I'm Not From Earth - 4. Four

f o u r

It was cold -- a winter locked inside a palace on a summer day. The output from the air conditioner rushed down from slim vents in the arching ceiling, cradled by strong black pillars. The walls were ghostly white, the many floors suspended by a spider web of cables. Wisps of fresh dust swept into the spacious room.

Rover trembled, his limbs rocking underneath him, unsure whether he was shaking because of the temperature or because he was nervous. He felt like there was a stone in his gut, crystallized into the crevices of his entrails, pulling and pulling so that his chest caught and shuddered with every step. His feet created steam prints as he walked across the granite floor to the stairs. With a huff, he lugged his heavy backpack higher up his shoulders. Maybe he'll give Biology a try today. Or perhaps Math. And if he didn't get either of the homework assigned for those, he could always settle on English.

Thump, thump, thump.

Listen.

Foot falls, out of walking synchronization, vibrated gently from upstairs. Rover blinked several times, trying to calm the panic in his heart.

Unless father struck first, Rover didn't have to act. But if it comes down to the worst, Rover was sure he could do it -- to act differently, to make a change. But only if father hit him. And he might not. No, he might not, if he didn't come home. And he was home, wasn't he? Was he on his way to bed? If he saw Rover, would he still hit him? What if he didn't see him? He might not think of hitting him then, because he wouldn't have seen Rover in the first place and then Rover wouldn't have to act differently, because if he did, everything could go wrong, and who knows what could happen then?

The footsteps upstairs thrummed again, and Rover took a few slow steps down, wishing he could suddenly disappear entirely from view.

"Welcome home, Mr. Stilles."

Rover blinked again, swayed, and almost fell over backwards in relief. His house maid peered down at him timorously with dark eyes.

"Thank you." Rover inclined his head in acknowledgment, and continued to tread the stairs, his legs less jelloid than before.

"Would you like anything?"

Rover shook his head. "You can leave now," he said, turning away. "I can take care of everything else."

"... But, sir, your father --"

At the mention of his father, Rover impulsively whirled around, startling the small lady. The broom dropped with a loud clatter to the floor.

He opened his mouth to say something defiant, but the words died in his mouth. His heart skipped a few beats, and he swallowed. There was no point in talking to any of the servants in the house, anyways. His father paid the servants well enough, and made sure they never spoke more than a few words. Rover assured himself that was the reason for staying silent, and not that he feared his father would hear.

He scowled and moved to shut himself in his room.

Rover crashed onto his bed head first, not bothering to remove his shoes or to shift his position and closed his eyes. Counting each and every click of the clock, he tried to sleep, nigh impossible though it was. How could he, when every passing car sounded like his father's limousine? When the sudden bursts of wind sounded like the ragged breathing of a drunk? When the timbre of a leaking pipe from downstairs sounded like the blood that dripped from a punctured wound? Rover's mind was a whirlwind -- a maelstrom of resolve, of terror, of melancholy, of...

Dammit, everything.

Rover threw his head once into his pillow, then got up and checked the time. He confirmed that his father's plane had already arrived an hour ago, and estimated when he would be home. His father would go out drinking first, that was for sure, so Rover had a good five hours or so.

Rover mentally prepared himself. It wasn't the possible beating that he might receive that scared him senseless, but his own promise to himself that he could try to fix things. No, he would fix things. Because if you had the will to face a problem, anything is solve-able, right?

With that thought gripped tightly in his mind, Rover flipped over onto his stomach and dozed, waiting for the set of the sun.

*

He woke with a start.

Rover rubbed his eyes, blinking in the darkness and straining his ears for the source that brought him from his slumber. He heard them. Perfectly synchronized footsteps, one after the other, sounded from underneath the floor.

Thump, thump, thump.

The beat of the footfalls were even, hiding the drunkenness, but Rover recognized the speed of the walk. The slower, heavier steps. He blinked a few times, blood pounding in his ears, and sat up.

Did his father pass out on the couch? Was the TV on? Rover shed his sheets and quietly crept to his bedroom door, listening for the static buzz, but all he could hear was silence. The pungent spice of alcohol reached Rover's nose faintly -- probably some rare and priceless wine he managed to fish out from his latest trip. Rover waited, crouched in the darkness, the only sources of light from the crevice underneath the door and the red glow from his alarm clock that read ten-twenty pm.

Five minutes elapsed. Fifteen minutes. Twenty five minutes. And finally, an hour, in which Rover let out a relieved breath, glad that his father was sleeping. Tonight, he too would sleep in peace. He would ignore whatever disputes and misfortunes that were lined up to meet him the following morning -- or perhaps he would be able to avoid them altogether, as he was planning to wake up early to go to school anyways. It would be a short break, but enough time nonetheless for him to breathe and ready himself.

He stood up carefully, stretching, taking the time to wrinkle out the stiffness in his neck. He dove back into his bed, but his sleeve clipped the clock. It teetered on the edge of his bedside table, a motionless globule shining with destruction, and spiraled straight down.

Crash!

Dead silence. Silence filled with dread.

Thump, thump, thump.

Footsteps at the ground floor, footsteps climbing up the stairs, footsteps ten paces away from the door. Rover bit his lip and stood in panic, his eyes darting from the fallen clock to the heap on his bed that was his blankets, to the glass window, and to the closet. What was he to do now? Pretend to sleep? Hide? Push against the door? Pick up the clock? Apologize? What the hell was he supposed to do?

Before Rover could finalize an option, the door slammed open.

*