Hive {A Collection Of Some Sorts}

My Friend The Murderer

Friend...What is the meaning of a friend? Someone who is there no matter what? Someone to support you? To love you? To make you stop hurting in times of pain?

I highly doubt the last one is true.

I remember his eyes. The color of a river. A sky before the storm.

He was different, everyone said. I certainly couldn't tell the difference. All I knew was that he was sitting at the edge of the playground during recess, alone. Sitting on the concrete curb, digging his sneaker's toe in the wooden chips.

My mom always said to never let someone sit alone, so I walked over to him.

"Hi," I stated boldly. His head jolted up, face like a deer in headlights. "My name is Lina."

I stuck my hand out for him to shake. He just stared at me.

"This is when you say your name." I prompted.

He bent his head back down, continuing to dig in the dirt. I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

"What?"

"Eli." He muttered audibly. I put my outstretched back down.

"Well, it's nice to meet you Eli. I think we'll be the best of friends." I sat down next to him, and started stacking chips onto the sidewalk. We stayed like that until the bell rang, signaling that it was time to go inside.

From that day on, I sat on the curb next to him every recess. He began to talk more, about movies more than anything. His dad let him watch horror movies, and he loved those most of all. He talked admiringly about the serial killers in them, how smart they were, and the techniques they used.

I suppose that was my first warning sign