Zero Zero

5: collision

i awoke to the sound of the alarms blaring. the room blinded my eyes as i forced them open, dreary with the often-forgotten sensation of morning-sleepyness. the book jabbed in the creases of my arms, reminding me of what had happened yesterday. 

my stomach lurched with fear and anticipation and that ever-confusing emotion. 

i hid the book in the drawer of old school papers before they had the chance to burst into the room. which they did, to make sure i was awake and making my bed. 

there was some comfort in knowing they would do this just six more times. and the last, revealing a corpse. 

it felt nice to know: i knew that, while they didn't. 

it was more comforting when i didn't think about the life i wasn't going to live.

that one frank had talked about. free from this place. free from certain futures and set death-dates and corpses all piled up.

but my brain, the fickle thing, wouldn't let me go without a loud yelp of regret.

the day went as any other, dull and lifeless. only there was a little bit of new and interesting emotions mixed in: a healthy dose of guilt twisted with longing. in some capacity, i wanted to feel the dull drill of another empty day.

running away was becoming more compelling my the minute, but i knew it would never outweigh my fears. if i got caught i knew that they would keep me under watch until my nineteenth birthday. 

and then they would send me out to kill. i couldn't fucking do that.

maybe they'd even hold frank's life over my head, to force me to do it.

i couldn't risk that.

not for frank, not for me. not for whoever the poor fellow whose life would end.

i just kept my head down. i had to remember why i was dying. 

it would keep me grounded. keep my thoughts sane.

still, i couldn't resist to live a little before my end. frank and i sneaked occasional glances, when we spotted each other. accidental, yes. at least, in part. but his pointed face in a hidden cherubic grin. 

another reminder that i couldn't get swept up.

i couldn't let him die because i didn't want to become a killer. i couldn't make a run for it.

he would start anew again after i was gone. i knew it.

you could tell, even just by looking at him. he was just resilient like that.

after third-meal it was lights-down, and i returned to my room. 

where i sat on the bed, then paced, then sat again (this time in my chair), waiting for frank. 

waiting for the guilt to subside. like moving around in circles would really help quell the illness. 

it boiled in my stomach, as i realized all over again just what i was doing. offering frank attachment, when i knew i was a goner. he knew i was a goner. 

but seven days isn't long enough to get too invested, right? i hoped that much.

if i just repeated that in my head, a chorus of fucking rationalizations, maybe the guilt would subside.

it did, on some surface level, but i still had to sit down and draw away some more of the nerves. just to stop my shaky heart.

it all drained out into the graphite, guilt dousing the paper like ink.