I was surprised to see him there. Someone had told my mom that he needed time off and psychological counseling, and she was supposed to call his parents eventually. Maybe they never picked up.
The cordoned house had become a sort of ritual for me. I would always stop by it on my way to and from school. Eventually, I imagined walking to the backyard of it and breaking in, but just stepping onto the front lawn grass seemed forbidden.
But to him, well...one day as I walked from school, he was there. Sitting on the porch stairs, he had crossed the police ribbon, the lawn, and was sitting there smoking a cigarette. He looked arrogant and detached, wearing a red hoodie and his hair so long that it covered his face and you couldn't really tell it was him, but I knew.
I stopped when I was in front of him. The fears had disappeared, and before I knew it, I was heading his way and sitting right next to him. I grabbed his cigarette and took it for myself. He smiled.
"I thought you'd call," he said.
"I thought you'd call," I mimicked him mockingly. But deep down, I knew it was true and that I meant to say it truthfully.
"I can't explain it to you," he continued. "Why you can't talk to me or how I know these things are going to happen."
I decided to remain quiet and continued smoking, my eyes tired but attentive to every word he said.
"It's a curse," he carried on. "And it's been going on for way longer than you can imagine. It's a sad thing that will just not go away. You are part of it. I am part of it. We feed off it until we can't anymore."
Then, I reached and grabbed his hand. I was gentle, and he didn't show any resistance. I could see all the wrist cut scars in detail: some were old, and some were freakishly fresh.
"We could be friends. We could be lovers. I could save him. We could be invisible together. We could have fun...I would watch him skate; he would come to my recitals. We would run away from everything."
"I know how this ends," he said as I caressed his hand with my little finger, still determined not to say a word. "It's always the same way."
I looked into his eyes as the sun set and his hair, eyes, and lips were just colorless black shadows.
"We die...right here. In this house."
And I believed it. I had seen him and this house, and I knew we would die there. I started crying and squeezing his hand, and finally, I just put down the cigarette right on his wrist.
He screamed in fucking pain.
☆