Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 241

I was fourteen the last time I cried.

It was after I bludgeoned my foster mum’s boyfriend to death. I remember every inch of it, every shudder of my hands, every beat of my heart like a drum in a tomb.

I fought to keep it together in front of Andrew. I had to. He needed to know that I could protect him, that I could take care of him. And I did. I was stone, iron.... I was his shield. I kept the storm inside locked tight behind my ribs. But on the bus to Seattle, everything broke.

Andrew was asleep, head leaning on my shoulder. Soft, unassuming.... unaware. And I was looking out the window, forehead pressed against the cold glass, the world streaking past me like broken lines of memory. I fought like hell to hold back the tears...fought with every sinew, every thought, every breath, but they came anyway. Quiet at first, then clawing their way out of me, carving the hollows of my face with grief and fear I hadn’t dared to name.

I hadn’t cried before that. Not through the beatings, the nights alone in the dark, not through the things that should have had me sobbing for days, screaming until my lungs burned. The tears just wouldn’t come. And I was grateful. Grateful for the armor, the distance, the way I could move through pain without crumpling, without showing weakness. Because the second those tears touched my cheeks, I felt something I hated more than the pain itself. A vulnerability that left me exposed, human in a way I despised.

A part of me knew it wasn’t okay. Knew it wasn’t normal. But I didn’t care. I was satisfied, in that bleak, ruthless satisfaction of someone who has learned to survive, to endure, to carry the dark inside and never let it touch anyone else. I convinced myself I’d go through the rest of my life without ever feeling tears on my face again. That there couldn’t possibly be any left in me.

Turns out I was wrong.

There was this strange, almost foreign warmth that ran through me when Xander’s family arrived. His parents and siblings, stepping into the cold, antiseptic air of the hospital hallway, faces etched with worry and exhaustion. And then his mum basically fell into me. Collapsed against my chest like she’d been holding herself together for far too long, and I could feel the quiet, tremulous sobs against me. She didn’t speak, didn’t even try. She just held onto me, and I let her.

When she finally pulled back, her hand came up to rest on my cheek. Her fingers were tentative, almost afraid of what they might touch. And I just looked at her. And something shifted inside me....stirred, twisted and pulled at corners of my mind I hadn’t visited in years. I didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t even know how to name it.

Ziggler had filled them in on what had happened, on what they’d done in surgery, on the fragile line he was balanced on. His mum sat beside me then, reaching for my hand, her own shaking slightly, gripping mine with quiet desperation. I let her. I didn’t move. Time lost meaning. Hours melted together. The beeping of machines, the quiet murmurs of nurses, the shifting weight of bodies around me, all of it blurred into one endless stretch of waiting, of fear, of wanting.

At some point, Xander’s friends and Adam began to drift away, returning after stretches of time, faces tense, eyes flicking toward me as if I were a fragile thing to be handled with care. I couldn’t move.....I wouldn’t. Not even when his mum tried gently urging me to go home, to rest, eat....to step out and breathe. I just shook my head.

Eventually, they stopped asking. I realized they’d understood that there was no prying me from this spot. No coaxing, no pleading. I was a fixture in that hallway, tethered to the fragile pulse of the person I loved.

It wasn’t until the next evening that they told us we could see him. Only two people at a time, they said, and by then I’d paced that hallway so many times I could’ve mapped every inch of it blindfolded. My shoes scuffed against the floor, my hands rubbing my face, over and over.

When the nurse finally gave the news, all I could think about was finally being able to see Xander. They said it was for immediate family only, and the restriction hit me like a punch to the chest. A stupid limitation. I opened my mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but Xander’s mum hooked her arm through mine before I could. “He’s my son,” she said quietly, “...and this is his partner.”

I’d watched her turn to the rest of Xander’s family. They gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, saying it was okay for me to go in first. If they were letting visitors in, that had to mean he was getting better.

We were led to the room, given the rules, a strict fifteen-minute limit, and told we could go in. I would’ve hesitated if she hadn’t been there. If it were just me, I’d probably have stopped outside, overwhelmed. But she didn’t hesitate, she guided me forward.

And then I saw him.

Lying there, pale and fragile under the harsh fluorescent light, wires and monitors crowding every inch of him. There were light bruises along his jaw, a small cut near his temple, a smear of dried blood on his cheek. Nothing catastrophic now, but enough to make him look more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him.

I stopped just inside the doorway, rooted to the floor. My eyes wouldn’t leave him. The world had gone quiet. All the pacing, the waiting, the panic....none of it had prepared me for this sight.

It had been fourteen years since I’d cried. Fourteen years of building walls, swallowing everything, surviving without letting a tear fall. And now, the first one slipped. A small, almost hesitant bead at the corner of my eye. And then the rest came, breaking through like a river over a dam.

The feeling wasn’t just tears. It was my heart splintering, fracturing into pieces I hadn’t realized were still there, fragments I hadn’t allowed myself to feel. I wanted to rush and hold him, but I was frozen, caught between disbelief and fear.

I whispered his name though the sound barely reached beyond my lips.

And in that moment, there was only him and me. And the terrible, choking knowledge that I could never let this happen again.

There was one way, painful and gutting, to guarantee that. One I loathed with every part of me, but necessary all the same.

But not yet....not now. For now, I’d stay. I’d wait. I’d sit here in this godforsaken chair and count every breath he took until his eyes opened again. I’d believe, because I had to, that Xander would come back to me.