Killing (And Other Games)

(Forty One)

(Forty One)

There is something different about Wentworth this time. He's not the same gothic teenager we met before. He sits in his room, almost motionless, and watches us with blank, watery eyes. He knows something.

"We didn't want to come back here," I say softly, "but clearly things have escalated." Wentworth spins on his chair, pulling his legs up beneath him. His line of sight grazes over us, barely touching the surface of our appearances. He's not blind but he can barely see what's in front of him. "Wentworth? Has something...has something happened?"

Gray gives me a nervous look. I step closer, kneeling down like a teacher talking to a prep. "We want to help you." He stays put, stays apathetic. I rock back on my heels, looking up at the posters all over Wentworth's walls. "You like Death metal, huh? I, ah, I like some of it. I went to Soundwave once."

Gray rolls his eyes.

"You heard about the fights, right? We don't have to break that to you I hope."

Finally, Wentworth says, "of course I know."

"Oh yeah? Have you been to any of them?"

"No."

"What do you think about them? Do you think that the Hand to Hand employees are innocent?"

Wentworth tips his head slightly, giving me a haunted look. He must be around fifteen or sixteen, maybe even closer to my age. "I don't care."

"You don't care?" My calm, soothing tone falls away. "Do you know what you've done? Do you even realise how much of the blame can fall on you?"

"Yes," Wentworth spits, spinning away again. I stand up and catch the edge of the chair, pulling it until my face is right in front of Wentworth's.

"I'm getting sick of you very fast. Tell me, do you know anything about-"

"Please don't even bother." His words are like a slap. "There is nothing new you're going to get from me."

"Oh? You have no idea how far I'll go to save my friends," I whisper through gritted teeth.

"Likewise," he counters.

I slap him.

It's like hitting a statue. Wentworth doesn't move a muscle, doesn't even flinch, and a doubt rises up in me. I can place what he is now; he's broken. There's something completely broken inside of him. The dark circles under his eyes, now that I look at them closer, might not be from sleep.

"They got to you, didn't they?" I gasp. "You know exactly who did this."

Sneaking out of his sleeve, Wentworth's thin and pale hand pulls back the collar of his t-shirt. Underneath I can see the beginning of three deep, swollen gashes that form a perfectly parallel triplet. Wentworth pulls the collar back in place so it hides his whole neck.

"There is nothing you could ever do that would make me speak."

And what else is there to say to that? He's absolutely right; there is a line i will not cross that whoever is doing this clearly will. My threats are empty when I'd flinch to even use a knife on him. Wentworth is lost to us.

Gray offers to heal the wound, awkwardly stumbling forward holding out his hands. Wentworth just shakes his head and turns the chair fully around so that he's facing the wall. We leave.

Outside in the sunny, empty streets of the gated community I get a call. My phone, hidden deep in my pocket, buzzes and I pull it out, expecting my mother or Joan to show up on my screen. It's my dad.