I wondered if he ever washed my blood off them… or if he kept my pain as some sort of trophy.
“Foster’s memorial reveal is this afternoon. I’ve come to remind you how distasteful your presence would be.”
God.
I hated him… and I hated how even after all this time, his words still hurt me.
“I’ve given each student a rose to honor both Foster’s memory and the holiday. I thought it rather appropriate.” His grin was that of a cartoon, oversized and cringe worthy.
It was absurd, laughable even.. but I knew the soul that had sewn that smile was the same one that murdered my best friend.
It wasn’t comedy… it was insanity.
His head cocked, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, lifting his wrist to tap at the face of his expensive watch. “Not too long before the memorial begins. I best make my way to the podium. Happy Valentine’s Day, Vicious.”
And then… he was gone.
Shoes echoing off the disheveled brick walls, figure disappearing into the shadows.
Arthur left me alone with my fear.
Abandoned with my thoughts.
Possessed by my anger and a savagery I inherited from him.
If I was Vicious… it’s because he made me this way.
The temperature of my blood rose several degrees and now it was I who felt like a cartoon, ears red and hair flaming. My muscles tightened in assurance and a readiness to disobey.
Toes curling, I took a charged breath and pivoted once, starting down the hall with determination and uncertainty flanking my steps.
The entire student body was predicted to attend Foster’s memorial, as was the staff and most of the local community. I was the one cast out, and until now, I’d planned to spend those sixty minutes alone in Daddy’s office, drawing pictures of birds and feeling sorry for myself.
Not anymore.
Perhaps, my presence would create a charge of negativity, but I was aware of a way I could bear witness to that memorial and the garden his soul had been put to rest in.
It was the best view that Ridgemont had to offer… and it just so happened to be the place he died.
* * *
I wasn’t a corpse… but I rotted like one beside him.
Stained with his blood and the scars his death made, I sat with my knees on the pavement that night and my palm over his still heart.
His eyes were frozen in panic, bloodless lips forever parted in a silent scream. It was an image that visited me often and each time felt exactly the same.
Sharp.
Breathless.
Like a wound that refused to heal, forever bleeding and forever stinging.
I felt it burning in the center of my chest and the rough skin lining the hands that couldn’t save him. The hands that weren’t fast enough, weren’t skilled enough to get that blood back in his head and make him breathe again.
Every once in a while, my nose caught a whiff of the stench, drifting so far down my throat I could nearly taste its iron-like potency.
It was hard to discern memory from reality.