Dead Boys

4

Tobias

On Wednesday, the middle day between the days Billy has his detention at the library, I find myself bored. The previous day was more productive than usual, so there was almost nothing to do other than draw.

I lean against the arm of my chair, sketching out the heavy brow of a man as he kneels before the throne. There a sadness in his eyes, but also a defiance, determination.

I take out a colored pencil and give his dark eyes a light brown reflection. I trace the soft ovals with the tip of my finger, smearing the graphite. I drag it down, across the man's chest and end it at his sword's point.

"Should I leave the two of you alone?" Beth snaps me out of my trance, eyes darting between me and the drawing.

I snap my sketchbook shut and muster up my best scowl. She matches me with one much better.

I take her in for a moment, her sharp black bob, her heavy eyeliner, her long nails, clasped on a tote bag full of books.

"Do you need anything?" I ask.

She hands the tote bag to me. "I'm going to make orders on the computer, can you organize these? It's all nonfiction returns."

I agree and begin to separate the authors by names and browse the shelves until I find the appropriate sections.

"Sherman... Sherman... Sherman..." I mumble to myself as I look through the S section. The last name Siken makes me pause and sure enough, there it is: Crush by Richard Siken.

I inhale through my teeth, glaring at the title, and run my thumb over it. It's like it's haunting me.

I toy with the idea of taking it out, flipping to a random page and reading from it, but I refrain. Nothing that I've read from it so far has made my day better, only worse.

I brush my thumb over it again. And again. Toying with the temptation of it. I bite down on my lip, hard, and force my hands away.

There's something wrong with me. Something deeply, intrinsically wrong with me. Something so far embedded in me it might as well be flowing through my veins.

And I hate it.

Quickly, I put up the rest of the books, pointedly not glancing at that book. I then speed walk back to my chair, picking up my sketchbook. I flip it open my drawing of the knight.

I take one long look at the knight's dark features, his low, square brow, and finally his black hair ending at his chin. A noise builds up in me, torn somewhere between a growl and whimper, as I rip out the page. I bunch it in my hands, watching it wrinkle as I begin to tear it apart, peice by peice.

I shove it into the trash bin, chest heaving. I wait for the tightness inside me to unwind, to melt away, but it doesn't. I sway on my feet as I turn and that's when I notice that Beth is looking at me.

"What?" I croak.

Her pencil-thin eyebrows scruntch together. "Are you... Okay?"

"I-" I'm fine, rests on my tongue but faulters on its way out. "I don't know." I say instead.

She brings her hands together and steps out from behind the desk. "Do you want to talk about it?" She offers, pacing forward.

"I don't know." I say again, stupidly, and it feels like my legs are going to give out so I slump down lamely into my chair.

She kneels beside me. "I think I understand what's happening to you. I get it."

"You can't." My voice breaks and her hand finds my arm. Her hands are scratchy and dry and warm, like she's been holding it over an open flame.