Tracking Logan Foster

{2} Hell Above

The loud speaker made a high-pitched whining sound, making the students in room 117 cringe as they scrambled to cover their ears.

"Logan Foster please report to Main School Counseling," the bored secretary droned over the intercom, lacking emotion.

Several heads turned around to smirk, point at, and make fun of the boy who stood up after being publicly summoned to the office. After scribbling down the rest of the sentence I had been writing about, I followed suit, craning my neck around to look where everyone else had focused their attention.

Bloodshot red eyes met mine, and the surrounding classroom faded into the background, leaving myself alone to openly gape at the boy dressed in black as he stood up.

The students' mocking tones melted to just a mere buzzing sound in my ears, and I could only hear the sound of my pencil falling from my grasp to clatter against the desk I sat at.

Never in the four months since school started had I noticed the boy with the dark blonde hair who sat at the back of the classroom.

The first time I had met Logan Foster had been last night when one, or both, of us had almost died.

I did not want to think about what would've happened had I never found him sitting alone in the snow with nothing but a gun to keep him company.

As only the two of us existed in the world as of this instant, I replayed the events in my mind from last night.

For what felt like an eternity, but had only been about an hour at most, I stood beside the boy, silently guarding him as if he would snap and grab the gun at any moment.

"Don't," I pleaded, just above a whisper. One would think I was pleading for my own life instead of his.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," he snapped, growing angry. My heartbeat picked up, becoming scared and anxious as I felt my hands start to sweat in my gloves despite the cold.

"Because," I began, "each day, you are lucky to be alive."

His brown eyes sought mine out in the darkness as a discarded tear cascaded down his cheek.

"I don't believe that," he said, "I can't tell the difference from when I'm sleeping or awake. I'm stuck in endless cycles of nightmares."

Finding the courage to kneel beside him, I looked into his eyes and said, "Give me ten days. I'll show you what it's like to live."

"Three."

I hadn't been able to even ask for his name before he was gone, leaving my mind to whir in his absence.

All this time, Logan Foster had been in my class and I had never noticed him. All this time, Logan Foster was suicidal and I had never tried to help him.

All this time, Logan Foster had nightmares about my dreams, wishing he were dead instead of alive.

He gave me three days to prove his life was worth living. Three days to show him how great life could be.

Three days to show him how to dream.

And I hadn't known he had even gone to my school.