Fire on Fire

10. Playing with fire

Emma's mouth was agape. Given the life – or rather, lives – she'd led, there was not much that could surprise her anymore, or make her gasp. Alexander's confession, however, left her speechless. Tiny sounds escaped her lips, as if she were trying to say something, yet she didn't know what – her brain had a hard time processing one single sentence he'd just uttered.

"What ... what do you mean prison?" And murder. Prison and murder were two words that even one like her didn't put together without shuddering the slightest, yet Alexander had pronounced them easily, as if he weren't talking about himself.

He took a deep breath, and went to sit on the couch, well aware that there was no going back. He'd said the words, now he ought to explain. But how could he explain without giving away the rest? "I told you my mother was German, didn't I?" He began, looking up for a moment to check if Emma was still paying attention. When she nodded, he went on: "Emphasis on was. She died when I was 17."

There, Emma gasped again, bringing a hand to her mouth. Her heart was catching the implications of what was happening way faster than her mind. A single phrase resonated in her head: he's opening up. When she'd let slip about his tattoos, she'd done so with the certainty that he would just divert the subject, ignore her question. She'd have never expected that he would bare himself to her like that. Was it right? Should she stop him?

"I don't wanna make it long," Alexander said, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him, hands clasped together, "she was the light of my life, and losing her, I lost myself. Enough to do something that not many people would accept. But in all honesty, I would do it again."

"You ..."

"I killed who killed her."

Emma pressed a hand over her mouth again to avoid gasping or emitting any sound. He wouldn't know, but the reason for her reactions wasn't due to the heinous act he was guilty of. She was trying to catch up with the realization that he was baring himself completely to her, and that he expected her to have a specific response.

Judging by how persistently he was avoiding eye contact – something he never did –, Emma would say he was afraid of losing what little respect and even affection she may have had in his regards. That's where the full depths of her realization hit her. He couldn't lose something she'd unwillingly given. But it was her duty to step away.

"Emma." Alexander called, breaking through her train of thoughts. "Say something." Anything. Hiding 7 years of prison wasn't that difficult, especially with Nancy's help, but talking about it, about his mother, it was taking more than anyone would understand.

Or maybe Emma could. They'd both lost a parent that'd been their whole world. Circumstances were, hopefully, different, but the fact remained, they'd both been left stranded and lost at a young age. Then again, Alexander chided himself, he hadn't been alone, there was his Nana.

"Was it ... was it your father?" Emma found her voice. "He ... was he ..."

"Yes." Alexander didn't flinch as he summed up the darkest time of his life in a few sentences: "After years of abuse, he killed her. He got out of jail after 3 years. I sat on his chair, waited for him the day he was released, and I shot him with the same rifle he used to hunt with."

There was no emotion in his recount, not even grief or regret. His voice was completely flat and impassive as he admitted to having killed his own father. In the light of her attachment to her own parental figure, Emma found it difficult to fully grasp the ease with which Alexander talked about that man's murder. At the same time, she understood the rage and the grief he must have felt – she'd been the same. The difference was, his rage had had a target and a culprit.