2020-06-27 - Do Not Go Gentle

The coffee table was broken. It had been shattered in two near the middle, the pieces had been thrown against the walls, and a wooden leg from it had then been used to smash a hole in the wall, near the hallway.

The hallway where Isabella disappeared.

Blue Bell was hiding. Luigi was in the bottom of his cage, silent but for his hyperventilated breathing. A sign of distress that, normally, would have Alexander beside himself with worry and distress of his own.

Alexander ignored it, pacing instead from the bedroom, to the bathroom, to the living room, to the bedroom. He'd taken up the pattern when Itzhak and August had left. His hands and face were bruised, his clothing torn. They hadn't let him do what he needed to do. They'd stopped him. Had there been shouting? Had there been blood? Were they still friends?

He didn't know. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

Isabella was missing. Ruiz was missing. Easton was missing. Violet was dead. Dr. Glass was missing.

He hadn't been capable of protecting any of them. Of finding any of them in time. And without the ability to open holes, to go over there, he couldn't even avenge them.

Alexander slammed his fist into the nearest wall. The drywall made a satisfying crack. So he did it again. And again. Dull red smears showed up as the wall cracked, and the dull ache turned into a sharp, splitting sensation on his knuckles. It was better than the pain deeper inside, so he kept hitting until a punch went a little wide and the drywall gave way, leaving his fist buried to the wrist in the wall. He pulled back, raw red scrapes across the knuckles and on the sides of his hand.

Alexander was crying. He recognized this, dimly. The same way a part of his mind noted that he was wrecking his home, and it was useless. But it was not useless. It gave outlet to the rage that rolled through him in an unending current. And the rage was better than the hurt. Than the fear. Than the grief. Than the sure knowledge that he was useless.

And so, he raged. Through every room of the little house but one, he raged. He broke furniture, dishes, walls, small bones in his hands. Until he collapsed somewhere in his bedroom, too raw and tired and battered to move anymore.

Then, he wept.