Why Is It Him?

Part 1

To say she hated him wouldn't be a fact. More of a close guess, but not exact.

She didn't hate him; she didn't admire him either. She was happy he got locked up, but at the same time didn't understand why her eyes would draw to the back of the class where three empty desks now sat collecting dust. Cars drove by and a few kids biked by as Taylor wiped her sweaty palm on her washed-out jeans for the fifth time on that drive. She could feel her heart pounding and that feeling of nervousness always gave her where she couldn't decide whether or not she needs to throw up.

You shouldn't be doing this

He's not worth it

Echoed back to back through her brain as she made a sharp turn onto the next street. Not long now. 

They were all happy when Bowers finally got locked up, Richie commenting on how it should have happened back when he was six, but Taylor stood more conflicted than anything. Having been alone since she was 11 she didn't have the best record on understanding her own emotions, but these felt like they needed understanding. I guess that's why she was doing this. But was it right?

The place should be completely safe; it's not like he'd be able to pull a switchblade on her. Why was she so nervous? She finally has the upper ground. Out of anything, she'll be the one who could suddenly pull a switchblade.

Maybe I should

No!

Big, white, prison-looking, keep that with the sign up front reading Augusta Asylum and it's easy to spot. The parking lot: almost empty if not for the guard's cars and the 2 other visitors of other criminals.

Taylor pulled up and parked, then just sat. She could pull away now, pretend like it never happened, but she knew if she did she wouldn't ever feel the same.

She kept a pen in her pocket and her keys in her hand as she made her way stiffly into the asylum. A female guard with brown hair in a neat bob style led her to the visitor's area where Taylor sat down in one of the chairs, wiping her palms on her jeans a last time before placing her arms on the table.

A strand of blonde hair fell into her face and she tucked it back into the ponytail she restrained it in that morning. If she believed, she would thank god that there wasn't a ticking clock echoing through the quiet room as she picked the dead skin off her bottom lip. The atmosphere felt so different, and it wasn't from the incoming cold of winter. This boy had threatened and tormented not just Taylor but her friends, yet now she's here, visiting him and in the perfect position to hurt him. But she didn't want to do that.

Her ears perked, and her senses heightened when the door opened with a harsh screeching sound. The muscles in her hand tensed when she saw the face of the boy that intruded on her dreams for the past summer. He was dressed in a loose, light blue t-shirt and matching pants with shoes with no laces. His hair looked a little longer and dark circles under his eyes that held confusion and a dullness she had never seen in him but recognized easily.

Bowers took the seat across from Taylor as she took a strong breath, her thumb lightly caressing her other hand in a type of self-comfort.

The guards left the room but remained waiting outside, observing through the windows.

Why are so many adults like this?

They sat in silence; wasn't awkward but wasn't comfortable. Just, silence. Bowers refused to make eye contact and Taylor may have just thanked god for there being no ticking clock in the room.

"Hey," she broke the silence. Her voice sounded uncertain but confident, as if she knew what she was doing but did not know why.

Bowers didn't respond. Taylor scratched her hand, feeling a weird tingle when she saw the tag around his wrist.

She tapped the table twice, wondering what to say and