Pale Fragments

worried

"Your mom attempted an intervention, once," the Robot will say to new-baptized 2023-year-old Anders by the fire, continuing their conversation about Xadrin.

He scoffs, scowling. "Once," he says.

-

"I'm worried about you," she said.

"Mom," Xadrin said, his head leaned back so far that he was looking at her from underneath the frames of his crooked glasses. "Mom. Dude. Listen to me for a sec. This is real, what I'm about to say." He took a long gulp of water then cleared his throat as if he were giving an important announcement. "Mom," he said. "I'm happy. I'm content. I'm living peacefully."

Something fell and broke in the kitchen. Xadrin only laughed wholeheartedly. "Holy fuuuhuhuuck," he said, slapping his leg weakly. "I thought someone shot a gun in here or some shit."

"Sorry," said a whispering voice in the kitchen which spoke as its owner stooped, slipped, sighed, and was still.

"Should we go check on—"

"Nah, she's alright. Love her, she's great. Jess, I love you."

"You too," she said half asleep. "Dropped a plate." Then she started snoring a moment later. He laughed, tried to stop laughing, and laughed some more, far longer than the serious and pained look on his mother's face should have allowed.

"Sheeeeeesh, WHEW, sorry about that mom." He looked her in the eye with total seriousness, total focus, as though sobriety had woken up before its alarm. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

Then he said, "I have...no fucking idea what we were just TALKING ABOUT!!" and the joyous laughter exploded and continued for five more minutes while his mother went to the bathroom, head shaking.

"Branson," she said after she had sat down and adjusted her skirt awkwardly on the beanbag chair. "Sorry, so sorry, I know. Xadrin," she said. "Xadrin. You're my kid, my son, even if you've changed your names. I love you and I want what's best for you. I know you don't want to hear this, but...honey...I don't know any way to say it but that you have a problem. You talk openly about it as if it weren't an issue, and that pacified me for a long time. But my motherly instincts won't shut up about it, so I've been thinking about why. And it's because you have so much potential. All the instruments you used to be able to play in high school. I loved going to your concerts, and your plays." Now she was crying. Xadrin watched her as she watched the tears fall to the floor.

"And so many other signs of greatness. Nothing makes me sadder than seeing your potential be wasted. You're a talented writer, a smart kid! A wonderful son and brother, an amazing man. Remember when you almost got into the gifted program? You only didn't get in because you took the test so fast!"

Xadrin nodded and sat up. Carefully, slowly, gracefully almost, he leaned forward and set his elbows on the table. He put one hand over his head, which bent and swayed slowly.

"Hey, hey," said his mother. "It's okay. It's okay. I love you, I will always—"

"Ah, shit, okay there it is," he said, sitting in front of the table. He produced a bag of weed with his free hand, which he then began to dump into the grinder. "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"Br—Ah. Well, I said that you're wasting your potential. And I know how hard it is to hear that, but—"

"No, I heard you say that, but what did you say when I was looking for my weed?" He lit the pipe and breathed it in. "I'm listening, I promise," he said as he exhaled, his strained and lowered voice slowly pushing its heavy way through the cloud of smoke.