The Hit List

Chapter 13

I took my sweater off as we crossed the threshold, my skin itching to escape the cloth. I could already smell Hitch's smoke on the fabric as I placed it on my rolling chair.

It would take at least two washes to rid it of the toxicity, and two rounds of deep scrubbing to rid myself of feeling it stuck to my skin.

"So how exactly do you want to do this? Should I just write out everything I've ever wanted to do in life? Only the things that can be done in a month? Two?"

"Come on. You act like this is business. Have fun with it." He chuckles. "Define fun." I snark. I look around my apartment, thinking about how few people have visited me here. Now Hitch was one.

"Did you ever start a list when you were young? Things you wanted to do before you became an adult. Treat it like that."

Thinking of happier times always felt like I was taunting myself. My memories a place I didn't belong in. They were home to a stranger.

"You can think about things along the way. Every time you yearn for something before you die, we'll add it to the list, and vice versa." He slipped out of his sweater, a dark mustard shirt underneath.

There was no excuse to feel as calm as I do right now. A symbol of stillness amongst a roaring sea. Soon I would get worked up over something, and the cyclone would commence. A torture of unpredictability.

The air inside the apartment is warmer now, and the chills are gone from my skin. The sun is still peeking through the curtains.

I flip on a lamp, preferring the artificial to the natural. I curled up on the couch, instinctively pulling my phone to my chest.

It felt like a Bible at this point, something I held when I felt lost, which was constant. I can't help but laugh to myself.

I unlocked the device, clicking on the notes app when I felt something light fall into my lap. I looked down to see stark white against the blue denim.

"I'd prefer you'd write it out physically. Makes it seem more real. Tangible." He dug into his bag, pulled out an orange pen, and passed it in my direction.

My hands clapped together, catching the pen in between them. I tucked it between my fingers, the plastic rubbing against my middle finger.

His shoulder rubs against mine as he plops down next to me, falling into the cushion. "Buck up. Keep moving your eyebrows like that and you'll get wrinkles. Just write down anything you want to do, there's no idea too dumb."

"You'd be surprised." I scribble the pen against the paper, watching as orange ink slowly scratches against the white.

I shrug, all ideas gone from my head. He shoves my shoulder playfully. "Don't be so crabby. Not everybody is looking to tear you down. And you never know, your dumbest idea could turn out to be your best one."

"God, I hope not." I stare down at the paper, tracing the circles of orange with my eyes. "Language." He taps a pencil against the paper.

"I know. Trust me, my dad hates it when I say it too. Which is so weird, because he doesn't even believe in one anymore."

"It's probably ingrained in him. When you're told something enough times, it takes hold in your brain. Even when you stop believing it's true. It just becomes a habit. You mostly keep it in honor of the person who taught it to you. Especially if there's nothing left of them physically." His eyes look sad, not close to tears, just slightly lifeless. 

Chilling. 

"I have zero interest in doing this." I narrow my eyes on him. "You should've mentioned this in your online messages."