Dark Dreams (COMPLETED)

Guilt

He got up, struggling to keep himself standing.

"Look what's written on the plaque," he said, trying to keep his arm straight enough to point. He threw me one of his icy looks. I couldn't help but notice that he really looked like a creature of the night. His raven hair brushed against his pale, pronounced cheekbones, the furrows of his cheeks were even more accentuated than usual, perhaps because he'd mistaken alcohol for food all day.

I headed to the right corner of the wall, which must have been ten yards long and not more than five tall, and found a golden plaque. "Property of Dickson Reynolds".

I spun around: "This really... is your wall! But what do you need a wall for?"

"I'm a builder in my spare time," he said flatly.

"Really?" I asked, astonished.

He looked at me, arching a thin eyebrow. "Of course not, those work clothes wouldn't suit me." He took a metal tin from his pocket and pulled out a roll-up cigarette. He lit it with his golden Zippo and said to me, "I paint."

"So how come the wall is empty?" I asked, frowning.

He took a drag from the cigarette; the smoke came out of his mouth like steam from a train. He leaned his head against the wall, revealing a protruding Adam's apple, and closed his eyes. The moon lit him like a photographer would light a model. His skin seemed to reflect every ray, which made it even paler, while his clothes and hair wrapped him in contrasting shadows.

"I must be inspired to paint," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "For now, I feel everything except at the mercy of dear old inspiration."

I touched the stones of the wall, imagining what Dick's art would be like. I was sure it was full of warm colors in harmony with dark ones, spread across the canvas in strong strokes, just like him.

I went back to looking at Dick who, having reopened his eyes, finished his cigarette in the blink of an eye. He threw it on the ground and extracted a metal flask from the back pocket of his tight black jeans.

"What are you doing!" I scolded him, approaching. When I was nearer I realized that he hadn't been smoking a cigarette. "Now you smoke joints at school?"

"Leave me alone," he said, having downed the contents of the flask.

"If you want to talk, I..." I didn't have time to finish my sentence when, like a tiger that has just been shot with an arrow, he leaped toward me.

He grabbed my arms with his hands and slammed me forcefully against the wall.

"You look different," he said in a tone that made my blood run cold.

Now the moon was behind him, lighting up my fearful face. "You're hurting me," I said, agitated.

"Tell me what happened!" he hissed, hurting me more.

The blood vessels in eyes his eyes were throbbing and he had a glazed look. He was drunk and stoned.

"Jay kissed me!" I shouted, not even knowing why I was telling him what had happened. "Are you happy now?"

He stepped forward – his hands sinking into my arms like claws – and leaned his forehead against mine, pushing.

A moan of pain came out of my mouth.

"Calm down, please," I whispered.

"You're scared of me too?" he asked.

His ravenous eyes were fixed on mine like a hawk would look at his prey.

"No, Dick," I said, in pain. "I'm not scared of you."

He gave me a shove and released his grip before going to sit on the ground a few feet away from me, with his back to the wall. He smoked another joint looking at the moon. I let him do it, knowing that reasoning with someone like him was impossible. After a few minutes, I went over to him and sat by his side with my shoulder against his. I could almost touch Dick's pain, which surrounded us like a toxic cloud. I wondered what on earth could be feeding the fiery fury that lived like a caged beast in Dick's chest.

The minutes passed and, between the weed and much sighing, he ended up calming down. I decided to stay with him, frightened that something might happen to him.

Suddenly, he placed his head on my knees. His dark-as-night hair covered my thighs like ivy on a tree trunk, while my back was completely against the wall to accommodate his weight.

By itself, my hand moved to caress his hair, pushing some locks behind his ear. His closed eyes had a wonderful shape similar to sweet almonds. One hand lay on the ground, while the other was resting on my knee. A strange feeling coursed through my body when I realized that a guy like him was resting on me. His shoulders were too wide for him to be comfortable, but he didn't care. Second by second, his breathing was getting heavier, which made me think he was falling asleep.

"I wonder if Jasmine would have been scared of me," he said, almost dreaming.

"Who's Jasmine?" I asked, leaning over him.

"My mom. She died," he said softly. "I killed her."

My eyes widened.

"What did you say?" I asked, trying to make sense of his words.

Too late.

He was already asleep.