waiting for me on the other side of the room.

I'm about to cross a dangerous line, but my father is waiting for me in the car if anything happens.

Taking another deep breath, I close the distance between me and the bed. Now I'm standing in front of the bed, my exposed thigh brushing against his foot before I pull it back. No reaction, just the unclenching of his jaw as he takes the cigarette to his lips.

He doesn't notice me for the first time since the party. The realization alone resonates in my head, making it pound and hurt the more the truth dawns on me. My chest swells with pain, the beating of my heart tumultuous in my ears. Maybe he's just ignoring me, which is a million times worse.

I concentrate on how his sweaty hair is sticking to his forehead, strands that have become long and unruly since Melody's death. Droplets of sweat slide down his torso, making it glint against the sun's restless glare. As I observe how he does absolutely nothing, I wonder if he's the same guy who killed Melody.

Is he the same guy who hid his identity from me? From everyone? The same guy who lied to me and took advantage of my trust? The same guy who stole my heart? The one who made me fall in love with him? Can he be so cruel?

My heart aches and longs for the past, where I was blissfully ignorant. My only problems were boys --- how to get Christopher to notice me, really ---clothes and school. I wasn't aware of Levittown's darkness, didn't have a name for its effects on me. I was just another one of its puppets, moving and talking and doing as it wanted me to. My purpose was to please the town that saw and allowed my mother to die in the most violent way. But I was happy --- heart swelling, stomach aching, blissfully happy. The true kind of happiness and exhilaration.

I want to be short skirts and crop-tops again, the sweet vanilla scent on the crook of my neck. I want to be vodka breath and the smoke that circulates in his lungs, the secret touch of lips in one of the riverbank parties. I want to be two a.m. laughter and sugary whispers in the ear, a beautiful secret floating in the air with no particular destination. I want to be a teenager again, angry and hormonal and filled with angst and normal.

I want to be that girl again.

"Alexa," he says in a hoarse voice, his eyes trailing down to find me for a single second before turning back to the ceiling.

Under his fleeting gaze, I feel exposed and raw and scare and in love, all at once. His voice sends shivers down my spine and makes my body tremble. My body paralyzes in front of the bed, despite the sudden urge to hide behind the bureau and run to leave with my father. There are warnings blaring in my head but dying in my heart, mixed signals that prevent me from making a decision.

What's it going to be, Alexa? What's it going to be?

Christopher stands up, a quick movement in my vision, and goes to the window. He leaves a sweat patch on his black bed cover, a wet outline of his body that marks how long he's been there. As if on instinct, I step back and keep my distance. He has too much power over me. I need to think clearly if I'm going to get anything out of him.

With both hands, he thrusts the window doors forward, a gap forming between the two before they go to opposite directions. No cooling wind comes in, just more hot air to make this room a sweltering box.

"I thought I'd never see you again. Most people would say you're stupid for coming back here. Haven't you heard?" he mumbles, looking at me over his shoulder before returning his gaze forward. It's like he's afraid to look at me for too long. "I'm contagious."

The word 'contagious' comes out of his mouth in what appears to be sobs, but his whole body is shaking as if he's laughing. Maybe it's a combination of the two. My mouth goes dry, my mind blank. The words I formed into sentences and practiced in my head during the ride here blend and mix, until my speech becomes an incomprehensible, jumbled mess.

"Your dad's in my driveway," he says with a hint of irony, a tiny smile growing on his face as he pokes his head out. "How did you get in? Mom's not home yet."

"The front door was unlocked," I whisper, looking down at the floor and nibbling on my bottom lip.

"Of course it was. It's not like everyone in town hates my guts and two psychos are running around, trying to kill me." He blows some smoke outside, the gray cloud tainting the golden yellow of the day. "Isn't that how Melody died?"

I flinch as soon as those words leave his lips with a coldness I haven't heard from him before. It's as if he's void of any emotion now. I take two steps back, beginning to regret my decision to come here and needing the added space between us.

Christopher turns around, pressing his butt against the windowsill. Some black jeans hang low on his hips, revealing his V-line along with the bruises that dot around it. I bite hard on my lower lip, trailing my eyes back to his face. No distractions. Unfortunately, he catches me looking. As he trails his eyes to the wall that's next to the bed, a teasing smile appears on his bruised face.

Why does he have to be so beautiful? Why is he making this harder?

His eyes don't shine like they used to, though. Instead, they look lifeless and dull. In the spark they used to have, there was a sense of self confidence, an assurance of who he was and what he wanted from the world. That's been taken away from him with no previous warning or suspicion.

I love that spark. It's one of the things I noticed about him first, what captured my attention when Melody presented him to me.

Somehow, the red in his eyeballs, the pink puffiness that surrounds his eyes, and the dark circles under them makes their crystal blue color pop out. The soft hue rests undisturbed in the middle of all the chaos and pain, still finding a way to portray that there's still emotion in him.

"I don't mean to be rude, Alexa, but why are you here? It's obviously not to discuss my innocence or my side of the story," he mumbles, choking on his words.

"What makes you say that?" I whisper, clearing my throat.

"Are you kidding me?" he mumbles, laughing in a sarcastic way. "Your body trembles every time I move. You're awfully quiet and you're never quiet around me, not since--- You've been hiding from me this whole time, despite the fact that I haven't so much as approached you. There's also the fucking fear in your eyes, the way you're looking at me like they all do. I don't give a fuck if other people fear me, it's from you that fucking hurts."

I gulp the lump that's growing in my throat and take a deep breath. "Well, you're wrong. I'm here to talk... to hear your side of things."

Christopher looks at me, really looks at me for the first time today. Something in my stomach flutters, ignites a fire I thought was going to be forever extinguished. His eyes slowly regain some of their lost sparkle, shinning bright with hope and new possibilities.

"Really?" he whispers, smoke coming out of his nostrils. He begins to cough, his eyes becoming watery but bright now. There's a big, fat smile on his face that illuminates every one of his bruised features. He looks like a little boy on Christmas day.

I nod, biting my lower lip to prevent from smiling. I need to have control of the situation. No distractions. There's still the possibility of his guilt.

"I deserve an explanation."

"'Course, 'course," he says, putting his cigarette out on the windowsill. "What made you change your mind?"

"Dad," I mumble, shifting from one foot to the other. "Apparently, he's very fond of you and I trust my father's judgement. He knows you better than anyone else."

He nods, his smile faltering a little.

"I also want to believe in you again, Christopher," I mumble, my cheeks burning. "I guess I still lov--- I guess I just want to understand what's happening without judging too quickly. Although, I'm a little too late for that."

His smile comes back in full force, showing his perfect set of teeth. "You're not too late at all. It's only been a couple of days." He shrugs, pretending that what happened between us at the diner doesn't still hurt him. "What happened at the diner was normal. I mean, it was a normal reaction. I should've told you the truth from the start."

"Why didn't you?" I whisper, brushing a loose curl behind my ear. "I would've understood if you talked to me in private."

"No, you wouldn't have." He shakes his head and intends to take a step forward, but decides against it at the last minute. "You would've reacted the same way... in private."

"You're right. I'm still trying to process the fact that you're his son."

There's a hint of disdain when I utter 'his', a certain hatred that doesn't go unnoticed by Christopher. If anything, he knows that hate is directed to his father, not him.

"Let me tell you everything," he says, finally taking that step forward. The hairs in my body stand on end, but I don't move neither back nor closer to him. I stay neutral. "If you believe me and want to hear more and have questions of your own, you can sit on the bed. If not, you can just walk out and leave with Dr. King. No hard feelings."

He's just grateful that I'm giving him the opportunity to explain himself, tell his side of the story. Nothing matters more than that in this moment.

"You'll be honest and tell me everything?" I mumble, already sensing the hope in my voice. Hope is not good when he hasn't said anything crucial yet.

"I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No half-truths or secrets. Withholding information is lying, so none of that."

"I understand. I'll be nothing but honest with you."

I sigh. "Okay. I'm listening."

•Word count: 2,806•

This is PART ONE of chapter 40!!!! Proceed to PART TWO now to have the whole chapter, final word count, and end-of-the chapter questions from yours truly.

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