{Skephalo} Because I love you. ~Murder duo~

A new friendship

\~Zak~/

I stared down at my packet, thick as a board, asking almost all combinations of the English alphabet could process into questions.

I stared at question 7: Who is your best friend?

My mind drifted at the question, recalling all the people I have described as my friends.

...I wonder if any of my friends from last year are here.

I know my best friend, Vincent, went to a different high school, but I'm not sure about my other friends.

He really did get me. He wasn't like the others, who simply tolerated my existence. He listened, something I've never had anyone else do for me.
Even when the incident-

My mind flashed past me, all the old memories, the overwhelming smell of iron, the yelling, the crying, the blood painting my hands.

I never really talked about it with them, my other friends.

I mean honestly, they never really acknowledged my existence in general.

I was kinda just.... there.

"Everyone!"

I almost jump at the teacher's sudden words.
" If you didn't finish the 6 page-long- get-to-know-you- packet, finish it tonight and turn it in by tomorrow."

I groaned, shoving the packet into my bag and swinging it over my shoulder right before the off-pitch note rung throughout the school.

--

I walked through the tight spaces between tables in my fourth period, people on every side, before stumbling over to my desk, bumping into another student.

"Watch yourself, dipshit." The kid scoffed, glaring slyly.

"Shit, sorry." I mumbled, trying to move past him to sit.

I felt my hand instinctively ball into a fist, my nails digging far enough into my skin to draw blood.

Asshole.

I walked around, plopping at my seat, before sitting in my chair.

Iwatchedtheslideschangewithablankfaceasmymindwanders.

Imentallynotedthebaitbesidesme, temptingmyangertoreachitsboilingpoint.

HopefullyIlimitmyinteractionswiththeman, asIcannever relivethedaysinwhichIhadlettheangertakecontrol.

The incident.

The three boys.

The dirt field.

Theblooddrenchinghislips, thethickliquidrollingdownhischin.

Thememoryleavesmehollowanddizzy, asthemoreitresurfaces, themorebrokenimageryunlocksfromthebackofmymind.

Icontinuetowatchtheteacherrambleinwhatseemstobeinaforeign, muffledlanguageIcan'tunderstand. Ianalyzehisreceivinghairline, hiscurlyhair, hislonggrayrobe. Helookslikehejustwoke upfromanap.

Hesometimespointstoblurred, incomprehensiblewordsontheboard.
Hehasafewpictures, butIcan'tmakeoutwhatanyofthemaresupposedtobe. Idon'teventry.
HowcouldIfigureoutthepicturewhenIcouldn'tevencomprehendwhathewassaying?