Dead Boy Walking

01 - D E A D

There was a boy in my room.

He sat on my cheap desk chair, leaning back as it squeaked slowly. Long legs parted and his hands in the pockets of his navy blazer. I tried not to stare for too long. Not because he wasn't nice to look at, he certainly was. With freshly faded hair at the side of his oval-shaped face and tight ringlets of lively black curls at the top, he certainly wasn't a bother.

It was hard to know whether he noticed I was even there. His long, dark lashes curled upwards and sheltered his eyes that were trained down to the floor. His eyes were oddly enchanting. So brown that they drizzled to an almost fiery red, like honey. Golden sunlight filtered through the cracks in my blinds and melted against his smooth brown skin. He was enough to leave me breathless and I was choking.

It wasn't as though I didn't know the guy, of course I did - everyone did.  He was Alfred Kingsley after all, Alfred Kinglsey the third no less. The expensive uniform of his posh private school, Easton College for Boys, served as a reminder. Tailored trousers, cotton sweatshirt, navy tie, white shirt, navy blazer. With every layer, I became more and more aware of who he and his family were. Then, sat proudly on the right breast pocket of his blazer, was the school emblem, the eagle.

The Easton College eagle was infamous for the names it carried along with it. Poised for flight, it mirrored the students who'd soon outgrown our little country and disperse all over the world with their steady cash flow to fall back on. That stupid bird was what made commoners like myself trip over themselves. Easton boys had that effect on people. Wealthy, privileged and reckless, rumours seemed to follow their every move.

I'd never spoken to Alfred Kingsley before but after all that I'd heard and seen, it made it feel as though I'd known him forever. We were barely in the same universe, though - him and I. The city that he lived in and learnt at was only a bus ride away from me, I could've made the trip blindfolded. Yet, we were so detached from one another that it was almost comical.

My house was tucked in neatly beside the rolling mountains and towering trees of Lake Valley. We were lucky to be living on one of the quieter council estates, our street was mostly populated by the elderly. Sure, we'd gotten the odd drunken brawl, burglary, maybe a fire or two, but we were lucky to be where we were. Surrounded by people I had known forever, sometimes safe was overrated anyway.

Actually, I was trying not to look because Alfred Kingsley was not meant to be here. In fact, my bedroom was the last place he should have been. Alfred Kingsley should have been dead. I knew that better than anyone else because I found his body.

It was the New Year's Eve party two days ago at Charlie Hawthorne's expensively large home. In my tipsy state, I stumbled my way upstairs and through hazy eyes, fell into one of the many spare bedrooms. Then, I saw him. Sprawled across the floor, he was as stiff as cardboard while the red, hot blood pooled around his body. His face had softened of its sharp edges and he looked young, almost sickeningly innocent while his dark hair dampened from the scarlet that poured from him. The liquid surrounded his body elegantly and acted as a bed of roses for the golden boy and I couldn't move.