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“The enemy for Charles is himself, I think. He’s his own biggest obstacle, really. And he’s looking to… He doesn’t really like himself at that time. He hates himself.”
- James McAvoy on Charles in Days of Future Past-
Charles
Anniversaries are typically something to be celebrated. First dates, marriages, victories, stories of remembrance… Anniversaries are often happy times. They should be.
But then there are those that arrive and bring with them a hollow darkness, unbidden memories of past trauma.
Today is that day.
Eleven years ago, in 1962, my life fell apart. The beautiful world that I had crafted for myself broke apart at the seams as I collapsed, bleeding, on a Cuban beach.
Now I lie in an unmade bed, wearing the same clothes I’ve worn the past three days, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling as fantasies of alcohol and drugs dance in my head. I crane my neck to look at the clock and through my hazy eyes, I read eleven AM. I’m surprised Hank hasn’t come to check on me yet.
My hunger makes itself known with painful twinge in my stomach, reminding me that it’s been over twenty-four hours since my last full meal. I ease myself up into a sitting position, wincing at the dull ache in my temples. I get up slowly and take every moment as slow as I possibly can so I don’t get dizzy and pass out. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve pushed myself too far after a night of drinking and dropped to the floor in a dead faint. Hank isn’t always there to catch me, and on occasion I’ve woken up with concussions and bruises.
Throwing on my robe, I make for the door only to stop when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The thin, haggard disaster of a man that stares back at me fills me with a type of heated self-hatred I’m all too familiar with nowadays, and I grind my teeth together. I pluck the mirror from its place on the wall and smash it on the ground.
I wobble down the stairs and the sound of a pan sizzling in the kitchen alerts me to Hank’s presence. I hesitate on the last step. He’s going to mention it, I know it. We’ve known this day was coming for weeks, he’s not just going to act like nothing’s wrong. I can’t…
I’m barely holding it together. I feel like a rubber band being stretched, stretched, stretched, and if…when I snap, the habits and addictions that have defined my life for so long will rear their heads again, and with the power of today’s memories, I won’t have the ability or the willingness to stop myself from drowning.
I inch toward the kitchen and peek inside. Hank stands at the stovetop with his back to me, prodding a few half-cooked eggs around on a skillet. I tiptoe toward the pantry and squint through the door crack, hunting for something unhealthy. A chocolate bar and a bag of potato chips catch my eye and I nudge the door open. Slowly…slowly…sl–
The door hinges give a jarring creak and I freeze, my arm halfway into the pantry.
A pause.
“Charles? You’re up.”
I kick the pantry door the rest of the way open and grab the snacks I want. “Mmhmm.”
“You’re not seriously gonna have that for breakfast are you?”
I open the bag of chips and pop one into my mouth. “Mmhmm.”
Another pause. Hank sighs. “Can we talk?”
I don’t respond, I simply stuff a few extra chocolate bars into my robe pocket and make for the lobby.
“Charles, please.”
I keep walking.
“Damn it, Charles, look at me!” he growls.
I slow to a stop. Gritting my teeth, I turn around to face him.
He frowns. “You look terrible.”
I shrug.
“I mean, more than usual.”
I eat another chip. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”
“Charles, I…” Hank leans up against the counter. “I know today is…the day. I know it’s hard on you, it always has been. But I really don’t want you up in your room all day.”
I scoff. “What, are you gonna go all beast mode on me and force me to stay down here with you?”
“No, of course not. But… I care about you. Try to think about what’s good and healthy for you. Maybe instead of retreating into yourself due to the trauma, you can celebrate the fact that you got through the trauma. You survived.”
I avert my eyes. What Hank doesn’t know is that I’ve spent countless hours wishing that I hadn’t.
“I’m just asking for you to– .”
The smoke alarm blares from above and the acrid smell of smoke fills the air. Hank whirls around to find his pile of eggs burning on the stove and he hurries to fix the problem. “Shit!”
I take advantage of the distraction and hurry out of the kitchen. Glancing back to make sure he isn’t watching me, I scurry into a side hallway and to the cellar that contains all the alcohol. A few days earlier, I’d heard him muttering the number lock code and I’d stashed that detail in the back of my mind. I recall it now as I fiddle with sweaty hands at the lock, my mind racing with frantic, desperate thoughts of drinks and drugs and sleeping my life away.
The continued sizzle of Hank’s eggs confirms that he’s still in the kitchen, and I exhale shakily. Twist the lock… Twelve…five…seven, and…
CLICK.
My heart jumps into my throat and a buzz of excitement fires through every vein in my body. Please, oh dear God, yes… I’m so close, SO CLOSE…
The cellar door falls open and holy shit it’s like the gates of heaven have opened in front of me and a beautiful light washes over me because OH MY GOD there are SO many bottles and it’s glorious. An ecstatic, wheezing laugh escapes me before I can stop it. With a greedy hunger, I gather as many bottles as I can carry in my arms and in my pockets and retreat upstairs.
I dump the snacks on my bed and hide the alcohol underneath it. Grabbing a single bottle from the stack, I laugh again. A wave of relief sings through my body and it feels like the first breath of air after swimming through dark waters, or being reunited with an old friend that I’ve dearly missed. I unscrew the cap and take the first sip. As soon as it touches my tongue, a hot shiver like a shock of electricity rushes through my body. The heat travels through every muscle, setting each one on fire. I lower the bottle, doubling over with giddy laughter.
Oh, how long I’ve waited for this…
I grip the bottle with one hand and rake the other hand through my hair. My feet guide me in dizzy circle after dizzy circle, and I’m pacing, pacing, pacing.
Halfway into the first bottle, my mood swings violently in the opposite direction. Memories of Cuba fight each other for dominance and the tears that I’d hoped to avoid start pouring mercilessly. In-between sobs, I drink more and more. The images in my mind begin to fade as the alcohol takes hold.
Raven.
Drink.
Gone.
My legs.
Drink.
Gone.
Hank might check on me soon. I should probably–
The pain of the coin in my head.
Drink.
That too, gone.
And Erik. Oh, Erik…
Drink.
Not gone.
Drink again. And again. I almost choke. I continue anyway. I down the first bottle and start on the second one.
Erik’s voice rings in my head as if he’s right beside me.
“I want you by my side. We’re brothers, you and I.”
FUCK you, Erik.
The warm tickle in my body has vanished. In its place is a deep, crushing darkness that Erik’s memory only worsens.
I choke back a sob and chug the rest of the second bottle.
With every sip, Erik’s face blurs in my head.
Fading, fading– no no no get the fuck outta my head Erik!– fading, almost there, almost there…
GONE.
My mind trapped in a drunken fog, I let the bottle slip from my fingers. The room spins around like a circus show filled with lights, a faint sense of deja vu, and dull thoughts of oh, shit, I don’t feel very good…
That’s my last clear thought before my mind and body give up at the same time and I topple forward. The black void conquers me before I hit the floor and then there is nothing. No dreams, no nightmares, no memories, no pain, no happiness.
Just nothing.
Hank
The morning drags by, hour after hour, and I allow myself to get sucked into anything and everything possible that doesn’t involve my obsessive worry over Charles. My breakfast. Books. Lunch. Lab work. Research. Anything.
But eventually, at around one in the afternoon, the worry that had been creeping into my head and knotting up my stomach wins. I wedge the bookmark between the pages of my novel and make my way upstairs. At first, I don’t hear anything, which means that he might just be asleep, which, frankly, is not great given how much he sleeps nowadays, but it’s better than other things I’ve caught him doing. My flimsy hopes are squashed when I approach his bedroom door and hear the unmistakable sound of Charles vomiting.
Without knocking, I enter the room and make for the bathroom only to halt briefly when I see the two empty bottles of alcohol on the carpet. I clench my fists. Goddamn it, Charles… A dry cough, a retch, and then a splash of liquid jolt me from my thoughts and I enter the bathroom to find Charles hunched over the toilet, gripping the sink counter so hard that his hand is white.
“Charles.” I kneel at his side and put a hand on his back. I can feel his boney shoulder blades tense up at my touch.
He opens his mouth to answer me but is cut off by a painful gag. He curls over the toilet and pukes up a pale yellow stream of alcohol. Tears squeeze out of his eyes and run down his face, and based on the glistening paths already branded there, he started crying a while ago.
I say silent. I know there’s nothing I can say that will make him feel better, so I offer my presence and nothing else.
Charles’ full body shudders and he vomits again. His stomach heaves and heaves, working overtime to purge itself of the poisons that Charles had forced into himself.
But eventually, it slows, then stops altogether.
Charles sways on his knees and he tips forward with a shaky breath out…
“Whoa.” I put a hand on his chest to stop him before his head collides with the toilet. “Careful.”
Charles reaches with a trembling hand up to the toilet knob and flushes. He slumps back against the wall, blinking with glassy eyes up at the ceiling.
“You with me?”
He glances over at me, and I inhale to speak but I notice a patch of blood on the left side of his head. “Wh– ? Are you bleeding?”
“Mmm,” Charles moans, sounding half-asleep.
I angle his face toward the light to get a better look. There’s a small gash down his temple, crusted with dried blood. “What happened?”
“I think I…hit my head. When I passed out.”
A stab of irritation knots my stomach up even more. Charles frowns and looks away, and I assume that my irritation showed on my face. “Okay, are you done?” I nod to the toilet.
“Uh… For now, yeah.”
“Okay. Good.” I get to my feet and stretch my hand out to him. “Come on. Up.”
Charles gives me a dazed look with eyes that are way too foggy and way too bloodshot.
Grumbling under my breath, I loop an arm around his shoulders and hoist him to his feet. He’s practically dead weight, but lucky for him, I’ve got mutant strength, so carrying him back to his messy room isn’t an issue. I sit him down on the bed. “I’m gonna get you some water. You need to stay hydrated.”
Charles doesn’t respond.
“And I’ll get a change of clothes.”
He frowns up at me. “What?”
“Have you seen yourself? You’re drenched in sweat.”
Charles fixes his gaze on the floor and doesn’t object.
I return with a glass of water and a new shirt and pants. He drinks the water in small gulps and doesn’t complain as I clean and bandage the cut on his head. Then he changes clothes in the bathroom with me waiting outside. When he comes out of the bathroom, he tries to hobble to the bed by himself, but I end up having to catch him before he face-plants. I tuck him into bed and before I even finished layering him with blankets, he’s out cold again.
I place a trash bin beside his head just in case and back up a few steps, observing him from a distance. He almost looks peaceful in sleep. Almost. A stranger would call him peaceful, but I’ve lived with him long enough. I know better. I’ve learned to notice things that other people wouldn’t. Little things, subtle things, things that sometimes Charles himself doesn’t even notice: the dark bags under his eyes that make it look like he’s been punched, his stringy, unkempt hair, him licking his lips all the time like a starving animal, the tremors and shakes that plague his body when he’s gone too long without a drink, him obsessively poking and scratching at his track marks… Sometimes he gets night terrors so bad he wakes up sobbing. Other times, he can’t sleep at all, and he wanders the halls of the mansion like prisoner in his own head. On occasion when I’ve woken up to get water or go the bathroom, I hear the clomp, clomp of his footsteps, and he’s pacing. He’s always pacing.
And despite being in the same house with him, I’ve never felt further away from him. He’s falling apart right in front of my eyes, and I can’t do anything. He shuts me down whenever I try to bring up his addictions, so we don’t talk about them, but we both know they exist. It’s the unspoken truth about his way of life. He can’t conquer his addictions unless he wants to, but that’s the problem. I can see it in his eyes when I talk to him about recovery: he doesn’t care about getting better. He doesn’t want to, because that means giving up what matters most to him. It used to be Erik, but in the wake of Erik’s betrayal, he retreated selfishly into a dream world of drugs and drinking and shoving his pain down like glass under a rug, and he’ll keep going and going and going until there’s so much glass under the rug that he can’t walk without cutting his feet. He is his own slave.
I dispose of the empty bottles and escape to my lab. With nothing else to do, I pour every thread of my attention into my genetic research. And, miraculously, I manage to forget, just for a little while, that our lives are crumbling around us.
Charles
I wake up with a cold darkness heavy in my stomach. It confines me to the bed and the hours drag by, one by one. When I do manage to get up, I just grab another bottle from my hidden stash and let my addiction ascend to the throne.
Buried in the blankets, I drink and drink and drink. I pass out, wake up, drink more, fall asleep, wake up just long enough to puke my guts up, then I do it all over again. I’m trapped in a drunken spiral, and I’m here by my own hand. I have the keys to the cage I’ve put myself in, but I couldn’t care less.
Hank checks on me a couple times. Or maybe not. I’m so goddamn drunk that I don’t know what’s happening anymore.
Before I know it, nighttime arrives. Hours pass. I stumble out of the bathroom after another bout of dizzy vomiting and collapse onto the bed. The ceiling above swerves in my vision, and the hot sting of tears burns on my cheeks.
In the thick darkness, one face coalesces in my memory. Erik. It’s Erik, it’s always, always Erik. 1962 flashes through my mind.
“There is so much more to you than you know. Not just pain and anger. There is good, too. I felt it.”
Maybe not.
“Erik! You decided to stay.”
No, you didn’t.
“I thought I was alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
But I am.
FUCK YOU, Erik, for making me love you.
The thoughts of Erik start mixing with fantasies of death. I stuff my face into my pillow and sob until my throat is raw, and the intrusive thoughts pour in like a black tsunami, deep and endless:
Do it, do it.
No, I’d never hear the end of it.
You won’t be alive anyway.
I can’t do that to Hank.
He’ll survive. You won’t if you keep living like this.
No, I can’t. I just can’t.
Why not?
I can’t.
Look at your life. The depression, the drinking, the drugs, the suffering, all the memories of Cuba and Raven and ERIK… You would be free. Do it.
But I…
Doesn’t it sound good?
It does. It does. It always does.
Holy shit, it really does…
I flop onto my back, my breath hitching in my chest as I fight to stop crying. But something clicks in my mind, like a light switch. My sadness evaporates, and a strange calm comes over me, like a soothing cream being rubbed over a wound. I don’t feel trapped anymore, because the war in my head is over.
I get up off the bed to bar the door.
I’ve made my decision. This will be my last night. Ever.
Hank
I wake up in the middle of the night with a dry throat and a desperate need for water. Groggy, I stumble through the shadowed halls, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand to try and clear the fog from my vision. I’m half-asleep as I get the glass and watch it fill up with water, higher, hi–
Three loud thumps from upstairs make me jump and the water splashes out of the cup. Cursing, I wipe my hands on a towel. I swear to God, if Charles got drunk again… I’m certainly no stranger to it, and I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to help Charles before, but I’m really not in the mood to be his therapist right now. I leave my water on the table and make my way upstairs to his room.
“Charles, you all right?”
Silence.
“Charles?” I knock on the door. No answer. “Look, I’m really not in the mood to be your babysitter, so– .”
I turn the knob and it’s–
Locked. Locked?
I try again. Same response.
Dread pools in my stomach. He never thinks to lock the door.
“Charles?” I try a third time, and when the door doesn’t budge, my heartbeat kicks up a notch. I take my glasses off and back up, letting the anxiety summon the Beast. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst, and run head on into the door. It flies off its hinges and clatters to the ground. Two chairs and a desk had been put up against the door as well, and they fall like dominoes.
Easing back into my human form, I scan the room and see an arm on the floor, sticking out from behind the other side of the bed. “Charles?” I maneuver around the mess in his room to reach him, but when I see him, I realize that preparing for the worst was not enough.
Charles is sprawled on the carpet, chalk-pale and motionless. The floor around him is littered with empty bottles of alcohol and handfuls of little white spots, and I see that they’re–
Pills. Oh, dear God, no.
“Charles!” I drop to my knees at his side, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. He doesn’t respond, and I watch his chest. Not moving. I press two fingers to his jugular vein and wait for his heartbeat, but after one two three four five seconds, I have another terrible realization: his heart’s not beating.
Terror surges through me. “No, no, no, no…” I scramble to start CPR. One two three four five– my mutant strength makes it easy– six seven eight nine ten– Thank God I was forced to learn this in school– eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen– Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive– sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty– Tears mingle with the sweat on my face– twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five– “Come on, Charles.” –twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty. I give him two rescue breaths and restart the compressions, my tears flowing freely now. One two three four five– “Damn it, Charles! Come on!” –push push push push push– “Come on, not like this! Not like this!” –eleven, twelve, thirteen–
His chest moves underneath my hands, he opens his mouth and takes a breath– a breath!
I gasp and stop the compressions, letting out choked sob.
Charles takes another breath, and another, and it keeps going, he keeps breathing.
Shaking so hard I can hardly keep a hold on my phone, I call 911 and explain the situation in the calmest voice that I can muster. The woman keeps me on the line and assures me that paramedics are on their way. My heart slams against my ribcage and every nerve is buzzing. With every breath, I have to will myself not to throw up or pass out from the stress. A minute or two into waiting, Charles starts retching and I turn him on his side. Despite only being half-conscious, Charles clings to me with an iron grip as he vomits profusely onto the carpet.
By the time the paramedics arrive, Charles is unconscious again, and after letting me know which hospital they’re taking him to, they hoist him onto a stretcher and wheel him out of the room. I watch from the window as they load him into the ambulance. The doors shut tight, trapping him inside. I turn around and head for the door to–
There’s a piece of paper on Charles’ pillow. Wary, I pick it up and see words in Charles’ handwriting:
Hank,
This is goodbye, my friend. Please don’t blame yourself. This was my choice. For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry that you had to be the one to find me. But I am now at peace. No more voices, no more pain. Don’t blame yourself, please. It was no one’s fault but my own. Goodbye, Hank. Thank you for everything.
Charles X
I read it once, twice, three times, then burst into tears.
Hank
The drive to the hospital is a blur. Waiting in the lobby is a blur. Everything is a horrible, terror-filled blur. All of my emotions are simmering under the surface, bubbling just under my skin, and I feel that any news about Charles, whatever it is, good or bad, will ruin me.
I’m sitting alone in an empty lobby that reeks of antiseptic wipes and cleaning chemicals. The silence is deafening and it towers over me as the shadows cut through the window blinds like a knife. I didn’t bring anything to do, nothing, save my phone, but even if I had brought something, my mind is anywhere but in the present.
A door opening slices through the silence and a doctor walks out. Towards me.
I stand up at once, digging my nails into my palms to help ground myself. “How is he?”
The doctor gives me a tired grin. “He’s okay.”
Immediately, I’m dizzy. He’s gonna be okay. The relief that floods through me is so intense that my legs go weak and I collapse back into the chair. “So he’s…he’s gonna be fine? He’s not…?”
“No, he’s all right. We’ve got him stabilized. He’s not awake yet, but we expect him to make a full recovery.”
I let out a massive sigh. “Thank you. Thank you so much…”
“No, thank you. If you hadn’t found him when you did and done CPR, he likely wouldn’t have made it.”
If that was supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. Instead, it forces me to realize just how close I came to losing him.
I wipe away a stray tear. “Can I-can I see him?”
The doctor nods. “Follow me.”
He leads me through a few silent hallways and shows me to a room labeled 616. Cracking open the door, he smiles sadly at me. “There’s a chair in the corner, feel free to use that. If you or Mr. Xavier need anything, please let us know.”
“Thank you.”
The doctor pats me on the shoulder and leaves.
I slip into the room and shut the door softly behind me. My eyes flood with more tears as I stare at Charles. His frail body looks so small and delicate in the hospital bed, so much so that it’s like he’s being swallowed up by the blankets. His pasty-white skin blends in with the sheets. A clip hugs his pointer finger and the slow, monotonous beep beep beep of his heartbeat fills the stagnant room. It may be unnerving, but at least his heart is beating. That’s more than I could say thirty minutes ago.
I pull up the rickety hospital chair and take his bony hand in mine. I don’t care how long Charles is in here. As much as possible, I’m staying by his side. I came so close to losing him, and he won’t leave my sight again.
Hank
I’m smack in the middle of a Kroger checkout line when I get a call from the hospital, and I’ve never answered a phone call so fast.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Mr. McCoy?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Doctor Camden from the hospital. I just wanted to inform you that Mr. Xavier regained consciousness.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “What? When?”
“About ten minutes ago. The doctors are with him now, but I wanted to let you know if case you wanted to visit him.”
“Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much, I’m on my way.” I end the call, squeeze out of the line, dump my items in an abandoned cart, and rush to my car. The ten minutes that it takes me to get to the hospital are way too long, and by the time I get there, I feel like I’ve missed hours. A doctor takes me back to Room 616.
I inch into the room inconspicuously. A nurse stands at his bedside, and Charles is currently vomiting into a trash can that she’s holding. After a little while, Charles mumbles, “I’m all right, thank you,” and slumps back against the pillows, eyes closed. Just hearing his voice almost makes me tear up.
The nurse notices me and turns to Charles. “You have a visitor.”
“What?” Charles opens his eyes and when he spots me, he eyes flash and he lifts his head. The heart monitor begins to beat a little faster.
The nurse breezes past me with the trash can and I mutter a quick “thank you” as she departs, leaving the two of us alone.
The air conditioning hums nearby, filling the silence with empty noise. Charles’ hand wanders over to the inside of his left elbow and he starts scratching at the track marks underneath.
I grit my teeth. “Stop.”
One word, and his hand freezes.
I take a few steps toward the bed. “So…are we just not gonna talk about it, or…?”
Charles says nothing.
“What, you’re not gonna say anything?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Bullshit. You tried to kill yourself, almost succeeded, and you’re telling me that there’s nothing to say? Really?” I cross my arms. “We have to talk about this.”
“Don’t-don’t ask me to talk about this now, I– .”
“I’m NOT asking.” I sit on the edge of the bed, and Charles stares down at his hands in his lap. “We need to talk about this. Everything. You, your problems, your issues, your depression, your addictions… It’s destroying your life, it’s destroying you.”
“But that’s all I ever want anymore, that’s all I ever think about. The next drink, the next dose. I don’t want to be healthy, Hank. I just…I just wanna give in.”
“Really? Really, Charles? You’re content living out your days, stuck in a depressed, drug-and-alcohol-induced haze?”
“Yes! One hundred percent.” Charles sighs. “If I have to live, that’s the only life I want.”
Silence takes over. But the more I think about what happened, the more my throat closes and the more my eyes burn with tears. “You know what the worst part was? It wasn’t finding you on the floor with the alcohol and pills everywhere, it was finding your note.” My voice breaks. “Charles, you…you gave me everything. You believed in me, you made me feel like I belonged somewhere, like I had a purpose, like I was loved. And I just…I don’t wanna lose you. Not to depression, not-not like this. So please. FIGHT.”
I grip his shoulders gently and gaze into his eyes.
“You’re a phenomenal person, Charles. The world would lose a hell of lot if it lost you.”
Hank
Charles is discharged the following day, and we both decide that it would be best to go back to his mansion rather than admit him to a mental hospital. His serum would wear off, and in that environment, with all those mentally ill people and their toxic thoughts, Charles wouldn’t stand a chance. It would hurt more than it’d heal.
So we travel back to the mansion. The entire car ride back, I can’t read him. He’s quiet, and suspiciously so. It’s times like these when I wish I had Charles’ powers.
We reach the house and I unlock the door to let us in. “All right, so there are gonna be some ground rules. But first, I’ll make us something to eat. What do you want?”
No response.
“Charles?” I glance back to find him standing in the doorway with a distant look on his face. I put my bag down and approach him. “Charles, what is it?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s… I just…didn’t think I’d be alive to see this place again.”
I purse my lips and glance around at the old, dusty room. “Charles, let me ask you something. Right now, in this moment, do you wish that you had succeeded?”
He glances at me with a look that I could only compare to a child when they’ve been scolded or found out. Fear. Guilt.
Charles looks around at his surroundings. “I don’t know, I…” He locks eyes with me for a split second, then his face crumbles and the tears explode out of him like a bomb. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves with sobs as he cries into his hands.
There is no Professor Xavier. This is Charles, just Charles, and a familiar question enters my brain: how the hell did we get here? How did Charles go from a renowned professor, someone I admired, to a man who is a slave to his own mind? A man who once could enter a room and command the attention of dozens has been reduced to a blubbering suicidal mess in front of me.
How did we get here?
But that’s a question for later. Charles needs me, right here, right now.
So I gather him in my arms in the biggest, most inviting hug I have the capacity for, run a hand through his hair in a rhythm that I know is calming for him, and whisper,
“It’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”
To lighten the mood a bit, here's a picture that I found online and captioned with a funny little scenario :P
