Shoelaces

Psychic-Assassins

A leaf almost lands on my shoulder during its fall down from the treetops. It hits the ground without making a sound and stays silent until I crush it underneath my foot. I've always loved stepping on dry leaves. The crunch of satisfaction warms my heart during the cold months of the end of winter.

At this point, I am a few steps behind Santiago, who leads the walk towards his house. I hasten my step to keep up with his longer legs and longer strides, still making sure to not get too close. Though, he's not too far ahead. He even stopped walking to wait for me when I had to tie my shoes. He even was the one to tell me my shoelaces were untied. How can one thing matter so much?

Ever since we left my patio, there's been a silence looming between us, which I have been filling by crushing the few leaves that scatter across the sidewalk. If only it were Fall, and there were leaves aplenty.

I'm scraping my feet against the sidewalk when Santiago turns around to face me. I avert my eyes to the ground as he begins to walk backward. I can feel his eyes burning into the top of my head, warming my entire face. Definitely not because I am blushing.

"So, what's yours?" he asks, somehow not awkwardly. I could never. And the question doesn't even make sense. What's my what? How was he able to say nonsense so smoothly? I, on the other hand, respond sporadically.

"Huh?"

"What's your name?"

Oh... makes sense. At least I know the answer to the question.

"My name is D-"

Darrion, he's still a stranger. Who's walking you to his house, potentially waiting to slice your neck with a machete and cover up the murder by burying my lifeless body into the ground then place a dead animal a few feet up so when the police see the unusual spot of land in the nearby forest they assume it's just a funeral site for a family pet, not a five foot ten human.

"It's D-T, uh, I..." Ugh, just think of a name. It's not that hard.

"Richard."

I picked Richard. I picked fucking Richard.

I picked the name that is long for dick.

What a Freudian fucking slip.

Santiago smiles at me but tries to conceal the grin. He obviously knows I'm lying. I mean, I would know I'm lying too.

"Yeah?" he pauses. "So, Darrion must be your middle name."

He knows my name. How does he know my name? Oh, I know! He must be an assassin, hired by Gregory Richman, the fucking bitch. He knows I'm going to get the lead in the upcoming musical, and he wants to get rid of his competition. He probably stole my keys. He probably implemented this whole master plan. Gregory, I curse thee.

Santiago turns back around and strides ahead of me once again, forcing me to stare at his back. I pick up my pace to be standing to his left, having to take three steps for each of his two. He looks over at me with his smile still plastered on his face. Oh, so he thinks it's funny that he's going to kill me. Too bad I'm already onto him.

"How- How do you know my name?"

"Well, Richard Darrion, believe it or not, I am a practicing psychic."

Say what.

"Ever since I was a child, I've gotten these visions that allow me to see the things that the other children couldn't see. When I was thirteen, I saw this man floating around the halls of my house whispering 'It's me, It's me, It's me, It's me' repeatedly for hours on end. When I look at somebody, I see their deepest and darkest secrets; I see their whole life story all at once. I knew my sophomore year math teacher was cheating on her girlfriend. I knew that I would find somebody stuck outside their house today. And I know that your name is Darrion."