At the very least, I could have called one of our friends to meet him here. I could have made sure he wasn’t alone. He’d have been pissed. No full-grown man appreciates being assigned a babysitter, but he would have gotten over it. Eventually.
“Hey, man,” I call out, dropping my bag by the door. I step further into the room, waiting for him to acknowledge my presence.
He doesn’t.
Aaron’s eyes are trained on a small urn that sits in the center of our coffee table in front of him. Mouth pressed into a flat line, his gaze is so focused it’s almost like he’s afraid the thing will walk off on its own if he so much as looks away.
The urn containing his mother’s remains is maybe eight inches tall and three inches wide. I don’t know why, but I expected it to be bigger.. Knowing a grown woman is ash inside of that thing is unsettling. Would I fit in something like that? Is that really all that’s left when we die?
“Everything okay?” It’s like Aaron doesn’t even hear me. His attention never moves from his mother’s remains.
Knowing he can sometimes zone out like this, I walk across the room, making it a point to stomp, so he hears my steps as I pass in front of him, only his gaze never shifts in my direction.
Well, fuck.
I don’t want to spook him. If he’s lost in his head right now, any loud noises or sudden movements can set him off. Aaron struggles with PTSD, and given what he’s been through, I shouldn’t be surprised to find him like this. Which makes me even more pissed with myself because, like I said, I should have expected it. Should have made better fucking arrangements. My friend needed me and I wasn’t here for him.
I don’t have a lot of options here since I can’t very well leave him like this. I tried that once during freshman year after we started living together. Things were still rocky between us, so I didn’t know all the shit he was dealing with back then, but I remember coming home after practice one day to find him on the porch.
It was maybe three or four in the afternoon. I said hi, and when he didn’t respond, I let him be. I was too tired from training to dwell on his behavior and figured he was pissed off at me over something stupid and would talk to me eventually.
I went about the rest of my day, thinking he’d come in at some point. And when he didn’t I assumed he left. Went to the skate park or something.
At no point did I think he could still be out there, sitting on the porch like some frozen statue.
It wasn’t until close to midnight when I opened the front door to check and see if his car was still in the driveway, thinking he might have left without me realizing it, that I saw he’d never moved from his original spot.
He’d sat there for close to nine hours without ever realizing how much time was passing by.
I didn’t know better back then. Had no fucking idea about the kind of shit going on in his head. All I remember is reaching down to shake his shoulder and the next thing I know, my head snaps back and I’m seeing stars.
Aaron threw one hell of a right hook at my face, catching me square in the jaw, and never in my life have I taken a hit quite like that. It took several seconds for my hearing and vision to come back, leaving me more vulnerable than I’ve ever been.
Thankfully, his swift reaction to my touch snapped him out of whatever funk he was in. There’ve been times when it didn’t—not with me but with other people—when Aaron kept on punching, not seeing who it was in front of him, until someone physically pulled him off of a body.
He told me once that he rarely remembers what he’s thinking about or why he feels the need to lash out. He just does.
For him, it’s almost like he’s asleep one minute and drowning in adrenaline the next. His fight-or-flight instinct rears its head, and no matter what, for Aaron, he’s always going to fight. It’s a subconscious decision he has no control over.
I have fast as fuck reflexes thanks to playing football, but that night, I swear, I never saw him move. It took six months after that before he told me what the hell was wrong with him, so now, I can’t say I know what I should do, but I know what not to do.
Dropping to the ground, I crouch on the opposite side of the coffee table, his mother’s urn between us. When his eyes refuse to flick in my direction, I reach out, my movements slow, and wrap my hand around the cool metal, sliding the urn back a few inches before letting it go.
His left eye twitches, but it’s the only reaction I get, so I do it again. Only this time, I move it to the right, forcing him to turn his gaze if he wants to keep it in his line of sight.
Instead of moving, he blinks several times. Some of the fog lifts from his gaze. It’s weird, like watching someone come back into their body.
“You good?” I ask, careful to keep my voice pitched low.
His lashes flutter, his blinks coming quicker now, and I see the exact moment when he comes back to himself. His jaw goes rigid, nostrils flaring.
He’s always pissed off at first. The adrenaline dump hits him no matter what, only like this, he doesn’t have a target to strike out at. Aaron has enough sense of self to hold himself in check, long enough to realize he’s not in any danger. There is no threat. But that doesn’t mean any of this is easy for him.
Seconds pass between us in silence before he exhales a loud breath.
His eyes meet mine before flitting away in shame. Grinding my teeth together, I keep my mouth shut. There aren’t any words I can offer that will make him feel better, and in the past, acknowledging the turmoil raging inside him only made matters worse.
“How long?” His voice cracks and he swallows hard, refusing to meet my gaze.
