It was Tino's birthday, the day I misplaced my humanity.
Misplaced, not lost.
Only misplaced.
Misplaced like the keys to the dusty, flat-tired car that I never drive anymore; like the translucent plastic button that popped off my sleeve as I strained to grab the pain relievers from the top shelf; like the part of Tino that I recognized, the little spark in some distant corner of his crumbling mind that made him him.
I know it's my fault, and that aching responsibility constricts tighter around my chest every time he greets me with that halting, lopsided smile, his pale eyes bright and open a little too wide, his head tilted too far to the left like he's trying to read something that's written sideways.
I know I'm responsible for his radius, which he seems to have measured precisely to a fraction of a centimeter.
His "nice person circle," he calls it.
He greets me with a subdued smile, his pasty hands clenched into loose, tremulous fists, his snowy hair disheveled and sprinkled with dust from his recent nap on the living room floor. "Lukas," he calls quietly, his voice a gentle, hushed near-whisper. "Lukas, I want to go outside . . ." His misty smile widens beneath round, bright eyes as he hugs his arms around his stomach. "Can we go outside today?"
He extends an unsteady hand, the fingers pale like bread dough from long weeks of inactivity, toward me from across the kitchen. "Outside?" he repeats, his features soft with childish optimism.
I can't bring myself to respond.
Some part of him seems to register my hesitation, and he lowers his hand, fingering his pastel-blue pajama sleeve. "Lukas?" he mumbles with a hesitant smile. He tilts his head to the other side. "Can we?"
At last, I avert my gaze and regain my resolve. ". . . No," I tell him firmly. "Not today." My hands tighten into fists until my untrimmed, grimy fingernails dig painfully into my palms. "N-Not today, Tino."
His expression doesn't change as he takes a small step toward me, his wool socks soundless on the tile. "Why not? I've been really, really good, Lukas."
I force myself to meet his eyes, his large, unflinching pupils. I can't help but wonder what's behind those dark, inhuman circles, what's replaced the Tino I knew. "Not today," I repeat. "You've been . . . ill, and I want to wait until you're better, okay?" I tell him in as steady a voice as I can manage. Inadvertently, my hand reaches out, palm downward, as if I can subdue him like an overzealous animal. "Until you're better."
A shadow passes over his face, a fleeting but visible darkening of his placid expression. "I'm not sick," he tells me in that calm, soft tone that he never deviates from, even when his face contorts with anger, sadness, or any other emotion that ought also to contort the voice.
I take a small step toward him. "Just wait a few days; you'll be fine."
He tightens his hands into fists again, but doesn't respond, his penetrating gaze boring into mine.
"Just a few days," I repeat as my foot shifts forward again, "and then we can-"
His eyes narrow.
I take a small step back. "What's-"
A grin flashes across his face, and an inhuman gleam passes through his pale eyes like a jolt of static, brightening the ashen, gray-blue irises. An image rears its head in my mind, vivid as a dream, of the violet eyes that used to contrast so sharply with his pale skin. "Lukie walked in my circle . . ." he mumbles, his hands trembling with some combination of rage and excitement. His washed-out, pallid gaze intensifies.
I stand frozen, my hands clenched at my sides, my eyes locked with his, for a moment too long.
His fingers curl like claws as he lunges for my neck.