Page 119 of Body and Soul

Boone greeted me at the door with a grunt, stepping aside so I could enter. His two mutts were in their cages, but they went wild as soon as I walked in, slobbering and barking like maniacs. I growled at them and the dogs immediately fell silent.

“Christ, Shepherd,” Boone mumbled.

I stalked into the doublewide, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. The interior reeked of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and dog. Dishes were piled in the sink and empty pizza boxes littered the counter. Boone had never been much for housekeeping.

“Where's Xion?” I asked gruffly, not in the mood for small talk.

Boone jerked his head towards the back. “In his room. Been real quiet today.”

I grunted and made my way down the narrow hall. The floorboards creaked under my weight. I paused outside the door at the end, listening intently, but heard only silence. Taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and entered.

Xion sat hunched on the unmade bed, staring blankly at the wall. He didn't acknowledge my presence. The room was a disaster—clothes strewn everywhere, books scattered across the floor, the acrid stench of cigarette smoke clinging to everything. A full ashtray teetered on the nightstand.

I sighed heavily and moved to open the small window, letting in a gust of frigid air. Xion finally stirred at that, glancing up at me with dull, lifeless eyes. It pained me to see him like this, a mere husk of his former self, but controlling his outbursts had proven more difficult than I expected. I wasn’t experienced enough in this area to be treating him, and my personal stake in his health complicated things. He needed another doctor. A better doctor.

I stepped further into the room, my boots crunching on discarded chip bags and soda cans. The squalor turned mystomach. How could anyone live like this, let alone recover in such filth? I made a mental note to have a stern discussion with Boone about cleanliness and its impact on mental health.

“Xion,” I said gently, perching myself on the edge of the sagging mattress. “How are you doing?”

Slowly, Xion lifted his gaze to meet mine. In the pale light filtering through the grimy window, his eyes were the color of ashes, devoid of their usual glimmer. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath, stark against his pallid complexion. He looked like a ghost, wasting away in this dilapidated trailer.

“I'm surviving,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse. “Same as always.”

I nodded, unsurprised by his bleak assessment. Surviving was the best most could hope for in his condition. Thriving remained a distant dream.

“And the hallucinations? The delusions? Have the meds been helping at all?” I pressed.

Xion huffed a bitter laugh, thin shoulders twitching beneath his stained t-shirt. “The meds. Right. Because pumping me full of chemicals is going to magically make my brain normal again.”

I exhaled slowly, tamping down my frustration. Xion's attitude towards treatment had always been a challenge, but I couldn't let it deter me. His recovery depended on finding the right combination of therapy and medication. If he wouldn't advocate for himself, then I had to do it for him.

“The chemicals, as you put it, are intended to correct the imbalances in your brain chemistry,” I explained patiently, as if to a petulant child. “With time and adjustments, we can alleviate your symptoms and improve your quality of life. But it requires cooperation on your part.”

Xion scoffed and looked away, picking at a loose thread on his ratty jeans. “Quality of life," he muttered. “What a joke. Youthink being doped up and locked away in this shithole is living? You think I enjoy being babysat by Boone?”

His words dripped with venom, but I sensed the undercurrent of pain beneath the vitriol. Xion was hurting, feeling abandoned and betrayed by the family that was supposed to protect him. I couldn't fault him for his anger, but I also couldn't let it consume him.

“This is temporary,” I assured him, injecting a note of steel into my tone. “A means to an end. We're working on getting you the help you need, somewhere better equipped to handle your condition. Somewhere you can heal.”

Xion's lips twisted into a sneer and his hand shot forward. Nicotine-stained fingers curled around my collar. “Get me the fuck out of here, Shepherd, or I swear to God I’m going to fucking lose my shit and kill somebody.”

I held Xion's wild-eyed gaze, unflinching even as his fingers dug into my flesh. Desperation rolled off him in waves, his body trembling with barely contained rage. I knew that feeling all too well—the helplessness, the frustration, the sense that the world was closing in. But I also knew that giving in to those emotions would only lead to ruin.

“I understand your anger,” I said calmly, reaching up to pry his hand from my collar. “But threats and violence will not serve you here. We're on your side, Xion. We want to help you.”

Something flickered in his ashen eyes then, a glimmer of vulnerability quickly swallowed by the madness. He released his grip and slumped back against the wall, suddenly seeming small and frail.

“I don’t care whose side anyone is on,” he whispered, voice cracking. “No one is on my side. I want to get out of this place.”

I sighed, staring down at my hands. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time. “I’ll see what I can do, Xion. In the meantime, I’m going to adjust your meds again. I need you to keep takingthem as prescribed.” I stood from the bed, adjusting my collar. “And clean this mess up. You’d be surprised how much better you’ll feel in a cleaner environment.”

Xion snorted at that and reached for his cigarettes. Giving those up would help him too, but I didn’t push the issue. Better the cigarettes than another bloody attack.

I left Xion to his cigarettes and squalor, my boots thudding heavily on the warped floorboards as I made my way back to the living room. Boone was sprawled on the sagging couch, a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He glanced up as I entered, his expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” I said brusquely, not waiting for an invitation before settling into the armchair across from him. The upholstery was threadbare and stained, smelling faintly of mildew. I ignored it, fixing Boone with a piercing stare.

He shifted uncomfortably, setting his beer on the cluttered coffee table with a hollow thunk. “About what?”

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