He had had a long day. Of women walking past him, taunting him without mercy. Blondes. Brunettes. Red-heads. Tall women, with long legs. Short, dainty, petite women. Women in short summer dresses, women in sleeveless button down shirts that showed off their sculpted arms. Breasts, asses, hips, thighs, lips, eyes. It was just too much.
And they all were so mean to him. When they'd pass him, he'd hear them laugh. He knew that they were laughing because he could never have them. Their bright eyes would crinkle from the joy of their mockery. They were cruel, vampy, vicious bitches. But he knew how to deal with them. He knew how.
At last he got home, gleefully shutting the door behind him and locking it tight. He giggled in delight. He carefully put his work bag on his dining room table and fished out a folded piece of paper. With giddy, trembling fingers he unfolded the paper and looked at what was written.
In his own, neat handwriting, it read, Lori.
He closed his eyes and said the name out loud. "Lori. Lo-ri. Lor-ee." He liked to play with pronunciations. It warmed him up for his work.
Then he thought back on his day. One after one, the decorated trollops crossed his path. He thought that he wasn't going to get a treat today until one came up to him and asked for directions. He quickly assessed her. Long, chestnut brown hair, blue eyes, creamy white skin. She wore a bright red (the color of the harlot) suit, and high heeled stilettos to match. As he helped her, she flipped her hair back and smiled, and he knew all the while that she was secretly taunting him in her mind. She was looking at his short, pudgy body, his broad, ugly features, his plain, ill-fitting clothes and mentally denouncing him.
"Thanks!" she said brightly (and deceitfully) after he was done. She thought that she had been able to mock him and use him all at once, but he'd show her.
"You're welcome ma'am. And yes, are you new to the building?" he asked, innocently.
"Why yes I am. I'm Lori," she said, shaking his hand. He took it, briefly savoring the smoothness of her hand, and then quickly noted her name on his little pad, once she walked away. And then, carefully, he folded up the paper and waited for the end of the day with impatience.
Now there was only one dilemma: what to do with dear little Lori? This was the only part of what he did that annoyed him a little: so many things to choose from. At last, he thought of what to do: Lori seemed to love red so much: red suit, red shoes, red panties, he was willing to bet. What if he made it so that she was red all the time, forever?
"I bet I still have some red paint left," he said cheerfully to himself. And he did. He took a can of Glidden off of the shelf, found a paintbrush, and with several adroit movements, painted the entire scrap of paper, front to back, with a deep crimson. He held it away from him, looking it over, and was very pleased. He knew he was going to be in a good mood tomorrow for work.
Only five miles away, a young woman named Lori was settling down to watch some TV after a very long day at her new job. She had a TV dinner in the microwave, and was just about to call her best friend and tell her all about what her first impressions were of working for a publishing company. But then, when she reached over to the phone, she noticed her left hand was red. Curious, she brought her hand close to her face and looked it over, front and back. Had she accidentally touched wet paint? Then she looked at her at her right hand, and saw that it was red too. Lori gasped in confusion, and ran to the kitchen to try to rinse it off. Running, she looked down and saw that her bare feet were also a deep red.
"Oh my God!" Lori cried. "What's happening to me?" Coming to the sink, she frantically tried to wash the color off of her hands, but to no avail. Not only was the color not coming off, but it had spread to her arms. She ran to her bedroom and looked in the full length mirror, and the sight made her scream. Her neck, her face! It was all a deep color of red. She took a breath in, and realized, with horror, that it was commercial paint; she could smell the chemicals. They seemed to be lining the inside of her nose, running down her throat, burning her insides. She gave a choking gasp and crawled to the phone in her bedroom, dialing with shaking fingers.
"911. What is your emergency?" a female voice asked on the other line. But by then Lori couldn't answer. All she could do was gag on the paint that was now flowing out of her mouth and nose, onto the floor…
They had driven for nearly fifty miles, and then Claire, complaining of being hungry, pulled over at the nearest diner. They seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere, just this diner and a lot of empty road. Claire just hoped that the food would be good.
She turned to her companion. "Is this ok?" she asked.
He looked at her. "I don't think we have much of a choice, if you're hungry."
Claire agreed. Sylar could be just as matter-of-fact as she could. They got out of the mustang and went in.
The place looked a little run down when they entered, but it was bright and clean and they were both a bit tired from the drive.
Claire looked at Sylar, who seemed to be just taking everything in. "Counter or booth?" she asked.
"Booth, I guess. More intimate." He then walked over to the booth closest to the front counter, leaving Claire feeling a little unnerved. But she followed.
They hadn't really talked for most of the trip. When they did, it was Claire asking Sylar if a particular radio station would be all right, if he could take a look at the map to see where they were—things of that nature. He gave short, efficient answers, and while they were on the road that was fine with her. Now they were sitting across a small table from one another, and from her short experience, this is where a lot of meaningful conversation came from.
After several minutes of silence, Claire finally decided to break it. "Since we're going to be…spending a lot of time together, maybe we should…get to know each other better," she proposed, knowing already how ridiculous it probably sounded.
The man across from her looked deeply at her with his dark eyes, then smirked. "That would probably make sense," he agreed. "Can I ask you the first question?"
"All right."
"Was I your first?"
Sylar saw Claire's eyes widen at the question. He already knew the answer, but to hear her say it would make him feel…special. She had already clearly established that they weren't going to have sex, and that she couldn't bring herself to have any sort of relationship outside of a "professional" capacity until he had proven himself to be reformed. But maybe if he wore her defenses down, he could somehow…speed up the process.
But Claire cocked an eyebrow and quipped, "Tact isn't your strong point, is it?"
Sylar was surprised at her remark, but chuckled lightly. "I haven't had much use for it in my…former profession."
"I guess murder doesn't require much sensitivity," Claire observed, looking down.
"You still haven't answered my question," Sylar pressed.
Claire took a deep breath. "You were," she told him. "I thought that would have been pretty obvious." But then she looked wickedly at him and asked, "Was I your first?"
Sylar couldn't help but laugh at that. "Claire, I'm 29 years old."
"Answer me."
Sylar's smiled faded. "You were my second, actually."
Just then, their waitress, a thin girl with brown hair, came up to them and asked to take their order. Neither one of them had had a chance to look at the menu yet, so Sylar ordered a cup of coffee, Claire an iced tea. The girl told them to take their time and that she'd check on them soon. Claire noticed Sylar staring at the girl as she made her way back to the kitchen.
"Trying for your third?" she asked, hoping it wouldn't come out as sounding jealous.
Sylar glared at her intensely. "As a matter of fact, no. I was looking at her because she reminded me of one of my victims. She worked in a diner like this one."
A troubled look appeared on Claire's face. "Don't even think about—"
"I wasn't," Sylar interrupted. "I can assure you, I don't have the desire to kill anyone, anymore. It's just that…I don't usually think of the people I kill after I've taken their powers. They mean nothing to me, just a means to an end. But now…I'm remembering that waitress' face."
"Are you feeling guilty for what you've done?" Claire asked, hopeful.
Sylar seemed to ponder this for a moment. "No. Not yet, at least. I don't feel anything for them, really. I'm just remembering them now."
Claire frowned and immersed herself in the menu, and Sylar could tell that she was upset and didn't want to talk to him anymore about it. He had told her the truth, but it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But he had already told her that he wasn't going to change overnight. It was her problem if she couldn't accept that.
The waitress soon returned, with drinks, and took their orders: chicken salad on rye for Claire, reuben for Sylar.
Now that their orders were in, Claire had nothing to pretend to be busy with to avoid talking to Sylar. But she sure as hell wasn't going to initiate conversation again, after what happened. So she shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable, and accidentally brushed her leg against Sylar's thigh, which make him look up in surprise.
"Sorry," she mumbled. He didn't answer right away.
Eventually, though, that seemed to provoke a question from him that she was in no way prepared to hear: "Are you sorry that I was your first?"
Claire crossed her arms over herself, as though she felt exposed. "What?" she asked.
"Are you sorry I was your first lover? Do you wish it had been with someone like, say, Peter Petrelli?" Sylar knew this would make her squirm. It was his way of getting back at her for the remark about the waitress.
But Claire didn't answer. Instead, her mind took her back to that first encounter, in the woods. His hand exploring her most sensitive, intimate areas, his hot breath on her neck. She had begged, then demanded it of him. She remembered how it felt to come. It had been intense, like pain, and she cried out from the extremity of it. She had felt Sylar's body shudder as well, when she did come. He must have felt it, happening inside of her.
Claire could feel heat in front of her face; her limbs almost felt weak.
Sylar could see that she must have been remembering. He had meant for her to get shy, embarrassed, then he would tell her that she didn't have to answer. Once again, her reaction was like nothing Sylar had expected.
Finally, she pressed her lips together and said, almost dreamily, "It was…wonderful… with you."
Moved, Sylar reached over and took her hand in both of his. "Claire…" he began.
But then their food appeared, and Claire seemed to awaken from her trance. She pulled her hand from Sylar's grasp and began tucking into the food, not looking at him or speaking. Sylar, with less of an appetite, ate steadily. When they were both finished, Claire excused herself and went to the rest room. Sylar watched her legs moving underneath her skirt as she walked towards the back to where they were located. They'd have to stop for the night. They'd get a room together, probably with socially respectable double beds, and late that night, once she fell asleep, he'd go to her and take her in his arms. She'd give in to him, just as she had before. Redemption could come later. Right now, they needed one another.
She returned just as the waitress was giving them the check. Claire told Sylar that she would pay for lunch at the register, if he would leave the tip. He agreed and she went to go pay.
The cashier, a plump lady with silver grey hair, smiled, took Claire's receipt, and asked if she had enjoyed the meal, to which Claire replied with a gracious affirmation. Claire's attention was then drawn to the television mounted above the bar. Curious, she listened to the report:
"Last night, the body of 24 year old Lori Dunkirk was found in her apartment today, covered in red paint. Apparently Dunkirk died of a combination of lead poisoning and asphyxiation from the chemicals in it. Police are still unsure as to how this happened, as there are no clues to explain how she became doused in paint. They have also ruled out suicide as a possible explanation."
The cashier saw Claire's interest in the story and clucked her teeth in sympathy. "That poor girl. Makes the third case like that in the Portland area," she told Claire.
"The third?" Claire asked, intrigued.
"Yeah, haven't you heard? One month ago, a girl was found with a hole cut in her chest. No murder weapon, no prints. They ruled out suicide there too. And then, one month before that, a girl was found in pieces—pieces! They gave the excuse that it was her dog that had done it, but there ain't no dog I know of that could do something like that. I think they're covering something up."
"Are there any leads?" Claire asked.
The lady looked at her, bug-eyed. "Well, how would I know, honey? I'm not the police! You'd have to go ask them yourself. Now, that's $15.45."
"Oh," Claire remembered. She put down sixteen dollars and told the woman to keep the change. Then she exited the diner, where she found Sylar waiting for her.
"I know where we need to go next," she told him.
"Where?"
"Portland. It should be about 100 miles south of here."
"More like 250. Why are we going there?"
"Because there are unexplainable murders happening there, and I think it's the work of someone with special abilities."
Ordinarily news like this would have made Sylar's eyes shine with delight—thinking that he would find another power to take for his own. But now, it seemed more like a burden. Why did he have to do the work of the police? He knew nothing about solving crimes. But he knew that if he protested, Claire would easily leave him behind and go after the killer herself. Which, of course, he couldn't let her do.
"Whatever you say, Chief."
After they left the diner, Sylar offered to drive, which Claire gladly accepted. Once they were back on the road, she leaned back in the seat and stretched her legs out as far as they would go, realizing how tired she was.
But she wouldn't sleep. She was able to get a newspaper from a stand not too far away from the diner, to read about this latest murder. Apparently, there was somewhat of a pattern in the victims: beautiful, working-professional women, between the ages of 20 and 35. The coroner had pronounced their times of death around the same time of day, between 5:30 and 6:30 pm. Their jobs were all within a 10 mile radius of one another.
Claire had been quiet for several hours during the trip, poring over the newspaper articles she'd gotten. At last Sylar looked over and saw that her head was down, her eyes closed.
But Claire wasn't asleep. She actually startled Sylar by asking, after the long silence, "What kind of guy do you think we're looking for?"
Sylar stared out the windshield, his brow furrowed in bewilderment. "How would I know?"
Claire sat up in the seat in looked at him. "You understand how the mind of a murderer works."
Sylar barked out a laugh. "All murderers were not created in the same image, my dear. Just because I've killed doesn't mean I know why other people do it."
Claire stared out towards the road, thinking. "But there has to be some basic reason for why people kill."
"Oh there are possible motives: people kill for self-defense, people kill out of anger and hatred, some people kill for the thrill of ending a life, and others," Sylar swallowed, "kill because they have no other way of getting what they want."
"And you'd put yourself in that last group?"
Sylar looked over at her. "Yes. I would."
"So…if you had a power like Peter's, where he only had to be around someone to get someone else's, then you never would have killed in the first place."
Sylar thought about it. Then he said, "Yes. I think that if I could just know how to mimic the powers of others, without having to actually see inside their heads, I would never have killed."
"So there were never any emotions connected to the murders you've committed?"
Sylar didn't like this conversation. He didn't like having to analyze something that once came so naturally to him. But Claire had asked a simple question, and he felt that he'd be a coward if he tried to avoid answering.
So he replied, "That isn't entirely true. Now, looking back, I was…jealous."
"That's understandable. Those people were given powers and you weren't."
Sylar involuntarily ground his teeth. "That's not the only reason. I was also…angry, because something out there—God, Nature, whatever you want to call it—had given such
extraordinary powers to people that were so undeserving of them."
"Why were they undeserving?"
"Because they were afraid of their abilities, like silly little children. For instance, the first person I killed—Brian Davis—he was a cowardly, sniveling little fool, who had the incredible power of telekinesis. He contacted me, hoping that I could cure him of it! Imagine, being cured of something that could make you feel like a god! So, I "cured" him; I took his power and gave it to someone who would use it well: me. When I first met Brian, he could barely push a coffee mug across a table. And look what I can do with that same power! I was able to topple a multi-ton van! There was so much good that could be done with that power, and it never would have happened if I hadn't taken it from Brian."
"But you haven't done any good with that power, Sylar," Claire said gently, half-afraid.
Sylar looked over at the blonde haired girl. "I saved you. I think you'd count that as good."
Claire shrugged in accord, then noticed that they had passed the exit they needed to take. "You missed the turn!" Claire exclaimed with alarm. You're going to have to turn back!"
"Ok, ok," Sylar said. "I'll get off at the next exit and turn around."
After a few manipulations, Sylar was able to get them back on track to Portland. But the two of them had fallen silent again. At last, twenty miles before they would be at their destination, Claire spoke again.
"Do you think that I'm deserving…of the power I have, I mean?" she asked, almost shyly.
Sylar looked over at her and gave her his smug, usually dangerous, but now characteristic grin. "I wouldn't be here with you if you weren't," he told her.
In spite of the gravity of the conversation, Claire couldn't help but smile a little.
It was in the news the next day, about Lori. He hated reading about it, those details of how she was found. They always made them look like the victim. This time, the televised news showed pictures of her with her parents, her boyfriend, when she graduated from high school. They made her seem so sweet and innocent, like she didn't deserve what happened to her. The police and media never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason why they were picked. But then again, he had to admit, that was the way it had always been.
As most things do, it went all the way back to childhood. He was a homely child, just like he was a homely adult. In school, he never had friends. The other children just found him too ugly to be worthy of friendship. And they were cruel to him, both the boys and girls. But then, he remembered when things changed. He developed a crush on one little girl, a blonde haired, blue eyed angel named Elizabeth. By then he was in the fifth grade, and he had a great vantage point when sitting in class: he sat on the right side of the room, she on the left, and he was two rows behind her. So he could look at her easily without her seeing him look. Her voice was light and tinkling, like a silver bell, and she always wore the prettiest dresses to school. At that moment, he thought he could be happy for the rest of his life if he could just look at her, like that, forever.
He didn't dare tell his mother. She was a huge, domineering, formidable woman, who read the bible every day, carried it with her, in fact, and, in spite of her sex, believed and preached all of the misogynistic philosophies of Christianity. His father had passed away some years ago, dead of a heart attack but he was sure that it was because his mother had heckled him into an early grave. Now, as a stand-in for his father, he bore the brunt of her fire-and brimstone dogma, which was always directed at the "fallen woman."
"Eve, Jezebel, Bathsheba! All treacherous, deceitful! Women were created to tempt men to their doom—there is not a shred of true goodness or decency in any of them! You must be on the lookout for those dirty little girls, son—or they will bring you down!"
And then Elizabeth had a birthday party, and invited everyone—well, almost everyone. He didn't get an invitation. When everyone walked into class one morning, there were pretty pink and white cards on the desks, inviting the addressee to Elizabeth's house for dinner and cake. The little angel sat there, pleased with herself. It was the talk of the entire classroom that day, because everyone knew that Elizabeth had a big beautiful house with a pool (although no one could swim at that time of year) and they were all excited.
But he didn't have an invitation on his desk. He felt glued to his seat, part of him wanting to go ask Elizabeth why he hadn't gotten an invitation, but terrified of the thought of actually talking to her, which he had never really done. Then Charles, one of the boys who sat in his row, who wasn't a friend but was at least decent to him, came up and asked, "Hey, where's your invite?"
"I didn't get one," he admitted.
Charles shrugged. "Lizzie probably just ran out of invitations in the pack. After all, everyone else in class got one—it's understood that the whole class is invited."
He brightened at that thought, although he was a little jealous that Charles had the privilege of calling her "Lizzie." But Charles was right. Elizabeth just forgotten him. She wouldn't be cruel enough to put out invitations for everyone else, and not invite him too.
So he decided to go. He would wear his best Sunday suit, and buy a pretty gift and wrap it really nicely. But how was he going to tell his mother?
Finally, three days before the party, he mustered up the courage to ask her.
"When is it?" she asked him.
"Saturday, Mama."
"Who's it for?"
He hesitated. He just knew his mother wouldn't let him go to a "dirty little girl's party," so he had to think fast. Then he said, as confidently as he could, "a boy in my class named Joe."
He wasn't completely lying. Joe was Elizabeth's brother, although he was a year younger and in a different class. But he was sure Joe would be there, as would some of his friends, so technically it would be sort of his party, too.
His mother believed him, and consented. But when she offered to walk him there, he pleaded with her to let him walk there alone, feigning embarrassment of being walked to a party by his "mommy." He was afraid there would be a big banner with Elizabeth's name or something that she'd see, and then she'd know he was lying. Miraculously, his mother consented to that as well.
He was elated. He anxiously looked forward to Saturday. The afternoon before, he pretended to be going to the corner store for gum, and instead went to Chassley's, a boutique a couple blocks away from his house, to find a gift for Elizabeth.
He felt lost once he entered the store. He didn't know what girls liked. The only woman he really knew was his mother, and she was so austere. She believed that ornate objects were the devil's creation, so he was at a loss for what a "lady" gift should be.
"Do you need help?" a kind voice said. It was Mrs. Chassley, who ran the boutique.
He turned around, alarmed. "I'm…trying to find a birthday gift for my mama," he lied. Mrs. Chassley went to church with his mother, and he was afraid that the lady might tell his mother he was in here looking for a gift for a girl. If Mrs. Chassley thought it was for his mother, she'd more than likely keep his visit a secret.
"Oh how sweet! What were you looking for, dear?" she asked him.
"I don't know, ma'am. I don't know what girls like, and I haven't a lot of money," he told her honestly.
He was surprised when Mrs. Chassley smiled at his frankness. She then said, "Hmm…let's look around the store."
He watched the older lady circle her goods, then finally she picked up something and brought it to him. It was a stationery set, 100 sheets of heavy bonded paper with a flowery pink border and envelopes to match, along with a shiny gold pen in a gold embossed box. He smiled. He liked it. He could see Elizabeth sitting in her room, writing letters with the set and thinking of him.
Mrs. Chassley told him it was only two dollars, and, luckily, he had just enough to buy it and have it gift-wrapped. He was happily watching the clerk wrap the gift, when he froze in fear. How was he going to get it home without his mother seeing it? Mrs. Chassley was wrapping it in red, pink and white paper—she'd never believe he'd give a boy a gift that looked like that!
But Mrs. Chassley came to his rescue again. "I'm sure you don't want your mama to see you coming home with her gift—do you want to leave it here with me, until you're ready?" He smiled gratefully at her. He told her that he would pick it up the next day.
So, the next day, hair neatly combed, suit freshly pressed, he was walking to Elizabeth's house with the gift under his arm and feeling light and heavy at the same time. He was so happy to be seeing her, and he was so pleased with his gift, but anxiety still lay like lead in his stomach. He really hoped she liked it. Maybe, if she did, she'd give him a kiss on the cheek, like he'd seen girls do on television, when they'd gotten sweet gifts from boys. The thought of it made his heart flutter.
He got to her house, a beautiful, grand Georgian with red bricks and white shutters. Even from the road he could hear the sounds of laughing children. He drew closer, and could see all sorts of colorful decorations in the window.
He nervously rang the bell, and waited. A tall, pretty lady in a white dress opened the door. It had to be Elizabeth's mother. She smiled at him, but she also seemed a little uneasy, like she wasn't expecting him. But when he smiled back, she assumed he was meant to be there and told him to come in.
All the other kids in his class were there, and they had been singing, laughing and yelling up until the point he arrived. Now, as Elizabeth's mother showed him into the living room where they were gathered and left, the room grew silent. They looked at him with confused faces. Then he heard one of the girls whisper to another, "What's he doing here? Lizzie didn't invite him!"
Then the birthday girl finally came in, Charles and her brother Joe on each arm. They had been singing a popular song at the time and happily skipping, until they saw him standing there and stopped. Joe looked angry. Charles looked guilty. Elizabeth just looked shocked.
He was humiliated, but he still hoped, in spite of all the evidence, that there had just been a misunderstanding and that he really was meant to be there. He took the gift from under his arm and held it out to her. "Happy birthday, Lizzie," he told her, daring to call her by her nickname.
Elizabeth stood there, just petrified, until Joe walked up to him and pushed the gift back at him. "Get out of here, freak," he said. "Lizzie doesn't want you at her party."
He couldn't remember actually walking out of the house and back onto the street. He just remembered finding himself in the park nearby, his eyes clouded and burning with tears. He heard a high-pitched wail, then realized it had come from him. Somehow he found a park bench and sat down on it, allowing himself to cry. His mother had been right. Women, ladies, girls—whatever you wanted to call them—they were the cause of all suffering. He knew he wasn't mad at Joe, for insulting him, or even Charles, for misleading him. It was Elizabeth that he hated with a passion. She could have been the one to make it ok. She could have defended him, told her brother to butt out and that he was meant to be at her party. But she just stood there and allowed him to be hurt. She might as well have stood by while vultures tore out his heart and ate it.
But why did she have to be so pretty? He knew, it was like his mother said: women were fashioned by the devil to lure a man in and then break him. Well, he promised himself, it wasn't going to happen again.
But what was he going to do now? He couldn't go home; his mother would wonder why he was home so early. He'd just have to kill some time in the park.
Sniffling, he began to furiously rip the wrapping paper off of the gift he had bought for Elizabeth and sent it flying in the air in bits around him. People passing by stared at him, perplexed, but he didn't care what anyone thought. He held the stationery set, now free of paper, and looked at it. Curious, he opened it up and took a sheet out, rubbing his thumb on its pulpy smoothness. He took out the gold pen, cold to the touch, and wrote his name. They had been practicing writing in cursive in class all that week, and he was quite good at it; even the teacher said that his handwriting was the best she had seen in a long time. He looked at his signature for a moment, proud of it. Then, not really knowing what else to do, he wrote his name again, neatly making the loops and curves that comprised it.
Bored with this, he started writing other names: his mother's, his father's, the name of his old dog that had died a year ago. Then, for some reason, he decided to write a different name: Elizabeth. Fascinated, he took out another sheet and wrote it again: Elizabeth, in clear, meticulously neat, strokes. He wrote it in the very center of the paper. It seemed fitting, somehow, to put Elizabeth's name at the very center, because that seemed to be where she was: always the center of attention, others crowded around her, never allowing him in to be near her. He looked at each letter: the long loop of the "l," the zig-zaggedness of the "z," the plumpness of the "a." The more he looked, the more he hated the name. He hated the name because it symbolized the girl he now hated more than anything else in the world. He wished he could destroy that name forever, wipe it out of existence.
Then, impulsively, he took the piece of paper that he had written her name on and crumpled it up in his hands, throwing it to the ground. He wished, in that moment, that somehow the real Elizabeth would feel that, so she'd know how much she'd hurt him.
On Monday, he made his way to school, dreading having to see his classmates after what had happened over the weekend. He was sure they would stare at him, whisper about him, giggle to themselves. But he was surprised to find that they were all very quiet, almost somber. He sat down at his desk, trying to pretend to be busy with something, when he noticed from the corner of his eye that Charles was making his way over to him. He didn't want to talk to Charles. He was sure the boy would try to apologize for something that he couldn't change. But when he got there his face was pale and scared. "Did you hear what happened to Lizzie?" Charles asked him.
"No," he replied. "What happened?"
Charles was about to tell him when the school bell rang and their teacher came in. He noticed that she had the same devastated look on her face that Charles did. She put her books down and stood in the middle of class.
"I'm sure most of you have heard by now, but in case you haven't, I have some bad news to tell you," his teacher said. "Lizzie has had a terrible accident and is now in the hospital. The doctors don't know if she's going to live…" his teachers voice trailed off, and he could see that tears were beginning to form in her eyes. He looked around to see many of his classmates also with tears in their eyes. This made him angry. Didn't they know how nasty she was? But no. They all believed she was a sweet, innocent, darling.
He secretly was glad that Elizabeth got hurt. But he knew he was the only one who felt that way. His teacher had suggested they spend their English period writing get-well letters to her, which he didn't want to do. But, he was a good student and did as he was told.
He was just finishing up writing a few simple lines—"Dear Lizzie, I'm sorry you're hurt, I hope you feel better soon"—when Charles leaned over and whispered to him, "It was so creepy, what happened to her."
"What happened?" he asked.
Charles looked at him funny, as if he was a pervert for wanting to know the disgusting details. Still, he told him. "It was after the party ended. She was standing at the top of her stairs, talking to her mother, when all of a sudden, she just…crumpled up. Then she fell down the stairs and broke all her bones."
"What do you mean, crumpled up?"
"Just like I said. Just…lost shape, like she was a piece of paper somebody crumpled in their hand." With that, Charles returned to his desk.
He felt like an icicle had just been plunged into his back. He remembered sitting in the park, writing Elizabeth's name on a piece of paper, then feeling such a hatred that he crumpled up the paper with her name on it. It had been him! Somehow, he made it happen!
He smiled and turned back to his work. He had power. And he was going to make sure no one ever hurt him again.