𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | A Serial Killer's Friend

Ａ Ｓｅｒｉａｌ Ｋｉｌｌｅｒ＇ｓ Ｆｒｉｅｎｄ

✫

When he told me that, I froze instinctually, ignoring him and standing alongside the road. I eat my chips solemnly, the salt on my lips. "Are you planning on doing anything?" I question him, but he shakes his head.

"I told you already, I hate socializing," he grumbles. Birdie situates all his weight on his one foot, progressively humming louder. "Come on!" he whines, "my feet hurt."

"Mine too," I agree, handing him my bag as it crinkles in protest. "Can you hold onto this?"

"Nope," he tells me. "I willingly choose to not help you." He shows me his pearly white teeth in a big smile. I laugh, folding the bag and shoving it in my denim pocket as I raise my hand to the sky, thumb protruding out of the curl of my fist. Brisk wind takes the opportunity to go in my sleeve and coil around my body.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask, my eyebrows cinching to the bridge of my nose. I twist my body around, my bicep becoming sore as I study him.

"Yes, now tell me more about Veronica—"

"Violet," I correct.

"Whatever, tell me more about her." He props himself closer to the road, looking both ways as cars continue to drive by the gas station.

I sigh, rolling my eyes, slightly frustrated. "The last we talked, it was about how we needed a break," I explain, not wanting to dive any deeper, but it wasn't a reasonable response for either of us.

"I'm a stranger," he tells me, "strangers are open doors that close when you leave, the amount of things that can go through the doors before then is limitless," he admits, somewhat sincerely. I smile, but straighten my weakening arm.

"Your analogies will kill me one day," I mumble, "if this doesn't before then." I tear a hand through my hair, exhausted to say, "fine. We got into a fight about some stupid communication thing."

"Hmm."

"I know what you're thinking and we can't exactly talk it out either. It's just—" I sigh again, restlessly. "Complicated. Her and my priorities are not the same."

"Hmm."

"It's just—" I fold my arms over my chest, biting my lip until I taste the rich iron flavor on my tongue. "She doesn't understand what I'm going through and I can't understand what she's going through, yet she won't even meet me halfway to try." I shake my head. "I've been going through a lot and sometimes it would be nice to have someone to lean on, relax and talk, and then it's always her talking about her feelings---" I deviate, shaking my head again.

"Car," he orders and I pop my arm out of my twine-like-stance.

The car ignores me, but I keep my arm in the air. "I know it's selfish to want people to act like they care about you, but I just needed validation that I wasn't losing my fucking mind," I tell him with a scarce whisper. "Am I crazy?" I turn to him and wait.

Birdie studies my face, raises a brow, and then laughs. "You're crazy for thinking you're not crazy. Everyone is a little... in better words, not always thinking with a head."

I shrug, lowering my hand while a car lurks to a complete stop in front of me. The mud-colored truck rolls its window down and a man with a carpet of a beard on his face watches me. "Son, you need a ride somewhere?"

"Yeah, we do," I admit, licking my lips and tasting the blood. "Mind giving us a ride?" I lean closer, possibly taking a few steps whereas Birdie waits behind me. He shyly navigates his eyes up to the driver.