My Best Friend is a Murderer? || Stenbrough

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So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood, repeating the same tongue twister over and over. "He thrusts huh-his fists against th-th-the puh-post and still insuh-insists he sees the guh-g-g-guh-ghost." I muttered it, my heart starting to slow; my usual stutter still prominent — it always is when I am nervous. I walked by the old house that is near my neighborhood., chills running down my spine. I continued to walk, thinking about the recent murders, worried about what could happen. What might happen to my family? Or my friends? Or me? I was pulled from my thoughts by a cold hand wrapping itself around my waist. I could not help the yelp that escaped my lips.  "Woah, Bill. It is just me." It was Stan. I could recognize that voice from everywhere. His dirty-blond curls bounced as he continued walking by my side. "Huh-hi, Stanley," I muttered, a feeling of unease still rested in my stomach. I mentally curse myself for stuttering, although I know he is okay with it. He moved his arm up around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. He had made a joke about how it was not like he was going to get attacked on his way home or anything, although he still seemed nervous.

   We continued walking, the cool wind wind blowing against our faces. Stanley opened his mouth, lips chapped, before closing it again. "Stan, yuh-you all right?" I ask, turning my head in his direction. He nods, his face turning pale. "Yeah I am all right. I just — I feel...weird. It is like someone is watching me. Stalking my every move." It is my turn to go pale. "Th-the muh-muh-m-muh-murders," I mumbled. The day was a cloudy one, which did not make me feel much better. The murders. Like the murders of a couple of drunk teenagers. One, who had been completely mutilated, placed back in the driver's seat, while the other had been in the passengers seat alive. A rock had been placed on the gas pedal,!driving the car into the side of a small brick gas station. A brick had fallen through the front window, breaking the glass along with her skull. It made Stanley most nervous out of our small group of friends. He had decided to keep to himself, hiding in his room.

   We had decided to stick to having a sleepover at my house. His parents have never cared about what happened with his life if he was not getting in trouble or doing anything against his religion.

   It had been a couple of days since then, more murders had happened, and of course, Stanley had been distant. His actions are always questionable, but more so now than usual. It had been now that I realized the boy had been standing beside me whilst I sit on a bench outside of the school. He looked stressed, scared even. "Stan?" I asked, quizzical to why he looked the way he did. "Huh?" He seemed zoned out, staring at the autumn leaves littering the ground. "Are yuh-yy-you alright?" He just nodded, still seeming out of it. What is up with him? I looked down to his arm, a darkening bruise forming around his pale, skinny wrist. His eyes looked empty, dark. I ran a hand over the small of his back. He flinched. "Stuh-St-Stanley, are you okay? What is wrong?" He just shook his head, bottom lip caught between his pearly, straight teeth. I moved my hand down to his wrist, brushing my fingertips against the bruise gently. "Billy, I am fine, really. I'm okay." I already he had gotten beat up at some point today. It was not an unusual thing to happen to him. I furrowed my brows, nodding slowly. I looked down. As soon as our friends arrived, we left. Stanley still seemed extremely distant; a slight frown rested on his lips. One by one we had all split ways to our houses. I walked to my neighborhood, arriving at my house not long after. I walked up the front porch before opening the door. My little brother ran up to me at hearing the loud creak of the porch door. A wide smile made its way onto his mouth. I smiled too, wrapping him in a tight hug. "Bill!" "Huh-hi Buddy!" I say, trying to match the same enthusiasm as my little brother. "How was your day? How was school? Did you do anything fun?" He asked all of them with no space between, leaving no time fore me to answer between them. He jogged into the kitchen; a smile still rested on his face. "Look what I made!" He grabbed a piece of paper before going back over to me. He showed me the paper, it was a drawing of our dog. For him being a six year old, it really was not all that bad.

All of us had been at our usual lunch table in the far-left corner of the cafeteria. Stanley sat beside me; an unpleasant look rested in his face while he watched Richie and Bev make a (definitely) non-edible substance out of food they collected off of the floor. Stan looked down, picking at his fingernails. He mumbled something along the lines of "I really don't want to know what's in that" or "please don't eat that." His wrist had healed nicely, it fading to a greenish-yellow color. He shifted his eyes back over to our friends who were now saying jokes and talking about God knows what, and knowing our friends, which could be anything. The school dance was taking place in a few days, and I was going with my friends. I planned our what I was going to wear, as did Stanley. The bell rang right as I stood up. I quickly threw away the remains of my lunch before heading to my next class, English. My favorite.

It was the day of the dance, and I was nervous. I knew I should not have been, but I was. My friends and I decided to meet up at the school, seeing as all of us are too lazy to drive to the others' houses. I picked up my phone and keys before getting into my vehicle, starting it. I fully got into my car and shut the door behind me. I began to drive, Weezer playing quietly from the radio and so I began to tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Before I knew it, I had arrived. I dragged myself out of my car and towards the tall brick building, seeing all of my friends huddled by its entrance. "Bill!" They all yelled. We had a small conversation — mostly about how the food is the only thing good at events like this. We all maneuvered our way into the gym, only stopping if one of us got bumped into or if we bumped into someone else. When we had made it, we stood in a more secluded area.

After a while of standing there, we found ourselves by the food table, Stan drinking water whilst looking at his feet, the rest of us doing our own things. He stood close to me, wrapping him arm around my waist gently, pulling me closer to himself. He has always had bad social anxiety, so to help him I always stay close to him, letting him do whatever makes him feel less anxious. He never touches any of the other losers to help himself when he's anxious, but I suppose I'm special. He reaches his hand up to play with my hair gently, which he also does often. Someone saw him do this and walks over to us, an almost sick grin making its way into his face. "Stanley Uris is gay?" The tone of his voice makes it sound more like a threat than a question. Stanley looks back down at his feet, bringing his hand back to his side with a small shake of his head. "You like Bill," the guy had practically yelled, the grin on his face beginning to grow. "Shut up," Stanley mumbled, still not looking up to face the taller figure. "How would you feel if I told the whole school that Stanley Uris is a queer and likes Billy?" Stan looks up. "I said shut up." He still spoke quietly, but he wasn't mumbling anymore. "Oh? Or what? Are you going to kill me?" He sounded amused. Stanley reached into his pocket, grabbing hold of something. A sharp, almost perfect pocket knife rests in his hand, the lights in the gym shining dimly on its silver blade. He had shiny tears running down his cheeks, frowning. "I said shut up, just shut up. That is all you had to do." He grabbed the taller male's shirt collar, pulling him close. Stan began to drag the knife down his jawline, dark red beads of blood starting to dribble down the male's face. I stood there, completely speechless. The death was a quiet one. Stanley's pale hand covered the boy's mouth whilst he brought the knife to his Carotid Artery, the blade being sharpened just enough to cut the cartilage of his neck. I looked at Stanley, words unable to form in my mouth. My best friend is a murderer?