arms // {phan}

chapter eight - phil

 Chapter Eight - Phil:

It’s funny- how attuned you can become to other people. You don’t even realize it sometimes.

I used to be that weird scary guy that spent all his time in his room writing stories, or the one who went to parties to get completely smashed and start trouble. I’d never had the chance to actually have a friend. Someone I could spend all of my time with, in my room writing stories, and have them share the quiet space with.

As I sat currently, messing with my soul sucking sticks, feet up on my desk, my eyes were on Howell- in more ways than he knew. They seemed to have a mind of their own lately, always finding him, looking at his thin, bony hands, forming words and stories.

My eyes trance his hunched body, oblivious to my stare, reading some battered book- same hands wrapped tightly around the cover, legs curled underneath him. He was so small- I almost wished I could pick him up in my hand and whisk him away from whatever nightmare he feared so much.

I tossed the cigarettes onto my desk and dropped my feet, walking over to where Howell sat. I reached over, snatching the book out of his hands.

He made a noise of protest, extending his arms out, trying to grab it back.

“What are you reading?” I asked looking at the cover. I plopped down next to him, jostling his perturbed form.

None of your business jerk, he signed, taking the book back- however not before I saw the title.

“The Little Prince?” I asked, incredulously.

He shrugged, curling his shoulders in on himself- probably thinking I thought he was a giant loser or something.

“I love that book,” I saide. “My mum used to read that to me as a kid.”

Howell looked at me surprised. Oh, yeah. Well I’m supposed to read it as an English Assignment- but I haven’t gotten very far. I hardly understand anything.

I furrowed my brow. “Are you reading the French version?”

Howell smiled sheepishly at me. For extra credit.

“I could read it to you if you want,” I suggested. “I mean, we’re really not doing anything else. Unless you’re ready to cash in that drawing opportunity I offered.”

Howell turned maroon. Maybe another time for the drawing… he signed.

I laughed taking the book from him again. “Whatever you say, Howell.”

I cleared my throat, getting comfortable as Howell leaned his head against my shoulder.

“‘The Little Prince went to look at the roses again.’” I began to read, slipping into my impeccable french accent.

“‘You’re not at all like my rose.  You’re nothing at all yet,’ he told them.  ‘No one has tamed you and you haven’t tamed anyone.  You’re the way my fox was.  He was just a fox like a hundred thousand others.  But I’ve made him my friend, and now he’s the only fox in all the world.’

And the roses were humbled.

‘You’re lovely, but you’re empty,’ he went on. ‘ One couldn’t die for you.  Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you.  But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered.  Since she’s the one I put under glass.  Since she’s the one I sheltered behind a screen.  Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three for butterflies).’”