Voices

In the end, what had he given him? A bullet in the back and a broken heart. No, Charles wasn’t going to save him. Not again.

It had been 10 years since that day at the beach; that emotionally and physically devastating betrayal. Cuba. He’d gotten over it, of course. When it’d gotten down to the bottom line, Erik hadn’t cared. He still didn’t care, and that was ok.

Like hell, it was ok. You’d think 10 years was long enough to move on; but not for Charles. Sure, he’d tried his best. His best wasn’t nearly sufficient.

Hank thought it was just the serum for his spine. That was barely scratching the surface. Varying amounts of alcohol, combined with fluctuating presences of LSD and heroine were constantly added to the mix. His once resilient mind had been reduced to that of a drug addict, barely surviving insanity while awaiting his next dose of poison.

He hated himself for hanging on so long. Slowly, he was crumbling, and the one person that could fix him didn’t want to. Erik was gone. He told himself that at least five times a day, but it didn’t matter.

All the voices were gone.

Except for one.

                Charles awoke to the dull thud of footsteps approaching his bedroom door. There was a soft knock and Hank’s voice could be heard through the varnished wood.

“Charles? Can I come in?”

“Fuck off.”

There was a pause, “I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t bother,” Charles muttered to no one in particular.

He heaved himself onto his back and sat up. The sun was peering through his window at an annoying angle which quickly prompted an angry slur of unintelligible words and a lunge for the curtains. After having dealt with the sunlight problem, Xavier let himself fall into the bedside chair. He took a moment to collect himself then reached for the small case that lay expectant on the table next to him. He opened it, removed the full syringe from its company of empty ones, and replaced the case on the stand. The chosen arm was effectively bound, the needle inserted, the contents emptied into his system. Immediate peace. His head fell against the back of the chair and he sighed with relief. This was his life now. This wasn’t what it should have been.

The day dragged on especially slow, and yet everything stayed the same. The same lack of sleep was still followed closely by an induced euphoric state and far too much alcohol. Next came the unrealistic self-loathing and daily mental breakdown shadowed by approximately an hour of pointless sobbing only to be reconciled with more alcohol. Once that was finished it was back to wandering aimlessly, pretending to read and engaging himself in conversation. Occasionally he would talk to Hank, but only when necessary. Finally, it was over and Charles returned to a fitful, nightmare packed, sleepless night.

The next morning was almost exactly as the others had been. The only difference was the familiar blue face he woke up to inches from his own. He yelped and pushed himself away which resulted in his abrupt meeting with the floor.

“You’re right, he’s bad,” Raven concurred with Henry who had parked himself in the doorway.

Charles groaned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, “What’s goin’ on?” His speech was still slurred with drunkenness, having not quite slept off the liquor from the previous day.

“Come on, it’s time for your intervention,”

And suddenly, he was being unceremoniously lifted from the floor, drug down three flights of stairs and deposited in his study chair. The light filled room sent daggers through his skull, causing him to wince dramatically.

“Intervention? For wha- ….. Raven?”

“Hello Charles.”