Fucking emo

Fucking fragile

I checked his social media accounts, but nothing new had appeared. After spending the entire day in full stalker mode, I had managed to learn that he lived only a few blocks away from me. We could probably walk together to school every morning.

He had a YouTube channel with some badly lit guitar covers, but he wasn't bad. We could maybe start a band.

I hated myself for thinking that. I also hated him for what he had done. He had gone AWOL and apparently witnessed a double suicide... and now he was on the run.

It didn't make sense. Why would anyone be on the run from a suicide? He could just tell them...

"I am on your roof."

And... he was a psycho. He had been gone for days, and this was his first message.

I took a deep breath.

"Well, fucking get down."

I waited a few seconds, but there was no response.

"I'm outside the back door."

I went to the kitchen, and for a moment, I thought of getting a knife. But then I remembered who I was dealing with.

I could take him. Even if he was armed and deranged, I could. I wasn't especially strong, but I was fucking fit... I could always take him.

As soon as I looked through the back door window, there he was. No hoodie, only his t-shirt and a backpack, and his usual emo getup. He looked cold and small. How could that small piece of shit make me...

I opened the door.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked.

He was shaking, and his voice was barely audible. "I... I followed you one day," he said, not looking up.

He was a fucking psycho.

"How did you know I was home?" I asked.

"I have been hiding here since yesterday," he replied.

"You fucking bitch," I muttered.

There was silence. He didn't move and didn't look up.

"The police are looking for you," I said.

"I know," he said.

We stood there in silence for a while, with me looking over him, and him looking down.

"Shouldn't you be going to them?" I asked.

"It won't matter," he replied.

"Then I'll call them," I said, preparing to close the door in a bluff.

"They won't believe me," he said.

"I won't believe you either," I blurted out, feeling mad. This innate feeling he gave me of just fucking him over was not worth keeping in check.

I closed the door on his face and started dialing... I would just say that the kid on the news was in my backyard, and they would send someone over.

But I didn't.

"Fucking bitch. Why did he come here?" I asked myself. "Does he think we are friends... when I fucking hate his guts?"

"Why is he so... fucking... full of himself?" I continued. "To think that what? I would hide him... Help him?"

I had never helped him. I had just enjoyed watching him.

I opened the door to tell him this, and there he was, sitting on the steps that led to the yard. He looked pathetic.

"They are on their way," I told him.

He didn't say anything, which pissed me off.

"They are gonna be here soon," I repeated, immediately regretting it. It came out so needy. Like what did I need him to acknowledge me?

Before I knew it, I was walking towards him. I stood close in front of him, and he finally looked up.

I spat on his face.

I had never done that. I would never do that. But he just sat there and took it. He didn't even clean it off.

And with that, I hated him even more and gave him a hard slap across the face.

I realized I had stopped breathing and forced myself to take one deep breath before asking him in a forced calm tone, "Why are you here?"

He looked up again, his lip bleeding. He seemed so fragile.

"Thanks," he said softly. "I needed that."

"Why?" I asked, still trying to keep my voice calm.

There was silence, and I repeated my question, "What did you see?"

☆