Xander

 

I’m sitting next to the ocean. I can’t quite remember what ocean it is, but that don’t matter none. It’s a bright blue ocean, the water so clear a man can stand at the edge and see almost a mile down. There are a hundred thousand fish just in my small section alone. Next to me, Kayla and Cormac play, but they are too quiet for me to hear over the leaping fish and the whales spurting giant towers of water into the air. I lean back, smiling. Life is good. I never knew that when Kayla and I first met. I never guessed that life could be this good, this perfect, even. I look back on those times now, grinning to myself, and then turning and grinning at Kayla. Those early days were hard-going. The detox, the arguments, but we’re a family now and that’s all that matters.

 

The house is made of bright green wood, blending into the surrounding forest. The beach is white sand and the sea is tropical, but the trees are the old pines from the campsite Arsen and I stayed at once when we were kids, our one and only holiday, when I climbed so high that Arsen started to sob because he thought he’d lost me. I go into the house and get myself a glass of water. No alcohol for me, not anymore. Those days ended when Kayla and I got serious. I won’t be a drunk. I like water. Water and the sun go together. There’s no need to add alcohol to the equation.

 

“Liar,” he says, stepping from behind the door.

 

He’s just like the last time I saw him, his body as black as burnt bacon, smelling just like that, too. I don’t know how he speaks when he hasn’t got much of a mouth, or how he walks around when he doesn’t have any muscles left. Sometimes the ash shifts, flashing a glimpse of bone, but mostly he’s just a charred husk. I can tell he’s smiling but I don’t know how; I don’t see it.

 

“Liar,” he repeats, walking a circle around me. “You live to be a drunk. Don’t bullshit me. That’s all you care about. We both know it. You’re a drunk and you’ll always be a drunk. It’s simple stuff. Don’t lie to me, big brother. Fucking liar. Fucking drunk. Fucking loser. Where were you?” He places his ashy hand on my shoulder. “Tell me that. When Connor’s men were barring the door and I was burning to death, where were you? Fucking Marie Keller, I bet. You were never around. You never gave a shit about me. I bet you paid Connor to do it. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

 

I take a step back. I need to get back outside but there’s no outside left. There’s just a yawning abyss where outside once was. I try to go upstairs but there are no doors left, only this room, Arsen, and me. I drop to the floor and bring my knees to my chest, feeling weak and powerful, feeling pathetic. I won’t cry. An outlawing man doesn’t cry. And yet I am crying.

 

“Let’s be honest about this.” He kneels down so that he would be looking me in the face if he had eyes. “Part of you always wanted me to die. Tell the truth. Part of you always wanted me out of the way. You never cared about me, not really. I was just a burden. I was in the way. I wasn’t your little brother. I was just a pain in the ass. Remember when we were kids and you shouted at me that you wished I was dead? Well, big brother, you got your wish.”

 

“Stop it!” I yell, sobbing like a coward, sobbing like a girl. “Stop this right now!”

 

He wraps his arms around me, singeing my skin. “Never,” he says. “I’ll never stop, you evil bastard. You’re the worst brother a man could ever ask for. I hate you. I hate you.”

 

I sit up in total darkness, mouth dry, heart pounding like it did the first time I ever killed a man. That’s the only other time I’ve ever felt like this, like my whole world has shifted in some fundamental way. I try’n tell myself that it was just a nightmare, but I’m already in the kitchen, bottle of whisky on the counter, staring down at it and trying to fight the unbeatable urge to crack it open. Part of me knows that going into the bedroom and waking up Kayla would be better, or going to the kid and letting him grab onto my finger to remind me that there’s some good in the world. But that part of me is far away; that part of me is a different man.

 

I don’t want to think about that day when we were kids and I roared at him, in front of some of my friends, that it’d be better if he was dead. I thought I was a real funny guy, a real badass, bullying my little brother like that. And now I’ve gone and fucked his old lady, twice. He’s right. What sort of big brother am I? What sort of man am I? I open the bottle; I’ll just open it. I don’t have to commit to anything.

 

I open it, smell it. I shouted at him in front of everybody and now he’s dead. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a good man. I’ve always known that. But tonight it’s like I’m finally realizing just what a terrible man I really am. Maybe Christopher is right; maybe Kayla is right. Maybe everybody apart from me is right. But I know who’s more right than all of them: Arsen. They scratch at the truth but he digs it up. I’m a bad brother, which means I’m a shitty person seeing as being a brother was the only thing I should’ve been worrying about.

 

I bring the whisky bottle to my lips. Already I’m smiling, because I know that soon this feeling is going to be gone. Maybe I’ll just have a few swigs, just enough to file down this edge a little. I take a sip, a longer sip than I intended, and the whisky burns a passage down my throat and into my belly, a potent heat that blooms throughout my body like a flower with petals made of fire. This is the thing; this is the only thing. I take another sip, another, urging on the warmth. People will tell me anything they can to try’n keep me chained down, to try’n tell me how to live my life. But that’s horseshit.

 

I stand in the kitchen for a long time, drinking. At some point I finish the bottle and get another one—might as well—and at some point later on, I pick up my third bottle. The world is a different place now. Everything wobbles from side to side. Nothing is the same. I can’t even remember why I started to drink in the first place. I can’t even remember why I ever wanted to stop drinking, either. Everything is a fog in the background. All I know is that I have to keep drinking, because if I stop I might sober up and that can’t happen under any circumstances. No, I have to keep drinking, just keep on, and try not to think too much. That’s my problem. I let myself think and overthink too much, think myself into a goddamn hole, and then act surprised when I can’t climb out of it.

 

I sit on the kitchen floor—the tiles are nice and cool—and rest my head against a cupboard. Is Arsen’s old lady in the next room? Did I fuck Arsen’s old lady? It’s important that I remember that, ’cause if that’s true there’s something really wrong here. I wouldn’t fuck Arsen’s old lady, would I? Surely I’m not that much of a fucking asshole. It was bad enough what I did with Marie Keller in front of him, but fucking his old lady? I refuse to believe that. It just doesn’t make sense that I’d do that, not after—

 

“Xander?” But there she is, Arsen’s old lady standing over me, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What are you doing?”

 

“You’re Arsen’s mother’s kid. No—you’re his kid’s mother. Ain’t you?” I stand up, which is harder than it ought to be. It’d be a damn sight easier if she gave me some space, but she’s standing close, like she wants to go for round three. I ain’t doing that. I already betrayed him and I’m not doing it again. “Aren’t you?”

 

“Xander, you’re wasted. Did you drink both of those? Oh my God, Xander.”

 

“Tell me the truth!” I snap, spilling too much whisky on the floor. That’s so much less fuel; I’ll have to get another bottle now, thanks to her. “I know it anyway, so you don’t have to tell me.” I push past her into the living room and drop onto the couch. “You and Arsen fucked and you had his kid and now you wanna bounce up and down on my prick, too. How’s that fair? What about Marie Keller?”

 

“If you want to talk about this,” she says, using that reasonable voice women have, that let-me-just-get-through-to-him voice, “we can talk about it in the morning. But for now, I think you should try and get some sleep.”

 

“I don’t need a babysitter!” I roar, kicking the armchair into the wall. One of the arms snaps off and the chair falls onto its side. From the other room, the kid starts to cry, high-pitched wails that sound out of place in this apartment. This apartment is for men and club girls, not children. “And get him out of here, too!” I snap, pacing up and down, feeling like I want to go out and find some bastards who’ve said some shit about my club, tool them up, teach them a lesson. I’d never hit a lady or a kid but that don’t mean I want them here. “I mean it! Fucking judge me! Fucking look down on me like I’m a piece of shit!”

 

“I wasn’t judging you.” She makes to step toward me, but I wave my hand, keeping her away. I can’t let her touch me. She’ll use her magic on me. She’ll slide her hand down to my cock. That’s what they do, how they work. She’ll use her tricks to tie me down and then keep me there, at her mercy. “I’m just trying to make you see sense.”

 

“You’re fucking stalling!” I snarl. “See sense. What sense? Leave—there’s your sense. You shouldn’t be here. You should never be here. Arsen’s old lady. Goddamn. I can’t help you! Find someone else!” I swipe the air, fall, land heavily on my ass. “I mean it!” I roar, springing back up.

 

Then she does the only thing she can do in this situation, which it was just a matter of time before she’d try. She starts to weep, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clutched pitifully to her face. It’s a joke. It’s a tactic. I point at the bedroom. “What’d you want from me, to kiss you, to fuck you again? Get out of here!”

 

“You’re drunk,” she whispers through her tears. “I’ve seen men drunk like this before, Xander. You’ll regret saying this.”

 

“Don’t tell me what I’ll regret!” I go to the armchair and kick the other arm off, and then smash in the base with my foot. Pieces of wood cling to my skin. A trail of blood follows me back to the kitchen. I drain my third bottle and slam it down. It’s time for a fourth. “You better be getting ready!” I call into the bedroom, twisting off the cap.

 

“Are you serious?” she says, still crying, still trying to tug at me, only she doesn’t know that the strings on my heart were cut away a long time ago. “We don’t have anywhere else to go. Are you seriously going to make us leave, Xander? Please, can’t we just agree to talk about this when you’re sober?”

 

“Sober, sober,” I repeat, shaking my head. “The fuck would I want to do that for? I don’t want anything to do with being sober. I just want to sit here in my apartment and have a drink without a fucking woman or baby going on at me. Doesn’t a man have that right?” I stand up. “Go, now.”

 

She flinches like I’ve hit her, but I’d never hit her. I just want her out of here. I don’t want to hurt her, or her kid. I don’t want to look at her, is all, because every time I look at her I remember flashes of flesh, moaning, my cock buried between her legs. And then I think of Arsen’s face when he saw me kissing Marie Keller. I can’t stand it.

 

“Go!” I snap.

 

I go to the couch and start on my fourth bottle, ignoring her and the baby as they cry, ignoring her when she tries to reason with me. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to have to worry about women and children.

 

“I hope we can talk again,” she says, holding the kid to her chest with her bag slung over her shoulder. She leans slightly to one side under the weight of the bag. A pinprick of light opens up inside of me. I close it immediately. “Fine.” She shrugs. “I’ll see you around, then.”

 

I turn away from her and drink, just keep drinking. If I keep drinking she can’t do anything to me, can’t work her magic on me, can’t twist me into being the person she wants me to be.

 

If I just keep drinking.