Will to Way, Wilt Away

Chapter 4

The sun went down, and we watched one by one as luminous stars appeared against the darkness of the night. The boy sat on the glass floor admiring the constellations before him, his falling tears slowly subsiding until his eyes were dry. I leaned against the right wall of the box, thinking back to this morning when I first entered the structure. To me, this box was filled with the vast possibilities of potential tomorrows. I gazed out at the town before me and felt hopeful, as hopeful as Shiloh's captivating emerald eyes. To think that someone saw this box as a place of abrupt conclusions and grim endings puzzled me. I decided to ignore these concerns. I liked being hopeful and refused to let my mind be changed. Plus, I just saved a life. I gave myself a mental round of applause and let my worries fall to the wayside.

The boy seemed consumed in his thoughts as he watched the sky. Thirty minutes had passed since he handed me the crowbar, which I still held. Neither of us said a word. We both knew we needed the silence to process everything that just happened. I could only guess what was racing through his mind, but I did know that he could easily become entangled in anxiety and anguish if he was in his head for too long.

I walked two steps toward the boy and carefully placed my hands on his shoulder. He didn't look up at me or move a muscle. "Do you want to go back to your apartment?" I asked him. He sat motionless for a few seconds longer before nodding his head and sluggishly getting on his feet. I walked by his side and watched out of the corner of my eye as he dragged himself up the two steps out of the box.

"What's your apartment number," I asked.

"9D," he said barely audibly.

We walked past my apartment and down the hallway. The boy's eyes remained on his white sneakers with each step he took. He reached inside his pocket and took out his key when we got to the door of his place. He unlocked the door, cracked it open slightly, and then turned his head toward me without making eye contact. "Umm, I'm really sorry," he said in a husky yet shy voice, "I never got your name."

"Oh, I'm Aspen Holloway," I replied.

He rapidly blinked a few times at my response. Then he turned his face square to mine and was now looking directly into my eyes with an expression of perplexity on his face.

"Aspen? Holloway?" he said, apparently asking for clarification that he heard my name correctly.

I nodded my head with a forced half smile, trying my best to not flash a confused or disturbed expression to a boy who almost ended his life a half hour ago. The bewilderment upon his face morphed into what seemed like stark realization. I interrupted his thoughts and asked, "Um, so what's your name?"

He fumbled over his words, as if the answer to my question was buried beneath the torrential downpour of thoughts thundering through his brain.

I laughed uncomfortably. "Is it a tough one?" I joked.

The corners of his lips pursed into a fake smile. He searched through his brain for a few seconds longer until finally responding in a hesitant voice, "Ju—Julius."

"Oh, well it's nice to meet you Ju-Julius," I replied with what I hoped seemed like an organic grin.

"You're new around here, huh? I've never seen you before," he said. His eyes were wide and innocent, but I felt trapped in the riptide of his bright blue eyes.

"Ummm, yea I just moved in this morning," I said tentatively. "Apartment 9C," I added while gesturing to my left at my apartment door.

His jaw lowered slightly into a look of shock. "No way," he mumbled under his breath.

"What?" I asked nervously. He didn't respond. I was extremely uncomfortable. He continued to gawk at me, and a lusterless halo of every insecurity I've ever had about my face orbited my head:

He thinks you're ugly. I think he's distracted by those dirt splatters that you call freckles on your nose. Oh, no, no, it's your face. It's as round as that donut you ate four days ago. OH MY GOD! Your forehead! He's been gaping at your colossal forehead this whole time! Forehead? More like an eighthead! YOUR EYEBROWS ARE TOO—

"SO," I blurted out to cut off my anxious thoughts. "You must be pretty shaken up. Is there anything I can get you, or maybe there's—"

"Do you want to come inside?" he interrupted.

Shit. You can't say no to him. What if he slips back into that headspace? I paused for a moment, watching the beautiful aquamarine waves of his eyes ebb and flow. This is all so strange. Politely, turn him down. I mean it. Say no.

"Yes," I said.

An inviting, charming smile emerged on his face, overtaking his previously baffled appearance. He pushed his door open. "Great! Come on in."

"Th—Thanks," I muttered, not knowing how to approach the situation. My parents never gave my seven-year-old self the eye-opening talk about how dangerous the outside world is, but even I knew that entering a stranger's home was a terrible idea. Yet at the same time, when I watched the watery ripples calmly swirl across his eye, I felt indescribably secure. So I entered.

His apartment was the same layout as mine, but much more full. Arguably, his apartment was too full. Cardboard boxes stacked five feet high lined the perimeter of the room, but he already had a full set of furniture in his living room: a yellow retro couch, a TV console of hickory oak, a circular glass coffee table, and small decorative trinkets and a few leafy floor plants placed throughout the space. There was too much furnishing in the room for him to have just moved in, but there were too many boxes in here to support the notion that he was a longtime resident.

"Wow, lots of boxes," I commented.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped himself. He inhaled. "Yea." He exhaled. "There is."

So that subject definitely seemed off limits. He closed the front door, uneasily glanced at the boxes, and then turned back to me. He glimpsed down at my right hand, and I realized that I was still holding the crowbar.

I searched for the right words to say, "Oh, umm. What should I—or uh—I can—"

"The, the um, the cabinet down there," he said with a coarseness in his quiet voice. He pointed to the cabinet below the kitchen sink. "You can just put it in there."

I didn't know if leaving this mode of death in a suicidal boy's apartment was out of the question, but I walked over to the cabinet, which was completely empty, and put it in there anyway.

We both stood in silence for a second, thinking of something to say to break the obvious tension.

"So, it's getting kind of late. Do you want something to eat or drink. I haven't gone to the store in a while, but I have snacks and water," he offered. "Or, we can order food if you'd prefer. There's a pizza shop down the street that I get delivery from a lot."

"Oh, pizza." I felt my thighs rub together. "Sounds great!" I lied.

I sat on a leather stool at the kitchen island while Julius called the pizza place and ordered the pepperoni pizza we agreed on. I scrolled through my phone for something to do, trying to make myself look busy. No social media, no new texts from the short list of fifteen contacts I had, and no new daily challenges on my favorite Scrabble app. I didn't want Julius to see that I was just staring blankly at my phone's home screen, so I turned my phone off and put it on the island.

I began scanning the surroundings in front of me, not wanting to seem like I was overtly looking around his apartment. There were scattered bags of potato chips and a package of Oreos on the counter to the left of the fridge. The trash can was open and full of empty take-out boxes.

Without moving my head, my eyes shifted toward the far end of the kitchen. Just a millimeter away from the edge of the counter, a wilted rose dangled over the edge of a tall, thin glass vase. The originally white rose now had a sepia tint, and it seemed that if the flower drooped any farther to the side, it would cause the whole vase to tumble from the counter and shatter on the hardwood floor.

I heard Julius hang up the phone, but I continued to stare at the strange rose. He traced my line of sight and walked over to the flower. Pushing the vase away from the edge of the countertop, he admired the flower with a subtle but undeniable smile.

Still smiling, he turned back to me.