Diary of a Killer

3.

"Whatcha doin', Sally Face?"

Sal Fisher was leaning upside down on Larry's bed while his friend painted, staring at nothing in particular. His blue curls fell to the floor and gathered in a little spot under the bed, and his head rested on the floor. "Getting dizzy."

Larry rolled his eyes. Sally was starting to go through this "moody" phase, where he would answer sarcastically to anything and rarely speak anymore. It was starting to freak Larry out a bit. Only he could be the moody one. Besides, it wasn't in Sal's nature. "Why don't you get up then?"

No response. Larry sighed, turning back to his painting. He got so into it he almost didn't hear his friend speak up from below. "Lar, do you know what day it is today?"

"Saturday?" Larry could almost feel Sally's glare piercing him.

"No, not day day."

Larry set down his brush. There was a small blotch of blue paint on his cheek, and he wiped his hands on his smock. "Dude, what're you talking about?"

Sal went quiet, then shifted slightly, trying to sit up on the bed but failing miserably. He fell to the floor in a heap of legs, and a muffled "ow fuck" was heard. Larry sniggered, leaning down to help his friend up. He tried to pull him to his feet, but Sal sat cross legged on the floor instead. Giving in, Larry sat down cross legged next to him, giving him time to turn his thoughts into words. After a while, Sal sniffed. Larry realized with dread that his friend was crying. He looked over at him, distressed, and saw a single tear fall down his mask. "Sal?!" He said, alarmed, he reached for a tissue and handed it to him.

Sal took the tissue in his hand but only crumpled it up, not using it at all. He stated straight ahead, and Larry, much as he was worried, let his friend form words again. "Today is the day she died." Sal whispered.

It was Larry's turn to try to form the right words, but in the end, he realized that nothing he said would help take the pain away. He grabbed Sal by the shoulder, pulling him close to his chest. Sal gave in without a fight or protest, seemingly sinking into Larry's embrace. They stayed that way for a few moments, until Sal pulled away. Larry shivered, cold from where Sal had leaned against him, but he didn't move to get a blanket. He didn't want to leave his friend's side. Not when he needed him most.

He looked over to see Sal staring off into the distance again. His ocean blue eyes seemed to be seeing something Larry wasn't, and his body, despite the temperature in the apartment being nearly 78, was shivering. Larry resisted the urge to pull him near again.

"Lar...what I'm about to show you, I need you to promise you won't show anyone else." Sal said, looking at Larry with intense blue eyes.

"I promise," Larry took Sal's hand, giving a small nod before letting it go. Sal reaches into his back pocket, revealing a worn photograph. It showed a woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes holding a baby with blue hair and matching eyes. Beside her stood a man, smiling ear to ear, with the same shade of hair as the baby. There were words scrawled under the photo that read "Welcome Home, Sal Avery Fisher! 1981"

"I....saved it. My dad threw out most of her photos after-......but I kept this one," Sal muttered.

Larry looked at the photo, then back at his friend. "You have her eyes.."

".....she liked picnics. She liked to take me to the park. She always wanted to go at night, so that there was no one else there. She'd show me the stars." Sal talked fast so he wouldn't have time to pause and cry, but tears still formed in his eye. "She.....she gave us nicknames," he sniffed. "My dad and I. She called us Big Dipper and Little Dipper."