Inachevé

Twenty-six - Not Guilty

When I met Thomas Wren at the bus stop, it was right then I realized what I had gotten into.  He stood there beside the sign, chin tucked so that his light brown bangs hung in front of his eyes. Only his turned-up nose and a glimpse of his top lip could be seen.  The March breeze came over me, taking with it the chill I had felt when I saw the young man. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three, and if he was, time was certainly a friend of his; he looked like a little boy, orphaned by the entire world.

I squared my shoulders, tugged at my suit’s tie, and webbed my neck as if I was preparing for an important speech. My back began radiating with a strange heat as I approached the man, wondering when he would look at me.  I knew I wasn’t a threatening man. I was about his height, same coloring, and possibly the same age. We could be friends. I thought immaturely. I stopped a foot from him, giving him one more chance to look up at me. He must’ve sensed or heard my pace come to a halt, for very slowly, almost in pain, two icy blue eyes stared back at me.

My mouth opened to greet him and say the words I had rehearsed on my way over to pick him up. But I couldn’t. I was trapped by these two orbed prisons. It was as if he was interrogating me, asking me, what do you want? What are you going to accuse me of? What do you want? What are you going to accuse me of? Over and over again, I could hear his voice getting louder and louder in my head until he was interrupted by the sound of a motorcycle roaring behind him.  Oh, how his expression changed. His stiff body shrunk to the ground until he was on his knees and his arms locked by his side flew up to cover his ears.

“It’s okay,” I assured, briskly walking over to him. I made to kneel beside him before he flashed me a new face. This time, the brows were bent in anger, as if he wanted none of my help. I think he thought I was taking pity on him, but I wasn’t. His thin lips curved down in a threatening frown and his flattened palms became fists.  I gave him a smirk and instead moved my hands down to pick up his suitcase and papers. Trying to ease the tension between us, I said in tenuous voice, “Nice day, isn’t it? Was your travel all right?”

He shrugged, which was enough for me, but he didn’t look up again.  Though, at least he was listening to me.  

When I had gathered his papers and we both stood up, I let out a sigh and began walking up the street. I periodically looked behind me, as if he was a puppy, and clicked my fingers whenever he lagged. I didn’t feel like running after him if he decided that my company wasn’t good enough. I looked over my shoulder and gave him two clicks along with an urging, ‘come on.’ I wasn’t used to treating another human being like an animal, but he responded as such and I had to be satisfied with what we had so far.

As we walked up the vanilla colored sidewalk, past the homey cottages, and young children playing on scooters and bikes in the street, I looked down at the papers I had picked up. I had read all these documents before, so there was no reason for me to be invasive. Though, there was that one white page that always grabbed my heart, knocked it up and down and against the ribs, questioning my motives on what I had volunteered to do.  I lifted the white piece of paper in front of the setting sun and stared at Thomas Wren’s headshot and basic information. Swallowing, my eyes dropped down the page and I read the frightening words: SUPERVISED PAROLE with the volunteered assistance of TIMOTHY ALLEN.

I am Timothy Allen. And I’ve volunteered to room with Thomas Wren, a man convicted of molestation and murder.