The Gray Case

thirteen

He could scream. He could let the oxblood liquid in his veins that runs so fast, to take control on his body. He takes slow breaths and pushes the life out of his lungs. His hands turn cold and he looks down at the cool white, almost transparent floor beneath his shoes.

His eyes are hooded and dim. So opaque they can't be Alexander's.

Silence, in this moment only, is almost ear-splitting; he can't hear nothing but a long pause of long lost words and faded thoughts.

Slow. Everything moves slow in the living room; the air is as thick as the heavy raindrops that fall on the ground, drop by drop, one by one.

They tried to shoot his dad.

Ryan beside him, drinks from a water battle and like a ghost, like a mere soul, he sits and tries to read him like a book.

He sees his eyes squinting every so often and his lips that have turned into a different color of pink, caused by the continuous biting.

"He's okay, Alex. Why are you tripping so much?"

He raises his head for the first time in a while and sees a glimpse of something unreadable in Ryan's eyes. Something too complex and vague, too deep and unshakable. But his words are far too light for those eyes, for a situation like this.

"Are you being serious right now?"

Ryan shrugs. "We heard gunshots, but nothing really happened."

"For fuck's sake, just shut up."

"I'm just saying that you should cheer up. He's okay," he rolls his eyes, being gentle has never been one of his traits.

"Easy for you to say, it's not like he's your dad," Alexander spits out, not sure of why he really said that, but doesn't have a reaction nor does he look away.

The words he spoke cut right to the heart he always keeps so hidden. He stands up with his body suddenly aching, hurting somewhere he can't identify. It can't be physical, can it?

He walks to the door, faster than Alexander has ever seen, or better, has ever heard because he doesn't raise his head, he doesn't have a reaction. He simply listens to Ryan's shaky hands moving the door handle, his steps getting fainter every second more and the sudden slam of the door he shuts behind him, furiously.

Nothing is more effective than a sound after dead silence, but Alexander doesn't even flinch, nor does he want to move. He collapses in an odd state of mind in which he closes his eyes to the redundant sound of an antique ticking clock.

He doesn't go to school, the next day. He doesn't look at his phone, either; already knowing it would be blown up by text messages and missed calls.

It's still raining and he's okay with that. Although he has never liked rain, he lets himself be comforted by it. He makes his way downstairs after a whole day of being alone in his room, sometimes interrupted by Alicia, Joseph or Margaret.

His father stayed at home from work, as well. But they don't talk. Mark is a man of few words, you can read him just with the eyes. That's how he speaks. And when he smiles, you know everything is okay.

He's in his study and as Alexander is walking to the living room, he stops when he notices that the door to his study is open and he is behind his desk, looking at a picture misty-eyed.

He holds the picture right in front of him, facing whatever is on there. His hands tremble and he seems on the verge of crying, but he doesn't. It's like Alexander can hear his heart break, like his ear is placed right there.