𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐗

• 39 •

I'm not the best at comforting people. I can't undo things that I never knew had begun. I can't eliminate options of a choice that's not mine to make. I can't make the choices either. So what do I do? do I dwell on the thought of incapability or do I live in the moment, let myself move forward? the best answer's obviously the second but I often find myself doing the first. Now, however, I'm moving forward—literally with my left foot after my right as I follow a call that never rang. I might not know what to say, at least I had the number.

I expected bottles—fragments of cylindrical tubes on the floor. I expected puddles of light brown with the stench of liquor. I expected the aftermath of a violent fit: glass containers in the air, stains on the carpet and sheets. The first scenario in my head was the influence of various cinematic frenzies: Keenan breathing hard, catching his breath after smashing things against the carpet and walls. Knowing him, the door would be locked and I'd have to wait outside.

But the door wasn't locked. It was ajar and something told me that he left it open on purpose. Knowing Ki, he would've locked it when he wanted to—a little detail that a guy like him would not forget. It's open. None of what I expected I saw. There were no bottles, there were no stains. Keenan wasn't catching his breath, he didn't even look fazed. He looked calm. The only thing I was correct about? fragments of glass. Not of bottles, but of the mirror on his ceiling.

The shards were everywhere and they twinkled with the sunlight from the windows bouncing against smooth surfaces. Many of them were on the bed, only some on the floor. That's why anyone would say it was a stupid move for the man to sit at the foot of his mattress. Stupid and Keenan don't usually go in the same sentence. It was a dramatic sight, yes, but it's normal, no? to lash out one way or another when the world throws shit at you.

His hands were on his sides, casually gripping the foam. It seems that keeping a composed exterior isn't a talent of Keenan—it's Keenan himself, the way he is. The man doesn't even try. I stood in the doorway noting him—reading what I could read which was limited. Breathing's normal, shoulders are slack, mouth's neither upward nor down. Subtract the wreck around him, I'd say Ki looked bored.

The frown only came after his eyes swept to my face and averted, then looking out of the window. You couldn't even see anything—the outside was too bright. Keenan shifted in his seat, a typical indication of discomfort which, like many other things that I don't see from him often, was odd to my eyes. "I didn't like the mirror anymore," he stated.

Him speaking to me was taken as a cue to step forward. Keenan scoffed and continued, "It was about time I took it down."

Another step. I was keeping an eye out for the shards. My stop was about two meters away from the bed. Keenan's head turned to me again, "You went after her?" he asked to which I nodded. The man nodded too, satisfied.

"You can't blame my sister for being her," he said, "She... she doesn't trust anyone, that's all. She doesn't want to get hurt."

Another slow bounce of my head. Out of the many words I knew, I couldn't grasp any. Do I apologize? Do I tell him that things are going to be okay? the latter's a shitty statement. Things are okay, the past isn't. Sometimes that's worse. You can't go back.

Keenan took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together as he looked around the room, unbothered by the hazardous clutter. His eyes settled on the floor somewhere and remained there for what seemed like the time taken by a man to grasp the corners of his equanimity—it's a long moment, I tell you. "I thought I had things handled," he finally spoke. I easily knew what he meant: living with his family all those years ago, staying awake at night. He thought he did enough.