Rekindle

12

"Let me in."

"Ask again when February ends."

"Please, Asher."

His bedroom room door opened. Asher was a mess: it looked like he hadn't slept in days. It was around one in the morning after another night terror, and I hadn't heard Alex get up to go check on him, so I went myself. He hadn't opened the door until then.

Ash pushed past me into the living room, ripping open his desk drawer and pulling out a fistful of knives. I retreated to the couch as he wrenched open the closet door and stepped back to his usual spot, positioning himself. He lined up, threw, and I swore I could feel heat off of every knife that hit the wood.

"What did you want?" he gruffly asked, full concentration on the door.

"I just wanted to check on you," I said.

"I'm fine." He threw another knife, burying it deep into the wood.

"I'm not very convinced," I said. I brought my legs up and set my chin on my knees, thoughtfully watching him and praying I hadn't stepped a toe over the line.

"What, you think I need some sort of one-on-one therapy session because my father's dead?" he snapped, pausing. I watched him tighten his grip on his last knife, spinning it once, shaking his head before setting himself up again. "I already knew that. I'm fine." He lazily threw the knife, then went to take them all out and throw again. "I already knew he was dead, that doesn't bother me," he repeated. "I just won't ever know what caused it. Car crash—" throw, "—disease—" throw, "—overdose—" heated throw, "—nothing." His voice raised with each knife. "I won't ever know a goddamn thing about what happened, because he left nothing!"

Asher threw the last knife with too much force and too much spin, handle hitting the wood instead of blade. He marched over, picked the knife up, and stabbed the door with so much force it splintered and cracked.

I dared not move. Asher stayed still, breathing slightly heavier, hand still gripping the handle tight. That was the anger I knew all too well. That was the truth about what he was feeling—what he really, truly felt for once, not guarded by egotism or shutting down. I was right about one thing: hope lay somewhere under all that tar on his lungs.

Asher's hand fell off the knife handle and slid along the chipping surface of the door, weathered from throw after throw. "He left nothing for us."

I bit my bottom lip again, never seeing him so helpless. There had to have been something reassuring I could've said, but nothing came to mind, and I feared blurting out something stupidly impulsive, as I often did. So I kept my mouth shut as he took the knives out and collected them in a hand, setting them on his desk. He turned and leaned back against it, hands gripping the edge, head down.

"Did you know he was dead before going?" I asked crossing my legs.

Ash nodded in response, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

I furrowed my brow in confusion then, somewhat miffed. "Why in the world didn't you tell me?"

I watched him grip the edge of the desk tighter. "It slipped my mind."

It hit me after the crack in his voice, the shake, the shiver. Downcast eyes, stare blank.

He blinked and snapped out of it then, gathering up the knives and opening the desk drawer as he spoke. "I'm sorry. That was probably a bit of a shock." The metal blades clanked as he tossed the knives in and slammed the drawer shut. Shock, quite frankly, was an understatement. But I wasn't going to reprimand.

Asher abruptly picked up his head and met my eyes, seemingly more awake then. "Your birthday's Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I answered. I knew he was changing subjects.