Wyatt

Love is dangerous.

One might find it to be best described as being brutally mauled by an attack dog as a child. You'll scream and cry, but the dog won't care. It will keep clawing and biting. Tearing and ripping. Completely and utterly un-phased by your pain filled cries for help, for it is not human, and neither is love.

However eventually someone will save you from the dog, and you will move on. You'll go to the hospital to be all stitched up, and then they will send you on your way with nothing but a bottle of painkillers and a bill. You'll rest, heal, and continue on with your life, but even after years those horrible scars will remain. You'll be reminded of the day the dog got to you, and you will be filled with the horror every time you see those gory scars in the mirror, every time you look at yourself. For scars are eternal, and as much as most would like to admit,.... so is love

At least for me.

I was only about 13 the day me and my mom moved into the old house. My father had just passed away and our old large house was beginning to feel more and more empty. So we took the big step to go and move into a lowly farmhouse at the edge of the state, to try to find some peace of mind once again. We should have known something was up though. The house was old, and cheap. Really cheap. No one had wanted to stay in it, and noises where often heard from the inside on dark and quiet nights. If that description wasn't ripped right out of a horror story I don't know what is, but I guess my mom didn't see it like I did.

Had I been older, of maybe even younger, I most likely would have been quite scared and disturbed when I turned out of my bedroom one morning to go eat breakfast, and found myself face to face with a ghost. However 13 was one of the awkward years where my brain was more willing to accept, and for some reason, a reason I have yet in all these years to figure out, I did not run away. Instead, we just stared each other down for a good 20 minutes. He was handsome. Tall, slender, with scruffy brown hair and bright blue eyes that made your insides melt. His thin face was complemented with a square jawline and thick lips.

After our stare down, He was the first to talk, and I still remember exactly what he said, and how he said it.

"who are you, and why are you in my house."

Instead of retaliating by saying something like "your house? This is my house", I answered his question as if it where any other.

"My name is Bennie, and I live here."

He smiled after that. A big smirk that made me want to smile to. That's when he gave my his name, a name that no matter what I do, for my entire life, I will never forget.

"My name is Wyatt."

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