Page 50 of Even in the Dark

I don’t point out that Dylan's not really a kid; he’s seventeen and bigger and stronger than either of the men up there right now attempting to contain him. Or that the level of fury we’re hearing hardly qualifies as just “acting out”. But she’s right about the “why” of it all, and I think that’s probably all that matters right now.

Mom knows she’s not going to be able to stop Diane from going up. So, instead, she follows a few paces behind. And I follow a few paces behind mom.

Chapter Eighteen

Scarlett

The scene upstairs is even worse than I pictured. Dylan’s room is completely torn apart. His dresser on its side, clothes spilling out onto the floor, his brand new laptop smashed against the baseboard, a lamp, a couple of speakers, and all those carefully curated coffee table books strewn across the carpet. The framed prints Diane chose so carefully are ruined, their glass frames shattered and splayed across pretty much the entire surface of the floor. The bathroom door is torn off the top hinge, and most disturbing: there are two holes punched in the wall beside the bedroom door, a few bits of the white plaster tinted red with blood.

The stacks of comic books, I can’t help noticing, are intact.

The room scan takes me less than three seconds and ends when my attention snags on the nucleus of the storm: Dylan kneeling in the middle of the wreckage wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, his chest heaving and smeared with blood. Beside him, Phil’s crouched awkwardly on one knee,holding back Dylan’s right arm with both of his. On his other side, dad is hunched over, gripping Dylan’s left arm while simultaneously trying to use his leg to restrain the rest of his body.

Diane takes a quiet step into the room. Mom and I do the opposite, stepping back into the hallway and off to the side a bit, not wanting to seem like the three of us are entering as a pack—reinforcements or something. Which is really what we are, I guess. Although, honestly, I’m not sure what good mom or I would be as reinforcers. I could barely arm-wrestle Chloe a couple of weekends ago.

“Dylan.” Diane takes another step forward.

His eyes snap up, wild and dilated. Darker than their usual emerald green. More like the deepest, murkiest part of the ocean. His freshly cut hair is wet and disheveled and dripping onto his flushed cheeks, down his neck, his chest… the droplets turning pink as they trace undulating tracks through the blood smeared there too.

“This,”I think numbly,“is the wild, out-of-control boy the media were all clamoring about.”

But seeing him like this, it seems less like a wild explosion we’re witnessing, and more like a crude unraveling. Like he has come apart at the seams after the strain of trying for so long to keep everything stitched as tightly as possible. And all I want to do is put him back together.

He jerks against Phil and dad’s grasps but just ends up staggering back a few paces, pulling the two of them with him.

“Oh, honey… Your hair…” Diane crouches down to his level, both hands coming up to cover her mouth. “You cut your hair.”

And I know, right then, that she is the reason he did it. He pretends he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t want anyone’s approval. But maybe claiming he doesn’t care about approvalisn’t just an ingrained behavior—maybe it’s a reaction to not knowing how to handle the fact that suddenly he does.

Either way, those few words Diane just uttered were the exact right thing to say. He stops struggling for a second, chest still heaving. Breaths deep and labored, but possibly not as labored as Phil and dad’s.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Diane practically whispers.

His full lips curl up in a snarl. “I didn’t do it for you.”

He’s lying. I know he’s lying. I think Diane does too. She looks like her emotions just took a huge hit. Her own mouth quirks but into a sad smile. “Well… if you did… I’m sorry you thought it mattered that much to me.” She lets out a shaky sigh. “You shouldn’t feel you need to change anything about yourself to get my approval—or the approval of anyone in your family.”

“You’re not my family.” His voice is raspy. Hollow. “None of you are my fuckingfamily.”

There’s a beat of silence that feels taut. Something goes on behind his eyes. Suddenly, he twists his body, jerking his arms in an almost practiced maneuver that allows him to wrench himself free. He whirls around, glancing at his surroundings, almost as if he’s not sure where he is. Confused at how this magnitude of destruction came to be.

“Dylan…” Diane pulls herself back up, so she’s standing. “Could we please just talk for a few minutes?”

He spins to face her, and she flinches. I don’t blame her—he’s erratic and un-predictable right now. Wild and teetering on the edge of his own self-control. His eyes narrow. “I’m done talking.”

“Okay.” Diane nods slowly. “We don’t have to talk. Could we just sit, then? Breathe…. Catch our breath for a second?”

He stares at her. No indication in his eyes what’s going through his head.

“I think… It sounds like you’re frustrated because we’re not giving you enough privacy,” she says calmly. His eyes narroweven more, but she continues, “And maybe… you could be right. The way we’re checking up on you all the time is probably stifling.” She chances a gentle smile. “And probably really annoying.” She takes a step back and lowers herself again, this time so she’s sitting on the carpet up against the up-turned dresser. Luckily, it’s on a patch of rug clear of broken glass.

She looks so out of place in her tapered Ralph Lauren chinos and black cardi, with her sleek bob cut and gold earrings—sitting on the floor in the middle of a room that looks like it was just ransacked by a couple of goons after a drug deal gone south.

Dylan watches her for a second, saying nothing. Sweeps his gaze across the floor.

On the other side of the room, dad and Phil start getting to their feet. Diane turns her head the tiniest bit, inclining her chin almost imperceptively towards the floor. They both look back at her, slightly baffled. But when they crouch back down, she gives them another micro nod before facing Dylan again.

“Fuck!” He kicks his desk.“Fuck!”Another kick.

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