It seemed to take hours, but Charles finally fell asleep again. He was still curled up against the couch with his head against his knees, and it was difficult to tell at first whether or not he was still awake. The only clue he offered was a gradual slowing of his breathing. What had earlier come in frantic, short bursts had now fallen into a slow, measured rhythm. I whispered his name just to be sure, and, receiving no answer, I stood up and made my way to the closet where I had banished my painting. As I went, I checked the clock on the microwave. 1:51. Only about twenty minutes had passed since I had arrived home, but I now felt like calling it a day and going to sleep myself.
I opened the closet door and looked in at the painting. It had been harmless enough: a scene of a busy city street told from above, presumably from a balcony. In actuality, I had imagined myself as a lordly pigeon atop a statue, casting my regal gaze upon all the denizens of my city, and the picture filled itself out from there. But I couldn't imagine a scenario in which I would ever admit that to anyone; a balcony worked too. A city bus could be seen making its way down the crowded street, and it was on this particular vehicle that Charles had focused his frenzy. The tear in the canvas, his focal point, ran through one of the windows toward the front of the bus and continued down its side. I stared at the painting for a moment longer, wondering what had possessed Charles to destroy it, and shut the door. With nothing else to do and having no desire to leave Charles alone in the apartment again, I turned on the television, muted it, and flipped through the channels, finally settling on sports recaps from the day before. Good enough; I wasn't going to be able to concentrate on the television anyway.
I thought back on everything that had happened in this one day. I had been surprised that morning when Charles called me - we'd been out of touch for so long, I figured we had probably already spoken for the last time - and I was caught completely off guard by his asking if he might be able to come stay with me for a few days; I hadn't even been sure he still lived in the same city. But his voice was tired, broken, the sound of a man who had just lost a long fight. So I let him come, and this is where it put me. Friend or not, this was a lot to deal with, and I wasn't sure I would have agreed to help him if I'd known.
Charles awoke about two hours later. I had gotten up to throw together some fettuccine for a quick dinner, and I was halfway through a bowl when he stood up. He looked around, appeared confused by his surroundings. He finally caught sight of me and seemed to gradually recall the situation. His eyes shifted to the floor, and he made his way over to the table, sitting across from me but still refusing eye contact; he looked sullen, contrite.
"Hey," I said. "Hungry?"
He nodded. I went into the kitchen and fetched a bowl. I was about to ask how much sauce he wanted but decided against it; he seemed to prefer silence. I finished putting it all together and set the bowl in front of him. He didn't take up his fork right away, and I worried that he might refuse to eat altogether, yet another problem on today's rapidly growing list, but after a few moments, he mumbled a thanks and took a bite. He chewed slowly, as if out of habit rather than hunger. I decided to take the opportunity to broach the events of that afternoon. As it stood, I still had no idea how he wound up in his position in the first place.
"Charles?" I ventured, trying to maintain a soft, calming tone; I felt like I was negotiating a hostage situation; it occurred to me that, in some ways, I was. He looked up. "Charles, about what happened..."
His face creased; he drew in a long breath, and I thought he was about to start crying again.
"No, no," I quickly countered. "I mean, back in high school. Freshman year." I had impressed myself with the quick cover-up. "I just wanted to apologize. That was ... everything was my fault."
Charles only responded by shaking his head. I could only assume this was meant to indicate disagreement with what I had said.
"Well, I feel like it was," I said. A long pause passed between us; I hadn't prepared myself to carry the conversation alone. I went with the first thought that came to me. "Hey, remember when your guinea pig got loose in my house?"
Charles nodded, less of a reaction than I was hoping. Then, "Your mom hated me for that." His face flickered a fraction of a smile, and in that moment I felt a fragile twinge of hope that he might pull out of whatever he was in. I realized, though, it was the first time I'd seen him smile since he arrived. The first time in a lot longer than that, actually.
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