Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 204

Wednesday had been good. Better than I expected, actually.

I spent most of the day working on the shed....patching up the roof where the panels had started to sag, replacing a couple of warped boards along the side, tightening hinges that screamed every time the door moved. It took a while, but I didn’t mind.

Albert had helped for a bit, when the sky started dipping, he leaned on his cane and told me I could head home for the day.

“Don’t overwork yourself, son. No point draining all your energy on the first day.”

I told him it was fine. I’d just fix the small section of the fence near the south side before heading out.

He chuckled, shaking his head, then said, “Suit yourself. Just don’t drop dead before morning.”

So I stayed. Worked on the fence until the light faded and the crickets started up. When I finally rode home, my arms were sore, my shirt clung to me, and I was tired....but it was a good kind of tired.

I’d stopped by Zig’s after, waited for Xander to finish up with a client. We’d headed home together, and when he’d asked how it was, I told him it was good. He looked at me for a second, then smiled like he could tell I was telling the truth.

Then came Thursday.

I woke up early and felt even better. Amped up, even. I went back to the shed, fixed the latch on the door, sanded down the rough edges of the workbench. Then I headed out to the fields. The weeds had taken over half the patch, so I spent hours yanking them out, one root at a time, until my palms burned. After that, I helped Albert clean the troughs, refill the water barrels, and haul feed.

The sun had been brutal, the kind that sticks to your skin, but I didn’t care. I remember calling Xander after, telling him about the day. He’d laughed at something....probably at how I said the chickens were starting to warm up to me, and we’d talked for a bit before hanging up.

Then I’d gone home, showered, changed, and since Xander was going to be late, I figured I’d lie down for a few minutes. Just a short nap before I went to pick him up.

That’s when I dreamt about him.

Andrew.

Falling.....

It hit like a blow....no warning, no buildup, just that moment again, sharp as fucking glass. The sound of his voice, the rush of air, the helplessness. I woke up gasping, sweat cold on my neck, my hands shaking like I’d lived it all over again.

Those memories had haunted me in a hundred ways, but never in my sleep. Probably because I used to drink and smoke myself to near death. Probably because I used to fight anything and everything that breathed wrong in my direction. I’d been a mess back then, going to bars just to find someone to piss off enough to swing at me so I could swing back. The rage always came easy. It filled every crack, every hollow place that used to ache. And somehow, that was enough. It filtered everything else out, or maybe it just took its place. Either way, I didn’t care. I was fine as long as the noise stayed quiet in my head.

I was fine as long as I could sleep through the night without those dreams clawing their way in. Even if it meant waking up sore, bloodied, or with the kind of hangover that made me wish I didn’t wake up at all.

But now they’re coming for me.

I was scared to even sleep last night. I think Xander knew something was up. He didn’t say anything, but something in his eyes told me he noticed. He always notices.

It’s Friday now. He’s supposed to leave today, heading straight to the airport after work. I’ve already pulled up Sam’s contact at least a dozen times, thumb hovering over the call button. He’d set something up for me, no questions asked. A few rounds, a couple of fights, enough to bleed it out.

But I haven’t called.

And I don’t even know why I’m hesitating. Xander told me I could keep fighting. And if I went, I wouldn’t have to come back and see that look in his eyes, the one that guts me.

Right now, I’m fixing the rest of the fence. The sun’s high and sweat’s already stinging my eyes. My hands are raw, the hammer’s slipping, and I’m disappointed.

Because this.....this was supposed to help. It was supposed to distract me, maybe even save me. It was supposed to be enough to make me stop.

And it isn’t.

And I hate that it isn’t....

My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen, it's Albert. I answer, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist.

“Hey.”

“Jax,” he says, his voice steady. “Why don’t you come to the house and get yourself some iced tea before you melt into the dirt out there?”

A small, tired chuckle leaves me. “I’m good, really.”

But I can already hear the tone in his voice....he’s not asking. So I just say, “Okay. I’ll head up.”

The house is cool when I step inside, shadows and clean air wrapping around me. The shift from the heat outside is enough to make my shoulders loosen.

“Jax!” Janice calls from the kitchen. “Come on in.”

I follow her voice. There’s already a glass waiting on the table, beads of condensation sliding down the side. She gestures toward it. “Sit, before you fall over.”

Albert’s sitting at the table too, I mutter a quiet thanks as I lower myself into the chair, lift the glass, and take a long drink. Cold. Sweet. It cuts straight through the dust and heat in my throat.

When I set it down, I find Albert watching me. Not in a strange way, just that quiet, steady gaze people like him have. The kind that makes you feel seen even when you don’t want to be.

Janice sets the pitcher down. “Help yourself to more, I’ve got laundry to see to.”

I nod, mumble thanks again, and watch her leave.

Albert leans back, his elbows on the armrests, eyes still on me. “You know,” he says after a moment, “...the farm’s not going anywhere. You can take your time, one thing at a time.”

I nod, pretending I’ll take that advice. “Yeah. I will.”

But I know I won’t. Taking it slow is the last thing I want. Albert’s quiet for a moment before he asks, “You from Seattle originally, or did you move from somewhere else?”

My gaze meets his for a second, then drops back to my glass. I take another sip before answering, “From there.”

It’s a lie, but it’s cleaner that way. People like tidy answers.

He nods slowly. “Your folks still there?”

I shake my head. “No. They passed.”

He winces slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I shrug, forcing something like a smile. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

He studies me for a second, and something shifts in his face....not pity, exactly. Just that kind of curiosity older people have when they can tell there’s more to your story than what you’re saying.

“How old were you?” he asks softly. “When they passed, if you don’t mind me asking.”

I swallow. I'm not fond of this Q&A, but it doesn’t hurt the way it should. Maybe because I was too young to really understand any of it. Maybe because I built a whole life out of not thinking about it.

“Four,” I say finally. I know it's only my dad who died, but it might as well have been both. I swirl what’s left of the tea, watch the ice spin.

Albert nods, like he’s filing it away quietly. He doesn’t say anything after that, and I’m grateful.