Orion

My flight landed early into the morning. I was exhausted, beyond drained. I didn't want to face the day. As such, I quietly shuffled over to the junk drawer in our kitchen, finding a Sharpie and a yellow notepad. Stifling a yawn, I write a note to my parents.

Home safe, flight landed at 4:30, didn't get home until 5:30, please don't disturb me until I get up.

~Tristan

When that's done I tape it to my bedroom door. Slipping off my shoes, I drop my jacket. Not even bothering to take my clothes off I flop into bed. Silent tears roll down my face until I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I finally crack my eyes open, the light is low, and I can tell the sun is setting. I had really passed out cold; I hadn't even moved from the position I had laid down in. As such, I was pretty stiff. Rubbing the nape of my neck I swung my feet over the side of the bed. Yawning, I look at the clock. 7:34 looks back.

"Shit," I mumble to myself.

I hadn't meant to sleep so long. I guess I needed it. I was groggy, my eyes felt filled with grit. Willing myself to stay in this half-awake stupor (because it meant I didn't have to think yet), I yanked open my door and walked out into the small hallway of my childhood.

The walls were wood paneled, and various pictures--all outdated--were hung. My mother loved needlepoint, so some of her works were there, too. Most of it was derivative--'Home Sweet Home' with pink roses all around the cursive words, stuff like that. But those had been there for as long as I could remember, and I loved them.

"Ma? Dad?" I called out into the house. From the hallway you could either hook a left and enter our kitchen, or keep going into the front room. I turned left, hoping there was some left over coffee from the morning I could heat up.

Ma was already in the kitchen. My dad came in behind me. As I frowned at the empty coffee pot, I slammed it down and began digging around for the filters and grounds. All of my rummaging was loud--very loud.

With some hesitation, my dad patted both of my shoulders simultaneously, twice. He then gave me a little shake before joining my mother at the table.

"Good to see you, son," my dad said.

"Coffee," I grumbled, still opening and closing cabinets loudly.

"Are you sure you want coffee?" my mother pipped. "It's almost quarter to eight."

I look at her and before I can stop myself, I glare at her. "Ma."

Giving a worried glance at my father, she pointed. "Cabinet next to the fridge."

"Of course," I say, more to myself than anyone else. "The one damn place I didn't look."

"Filters are beneath the sink," my dad added.

I was going to question the sanity of keeping the filters someplace where they would get wet, but chose not to. Instead I just made the coffee, turned it on, and then leaned against the counter. As it began to brew, I crossed my arms and looked at my feet.

"Did you have a good flight?" my dad tried.

"Yup," was all I offered.

Once the coffee was done, I poured some. Even though it was scalding hot I blew on it, and took a sip. I immediately regretted it. I nearly choked, sitting at the table. "Jesus Christ! What sort of coffee is this? It's so bitter!"

"How many scoops did you put in?"

"Six."

"What did you fill the water to?"

"Six."

My dad laughs. "Tristan, it's one scoop per every two cups. You were only supposed to use three scoops."

"Of course it is," I grumble angrily, drinking more of the disgusting drink.

"Tristan, lemme make you some more," my ma says, starting to get to her feet.

"No, it's fine--"

"That must taste awful--"

"I don't wat to waste your coffee--"

"Tristan, it's fine, seriously--"

"It's fine!" I finally yell, and she freezes. After a moment I look at the table. "Sorry," I say quietly. "Didn't mean that."

As ma sits down, I see her and my dad exchange a look. My dad clears his throat.

"What's going on, Tristan?"

I glare, still not looking at them. "Orion and I broke up."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," ma says. "Why?"

I feel like crying, but fuck if I'm going to break down in front of my parents, especially my dad. The men in my family didn't do that. "He tried to kill himself."

Shocked silence. The air felt electric suddenly. I glanced at ma, and she had gone pale and still. My father's mouth was slightly open, his eyes huge. I take another deep gulp of coffee, not even caring when it burns my throat.

"Er, what happened?" my dad tries.

"Don't wanna talk about it."

Another moment where my parents look at one another. Then my mom, still looking pale, gently puts her hand on my arm. "Tristan, I support you with whatever you chose, but..." She can't decide if she wants to pat my arm or not. So after patting the air a few times retracts her hand and puts it into her lap. "If he tried to kill himself, that seems like he needs people to help him. Is breaking up with him the right choice?"

Fine, I guess we're talking about it. The more I talk about it, the angrier I become. By the end of my explanation I'm shouting, even though I don't mean to.

"I tried my best, I really did. You know about his rehab stint, I already told you all that. Well, he started relapsing so I searched the house. He threw away his psych meds and I found beer in every fridge. When I confronted him about it, he broke up with me. That was a week ago.

"Then today I get a phone call from our friend Jake. And I have to go to the hospital because Orion took a bunch of pills and was unconscious, and they didn't know if he was going to live or not. I knew what I was getting myself into when we first started dating, and I love the guy to death, I do, ya gotta believe me. But this? He's a fucking drunk, and an addict, and I can't be with someone who doesn't even wanna fucking live, alright!"

There's a several minute pause where no one says anything, and I just sip my coffee angrily. As though a genie snapped his fingers, all my anger whooshes out of me suddenly, and I feel like I want to cry again.

"Sorry," I tell my parents quietly, staring at my own haggard reflection in the coffee. "I didn't mean to holler at y'all."

"You can stay here as long as you need," my mom replies softly.

For a moment I close my eyes, relief washing over me. I then get to my feet, mug in hand. "Thank you."

Without another word I retreat back to my room, not knowing what else to do with myself.

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