The young man stares at the young boy that stands before him, pale and frightened. The boy looks as though he wants to speak, but the young man shakes his head. Don’t talk about it, the man silently tells the boy. Nobody has to know about it. If you don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen.
December 24, 1998
If I’d been smart, I would have located my sleeping bag before my parents started their annual Christmas tradition. But there’s one thing I will never be accused of being. Smart. I can’t ever seem to do anything right. Just how many times has my father reminded me of that fact? And how many times have I gone out and proven him right? No use dwelling on it though--there are far more important things for me to concentrate on at the moment.
The ‘rents have already gotten a good head start on the evening festivities, which means it’s time to get out, or risk having them turn on me again. I’m not even sure what exactly started it. One minute we were silently eating dinner and the next Mom was yelling at him because he hadn’t helped out with fixing dinner. Like he ever had before? Besides, all she really did was take the box out of the freezer and stick it in the oven. I think if they didn’t make "Turkey in a Box" we’d probably be having frozen pizzas. Anyway, it all went downhill quickly from there. I’ve already gotten trapped in the middle of it once tonight and that’s more than enough for me. I tried to stop it when he tried to strike the first blow. I guess I was hoping that I could at least delay the inevitable until after dinner. I can already feel the bruises developing, and if I stick around, there will be plenty more where those came from. It’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose in the Harris household. Eeks. Perhaps I should rephrase that. At least this is one time that isn’t a literal statement. No, they were like that long before I’d even heard of the Slayer...before I knew of her world of vampires and demons. But even before Buffy, I was no stranger to evil. I’d grown up with it residing in my own house.
At last I find it--half buried under all the laundry I’ve been avoiding and the junk I’ve thrown into my closet while tidying up. I pull it out and sling it over my shoulder. Now I have everything I need for my camp-out. I tuck my pillow under one arm and snag my lantern and the plate of rapidly cooling dinner and head back upstairs, wondering briefly if they’ve even noticed that I left the table.
Apparently not. They’re still there, pretty much at each others’ throats. Right now she’s yelling about he never does anything around the house. And he’s throwing the same complaint right back at her. For a moment I’m tempted to just throw everything down and scream at them to quit. But I know from experience that the last thing I should do is get in the middle of things. By now it’s too late anyway. There’s no reasoning with them once they’ve reached this stage. Why do they have to get like this? My sight settles on the empty bottle that is tipped on its side, hovering at the edge of the table just waiting to fall. And there’s my answer. But why, when they know what always happens, do they continue to drink that stuff? Especially at Christmas, when we’re supposed to be celebrating and being a family. It doesn’t just happen at Christmas, though. It’s just one of the few days of the year that I can pretty much count on it happening. It always starts on Christmas Eve and usually continues straight through, ending when they eventually pass out sometime late in the day on Christmas. What better way to spend the holidays than by yelling, fighting, screaming, and throwing things? I sigh, watching them as they continue to bicker about God only knows what. The subject of the fight is never really the point.
"I’ll be outside..." I call to them, knowing full well that they will neither hear me, nor concern themselves about my whereabouts. I’m not even sure why I bother trying to tell them. Maybe it’s simply that despite all the years of this I still want to believe that they actually do care what happens to me. It’s weird listening to some of my classmates complaining about how their parents set all these restrictions on them and how they want their parents to loosen up. Me? I wish that mine actually thought enough about me to set a few. All the times I’ve called to tell them that I was staying late at the library...that was more for my benefit than theirs. They didn’t care, and probably wouldn’t have even noticed my absence had I not called attention to it. It has been like that as long as I can remember, so I should be used to it by now. And yet it still hurts. I try one more time. "If you want to..." they don’t so much as look up, "...find me..." I trail off, realizing that it is futile.
Neither parent regards me with so much as a nod. They’re too busy preparing for the next level of battle. I wait for just a moment longer, hoping that at least one of them would acknowledge that I exist. It doesn’t happen. So I suck it up as I always do and I head outside to my traditional spot. I’d slept outside for the past twelve Christmas Eves. With any luck this will be the last time I had to spend the holiday this way.
Once to my spot, I quickly set up my "camp" and lie gazing up at the stars from the warmth of my sleeping bag. Not that it’s even slightly cold—unseasonably warm, really—but there’s a secure feeling that comes from being tucked into a sleeping bag. Like as long as I’m enfolded in it, nobody...nothing can touch me. And I can pretend that I really am out ‘feeling the nature vibe’ as I’d told Buffy earlier. Of course even she knew that wasn’t the truth. Especially after Cordelia...I cringe as I think back to the incident in the lounge.
"So...you doing anything special?" I asked Buffy as she, Willow, and I started toward the student lounge.
"Tree. Nog. Roast beast," she’d returned. A woman of many words. I’d hoped for something more, but wasn’t going to push it. It was certainly better than what I had planned. "Just me and mom and hopefully an excess of gifts." She turned to Willow. "What are you doing for Christmas?"
Willow lived for this question. "Being Jewish, remember people?" Willow launched into her annual tirade. I smiled slightly. For the first time it wasn’t me that gave her the opportunity to give the speech. No, this year I was being careful. "Not everybody worships Santa!"
"I just meant for vacation," Buffy smiled, cutting her ranting short.
Willow frowned. "Nothing fun," she admitted. "Oz and I had planned—" she pause for a moment to consider the plans they’d made that she’d lost. My spirit sunk lower as I read her thoughts. I’d ruined everything. "But I guess that’s off," she finished wistfully.
We made our way past the "Holiday" tree and into the lounge. And that’s when I saw her. Cordelia. The tension in the air skyrocketed, but no one seemed to notice except me.
"Well...I’ll be enjoying my annual Christmas Eve camp-out," I announced, though no one had asked. My nervousness caused my voice to be much louder than I’d intended. I glanced over at Cordelia to gauge the damage. Total. My heart sank. She’d definitely heard me. And the smug look on her face told me that she wasn’t going to keep quiet. Why did I have to open my mouth knowing that she’d possibly overhear? Stupid, stupid, stupid! I kept talking though. I couldn’t seem to make myself shut up. "See, I take my sleeping bag outside and I go to sleep on the grass..." I glanced over at her again and cringed inwardly as I saw her getting up.
"Sounds fun," Buffy said, distractedly.
I stared at the cold smile on Cordelia’s face. She was definitely coming over. "Yeah," I continued, my nervousness growing. "I like to look up at the stars, you know, feel the whole nature vibe." Please, Cordy, I asked her silently, just let me have this.
She stopped in front of me, a gloating look on her face. I knew what was coming, but it didn’t stop the moment of shock as she spoke the words. "I thought you slept outside to avoid your family’s drunken Christmas fights," she corrected. Her eyes glowed with angry fire as she silently challenged me to deny it. Since she couldn’t betray my trust exactly like I’d betrayed hers, she was going to do the next best thing. She was going to betray the trust I put in her when I’d told her about my family’s...problems. She was going to make sure that everyone knew that I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky guy I presented myself to be. She was going to expose me for what I am—a complete loser.
In that moment my life turned upside down yet again. For a brief moment I felt anger, but that was quickly overshadowed by shame and hurt. I quickly glanced around to survey the damage. Maybe no one had heard? Willow and Buffy were tactfully busying themselves with other things. But it was obvious that everyone had heard.
I pull the sleeping bag tighter around me, as if it can block out the memories that are trying to invade. Most of them are about Cordelia. Yet another thing I’ve blown. I’ve really managed to blow everything in the past few months. My grades are at an all time low, my SAT scores were...lacking, I’ve pretty much failed Buffy. I couldn’t even set aside my dislike of Angel long enough to see that she was hurting. What kind of friend is that? I don’t know why I can’t make myself forgive like Willow—And there's my biggest failure yet. Willow. My best friend. The only person in this world that really understands me. And I blew it. Why did we have to kiss? I’m not even sure why it happened. I mean I love...loved Cordy, and much as the werewolf thing worries me, I have to admit that she and Oz are good together...and I know that he will treat her better than I ever could. She deserves more than what I can give her. With him, she has someone that she can talk to about all her computer stuff and school...besides, I’m sure she’ll be heading off to school next fall. I’d only hold her back. But then, that’s the story of my life, isn’t it.
I close my eyes and try not to listen as the fighting inside gets loud enough to penetrate the walls. I try not to think about what is happening inside. Or about what has happened within those walls countless times over the years. I feel tears trying to form, but push them away as best I can. Like I always do. Let no one see the hurt and it doesn’t exist. Just keep telling yourself that and someday you might believe it. But pretending doesn’t change the way I feel inside. Confused, sad and yes, even a bit frightened still. I'm not a little child anymore, but the yelling and the hitting still scares me. But mostly what I feel is horribly horribly alone.
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, curbing the tears that want to flow. God, if my father only saw those...it would only help him prove his point that I'm a pathetic loser. I can’t cry. Instead I bury my head under the pillow to block out the sound of fighting until I mercifully fall asleep.
But that doesn’t stop the annual Christmas nightmare.
December 24, 1986
The little boy was jolted from sleep to the sound of a clutter from the upstairs living room. He grinned as he slid from his bed. Santa was upstairs! He knew he was supposed to be a good little boy and stay in his room, but the temptation was just too great. He was finally going to get a chance to prove once and for all that despite what Cordelia Chase and her snotty friends claimed, Santa did exist. And he, Alexander Harris, was going to have proof. He couldn’t wait until he got to tell Willow...except she probably wouldn’t care. She didn’t celebrate Christmas. Her family didn’t get to put up a tree or anything. She said that the Rosenbergs celebrated something called "Honika" instead. He’d asked her if Santa Claus still visited her, and she had calmly explained something about lighting candles every night for eight days. The first night she got to light one candle, the second night two...Much as he liked lighting candles, this just didn’t seem like a fair trade-off. She had, however, taught him a sort of cool game. He liked it when he’d spun the Dreidel-thingie and it had come up with the "GIMEL" symbol. He’d won quite a bit of chocolate on that turn. He thought briefly of the stash he now had hidden under his pillow and briefly considered snagging a piece, but then he heard another thumping sound from upstairs and he realized that there was something much more important at stake.
He padded out into the main room of the basement and scurried quietly up the stairs, hoping he’d be in time to catch a glimpse of the elusive Saint Nicholas. As he reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the kitchen, he made a point of glancing at the kitchen counter, where his mom had let him leave out some cookies and milk for Santa like Jesse had mentioned he always did. The plate and the glass were both missing. He grew excited. Santa must have taken them into the living room and is probably eating them right now!
He eagerly hurried down the hallway and burst into the living room fully expecting to see a large man in a bright red suit. Instead he ran straight into a large man in jeans and a flannel shirt. And the man was definitely not happy to see him. Especially not after the bottle that had been in his hand shattered on the floor as it hit.
Xander winced as the man grabbed him roughly by the arm and jerked him off the ground. "I thought I told you to stay in your room, you little runt!" the man stormed, staring angrily down at his young son. Xander struggled to keep the tears from his eyes. His crying would only make his father angrier. He recognized the broken bottle and the pale liquid that was splayed out in a puddle around it. He never understood why his parents always drank that stuff—his dad had let him try it once and he thought it tasted kinda icky. And it seemed to him that whenever his parents drank it, it seemed to make them...mean. "Well, boy?" his father demanded.
"I-I’m s-ss-ssorry," Xander apologized nervously. He hated it when he got nervous. It always caused him to stammer, and that was yet another thing that only seemed to make his dad upset with him.
"You’re ssss-ssssss-ssssorry?" the man mocked, grossly exaggerating the boy’s stutter. "Little freak," he spat contemptuously. "What are you doing out of bed? When I tell you to stay in your room, you damn well better stay in your room! Can’t you even do that right?" Xander blinked back the tears as his father shook him savagely to get the point across. He should never have come upstairs. He’d been told to stay down there and he knew better than to disobey an order. And yet, here he’d gone and disappointed his dad yet again. Why couldn’t he ever seem to do anything right?
"For crissakes, Daniel, put him down!" Xander heard his mother yell angrily. "Leave him alone, it’s Christmas Eve, dammit!"
"I know what the hell day it is," his father shot back. "And I told the runt to stay downstairs!"
"Put him down!" she screamed again as she grabbed up the plate of uneaten cookies and hurled it at them. Xander felt his arm twisting before it was suddenly released as his father jerked out of the way of the flying dish. The plate struck the wall behind them and dropped to the floor in pieces.
"Damn it!" Daniel Harris bellowed as he trampled over his son in his rush toward his wife.
Only somewhat conscious of the foul-smelling liquid that was soaking into his pajamas and the bits of glass that were jabbing into him, Xander lay where he’d fallen, frozen in fear as he watched his mother snatch up another bottle and swing it at his raging father. As if from far away, he could hear his father yelp in pain as the bottle hit its mark, and he watched as the man ripped the bottle from his mother’s grip and flung it to the ground, shattering yet another object.
Xander turned his attention to the broken pieces of glass that now littered the living room floor, focusing on them so that he wouldn’t have to watch his parents hitting each other. He hated it when they did that. He wanted to get up and leave so that he wouldn’t have to see, but he knew from experience that now was definitely not a good time to draw attention to himself. It was best to bide his time and hope that he didn’t draw their attention until after they’d calmed down. He cringed as he listened to the sounds of flesh against flesh and the cries of his mother as his father struck her again and again. He could no longer control the tears and they burst forth, dribbling down his cheeks and mixing with the puddle of alcohol on the floor beneath him. This was all his fault. If only he’d stayed downstairs like his father had told him...And now, because of him, his parents were fighting. And he was far too little to do anything to stop it. About all he could do was cry.
He slowly shifted so that he could cover his head and hide his shame. No sooner had he done so, however, when he was startled by a loud crash. He looked up and saw that his mother had taken the small lamp from the table and had smashed it into his dad, who was now on the floor, crawling toward him, trying to get out of the reach of another blow.
For a moment Xander’s eyes locked with his father’s, and he felt himself grow cold. The fury in his father’s eyes was as intense as he’d ever seen it. And right now, the fury was directed at him. He scrambled to get to his feet, but failed to get clear of his father’s wrath as the man overtook him and grabbed him up off the ground.
"Damn it, see what you’ve done?" the man screamed at him and shook him again. "And stop your damn, tears. You pathetic runt! I’ll give you something to really cry about." He saw the giant hand swinging toward his face a split second before it struck. It wasn’t enough time to duck or to squirm away. The blow struck him hard across the face, stunning him. He’d never been hit like that before. But oddly, he didn’t really even feel it--his face was completely numb. But the second blow he felt. And the next several that followed. And he definitely felt it as his father lifted him higher and slammed him to the ground. And he felt it as his father drove his foot forcefully into him—
And then his mother was there, wedging herself between them. "Damn it, Daniel, leave him alone!"
Xander lay, stunned at his father’s savage attack, and watched in horror as his parents continued their brawl. At one point they were practically on top of him, and he had to scrunch as small as he could get to avoid being trounced. Even then, he was being stepped on, and eventually they tripped over him, landing in a heap beside him. Once again he became a target--his father reached for him, but his mother stopped the grabbing hand.
"Xander, get out," she ordered him. He wanted to obey, but he couldn’t move. He was still too frightened, and his whole body hurt. "Get out!" she screamed at him when he didn’t budge.
He struggled to obey and found that his limbs weren’t working the way they were supposed to. He couldn’t get up. But he couldn’t disobey. Just see where that had gotten him. So he painfully crawled from the room and slunk outside to escape the sounds of their fighting, swallowing his sobs. He couldn’t let himself cry again, not when it upset his father so much. He’d really made a mess of things. Why hadn’t he just stayed in his room...?
The young boy stares up at the young man, pleadingly. Again the man shakes his head. Talking about it will only make things worse. Nobody can ever know about this. It’s our shame to deal with, and ours alone.
For several hours, Xander stared unseeingly up at the stars, trying not to listen to the sound of his parents still fighting inside. Eventually, the stars faded and it became light. For a time, the house grew quiet, and Xander guessed that his parents were finished, but still he stayed as he was, curled up in a little ball on the lawn. Part of him wanted to go inside and make sure that everything was okay, that his disobedience was forgiven and forgotten. It was Christmas after all. But he couldn’t make himself move. He was too frightened to go in and find out the extent of the damage he’d caused. Eventually he managed to fall asleep.
When he woke, his mother was crouched over him, shaking him gently. Light was already fading from the sky, so he knew that Christmas was almost over. "Wake up, sleepy-head," his mother cooed softly. When she saw that his eyes were open, she smiled brightly down at him. "Merry Christmas, Xandman," she greeted.
He blinked. Had she forgotten what he did? How could she have? He could see the remnants of the fight clearly on her face. And yet, she was pretending that nothing was wrong.
"C’mon, Xand, let’s get you cleaned up, hmmm?" She pulled him to his feet, tactfully ignoring his whimper as the pain once again came alive within him. She took his hand and led him back into the house.
All signs of the fight had been cleared away. The broken glass had been picked up, cookie crumbs swept away. The lamp had been returned to it’s rightful spot on the table. And his father was quietly sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. Gifts had been set under the tree just like this were a normal Christmas. If it weren’t for the cuts and bruises they all sported, he would have thought that perhaps it had only been a nightmare. But the aches told him otherwise.
Xander followed as him mom led him into the bathroom and let her pick him up and set him on the edge of the counter. She smiled at him and reached past him into the cabinet to get the first aid supplies. Once she had the arsenal out, she quickly dragged his pajama top up over his head and began surveying his injuries.
"Why didn’t you just stay in your room?" his mother sighed as she softly ran her fingers through his hair. She gazed down at his bruised face and shook her head sadly. She smiled wanly at him and continued looking him over for damage. He winced as she prodded a tender spot below his ribs. Where he’d been kicked. It still hurt terribly. "Oh, now that doesn’t look so bad," she chided, pressing the spot again. "That’ll heal up in no time and you can forget all about this." How could he forget this? He didn’t think he’d ever be able to erase the image of the fury in his father’s eyes. His mother doused the cotton ball with peroxide and began cleaning the wounds on his face. He cried out involuntarily as he felt the sting of the cold liquid penetrating the cut. "Oh, now that didn’t hurt," she scolded sternly. "Suck it up and take it like a man, huh?" She smiled down at him and continued to tend to his wounds. It seemed like a long time before she finally pronounced him finished and helped him down. "Now let’s go see what Santa brought you, huh?" she suggested.
He nodded, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d been awake all night, and he’d never seen any sign of Santa or his sleigh. Cordelia was right after all. He started past her intending to go to the living room, but she reached out and snagged hold of his hand, stopping him before he got ahead of her. She knelt down so that she could look him straight in the eye.
"Xander, you have to promise me that you won’t say anything about last night, okay? Not to your father, not to anyone else. Okay?"
He nodded slowly, not understanding the purpose of her telling him this. It had been his fault, after all. It’s not like he was going to rush out and tell everyone that he’d been bad and caused his parents to fight. But he nodded his agreement.
"Good, because you see, people wouldn’t understand what happened last night. They’d say bad things about us. And they could take you away from us...understand?"
He didn’t, but he nodded his head. They would take him away because he’d disobeyed his dad? He lowered his head in shame. This was something that he could never talk to anyone about...and he mustn’t cry about it. He had to do as his mother told him. He had to be a man. He had to deal with this alone.
Watching as the boy lowers his head in shame and turns to go, the man makes a realization. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that his parents were so destructive. It never had been. It had never been his fault and he had nothing to be ashamed of. There was no reason to hide his feelings of hurt and loss, the feelings he’d kept hidden away for so many years.
Wait! he wants to yell to the boy as the child starts to fade into the night. The boy turns and stares at him with wide frightened eyes, as if he’d heard the call. The man reaches his hand out toward the boy. The boy looks at it curiously, then gazes back up into his face and steps closer, raising one hand, palm facing toward the man. He is still too frightened to reach forward and take the hand he is being offered. The man reaches forward placing his palm against that of the boy. For a moment they stand frozen in place just staring at each other. The man can feel the years of pent-up anguish the boy is holding in and his heart leaps. Slowly he and the boy turn in a circle, hands still pressed together. They watch each other wearily until at last he finds a voice. He smiles down at the boy and nods. "It’s okay," he whispers. "You can let go now."
And the boy begins to weep. Deep sobs that wrack his entire body. And suddenly it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. Slowly they continued to circle, as if stuck in an eternal dance. As they move, the boy begins to fade, and the man begins to feel stronger. He blinks as he feels tears trying to spill over. He couldn’t cry. It was—
"It’s okay," the boy whispers. "You can let go now."
And the tears break free. Along with them came a feeling of lightness. A great weight was being lifted. The man closes his eyes and revels in the feel of the cool refreshing water rolling down his cheeks. And he smiles. He opens his eyes to look one last time at the boy, but already the child was gone...at last, the man is whole.
I awaken to the feeling of wetness against my face. Tears? Am I really crying? But it couldn’t be tears of pain or anguish. I feel good. And then I realize that it isn’t tears at all. To my astonishment, Sunnydale has changed in just a couple short hours. It is no longer unbearably hot, but a pleasant cold. And the water sliding down my face isn’t tears but rain...except that wasn’t quite right either. I smile in wonderment as I realize what is happening. For the first time in...well...forever, Sunnydale is being covered with a blanket of snow. My smile grows. The snow isn’t the only thing I am experiencing for the first time. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I, Xander Harris, feel at peace.
Absolution by Chaos
