It was hot in that boiler room. The humidity made my clothes stick to me almost immediately after I entered. My skin had already started to flush a prawny color with the heat, probably making me look like a sweaty oversized strawberry. I pulled my sweater over my head and thew it onto the wooden boxes assembled in the corner.

I hadn't even meant to end up in there, and I don't remember how I did. It was a favor or something, some errand I was running for someone – they'd asked me to fetch something for them and I obliged, but by the time the door closed behind me I'd forgotten all about it.

I think it must've taken me a sec to remember where I was, because I felt a little dizzy in all that steam. When I rubbed my knuckles over my eyes and stopped to register my surroundings, I suddenly became unduly aware of where I actually stood.

I can't recall when exactly the last time I'd been there was. But I know all too well what had happened, and who I had been with. And as I start to piece together the images that flash through my head all too suddenly, all too fast, I feel a lonely sort of coldness start to pool in my gut.

I remember the rhythmic thrill of my pounding heart as we spurned class together, dodging the prefects and escaping on stolen bikes 'til we reached the basement door. I remember the glint of Gary's narrow brown eyes and sharp white teeth winking at me with that sinister grimace of his as he dragged me through damp corridors, warm water droplets sliding down the wall, his spidery fingers choking my broad wrist. I remember the tease in his voice as he chided me along, commanding me to open and push and pick up and throw and run and how I'd obeyed him so quickly and so blindly because the whole time I had no idea what he was really doing.

Still don't, honestly.

And with these images preying on my mind I'm making my way down the stairs now, into the other rooms. It's actually pretty bizarre how untouched everything is. The rotting remains of the pumpkins I'd smashed last year still curdle on the floor, the stench churning my hallow stomach. The other doors, I find, haven't even been closed yet. At this point I start to wonder if Gary's running ahead of me, calling me after him. ("We make such a great team." )

Eventually I'm turning the corner and there's a ring, a huge drop in the center of the floor. Probably the school's old swimming pool, now that I think about it with a clearer head, judging from the rusty streaks crawling up the walls of the indentation.

I stuff my hands into my pockets while approaching it, memories floating to and fro. As I peer down into that ring I can feel the heat of Russel's breath on the crown of my head, his huge figure towering over me. I hear the sound of my knuckles beating against corded muscle, the explosion of pain against my sides and my skull as the reminder of his massive fists pounding into me flood my head. My skin suddenly feels tender, like it remembers, too. And of course I still remember that tight-lipped smirk, those long white fingers tensed into a palm-slicing fist.

I whip around furiously, scanning the room for something, anything to destroy. Soon the dust cloud explodes into my face as I smash my foot against an old wooden box, destroying it in a single powerful kick. An angry shout splits from my throat and I do it again, woodchips flying everywhere until I'm panting and my innards feel like they've been set on fire. My hands are sweating and shaking so violently that I have to grip with all my strength to keep them from slipping as I lower myself to sit on the brim of the ladder leading down into the makeshift boxing ring. I shut my eyes and eventually, my heaving chest slows down as my breathing softens.

It's funny, 'cause I've got the memory of him haunting me pretty much everywhere I fucking go, not just in here. He's in the dorms, the cafeteria, the courtyard, the town, the carnival, everywhere, no matter what I do. Sometimes I get a mini heart-attack when I see a police officer in their uniform, remembering a Nazi costume from one Halloween ago.

It's not fucking fair that he gets to keep creeping on me even now that he's locked away in Happy Volts, probably terrorizing the other inmates. I can just imagine him lording over them, all decked up in a straightjacket, waving orders to his psychotic devotees with a skewered crown of barbwire sitting lopsided on his head. The king of fools.

King of psychos, more like.

There's suddenly a sound at the door opposite from where I'm sitting. I jerk my head up, joints groaning in protest, and crane my neck to look over the rails and see who it is. One hand reaches up to grab the curved handles of the ladder, ready to swing my body back onto my feet and make a run for it.

To my surprise, it's not a prefect that shies in, head turning rapidly this way and that. I quickly spot tan skin, a pink collar, and a thick patch of brown hair. It's Petey.

He freezes up when our eyes meet, and he still doesn't look too relaxed when he realizes that it's me. I feel like flipping him the bird and telling him to fuck off, but maybe it's not such a good idea. Screwed up as it is, he's probably the one other person in this world that could actually understand what my head is currently going over right now.

His smile is nervous as he edges around the ring towards me, and I scoot over to make room for him, even though his nervousness still sends the slightest twinge of annoyance through me. It's a bit of a squash with the rails so narrow, but luckily he's a small guy, even though our thighs press as he accepts the seat beside me.

There's nothing but silence for a while. Not a sound comes from either one of us. I'm quickly starting to think he came in here by accident, too.

Then, as he always does, Petey opens his mouth.

"What are you thinking about?"

Somehow I could sense that question coming from a mile away. It's not usually one that I'm entirely comfortable with answering, as I'm not often very honest with him. Not about my feelings, anyway. I'm not really honest about that kind of stuff with anyone. It's not that I don't have any feelings, as many people enjoy assuming – in fact, it's for that very reason I don't like oversharing. There's always these weird assumptions being made and people are so ready to jump to insane conclusions that I could probably start a school-wide scandal if I publicly mentioned that I prefer dogs over cats. Besides, the amount of bullshit being talked about me has already reached astronomical levels, and I'm not about to go add fuel to the fire by opening up about my feelings.

But for some strange, irrational, inexplicable reason, I feel like I can trust Pete to understand me. At least just this one time. So I come out with it in one simple word that feels chipped and heavy on my tongue.

"Gary."

Petey's whole body tenses at the sound that name, I can feel it immediately. (I can sort of understand why, too.) But after that he slowly nods his head, and from those simple gestures I suspect he's been thinking about the exact same thing. His nasal voice comes out in a slightly more awkward tone than usual when he replies:

"That makes sense. As to why you're down here, I mean. Shouldn't you be in class? N-not that I'd tell on you," He stuttered upon seeing the look I gave him.

There's another silence. This time it's awkward, though. I shift a little and Petey coughs before he starts up again.

"Why?"

I huff in amusement. Almost laugh. That's a great question, Petey. Another time I would have fired back with a sarcastic comment, probably accompanied by a hearty slap on the back. I think about Gary asking the same thing, about the intense look in his eyes he'd have as he waits for my answer. The way he jiggles his legs and drums the flat of his hands against his knees and hums restlessly when he's waiting or thinking or plotting, and you can't disturb him unless you're worth his time or he'll turn all that manic energy on you. I think about how I could shove Petey right off his ledge for asking that stupid question.

But I don't, and my hands feel heavy, and suddenly I'm so tired.

"Dunno."

My reply sounds ignorant at best. At worst, suspicious. (Gary would have a fit if he heard us.) But I can't spill out everything on my mind – not right away. Like I said, I don't do heart-to-hearts and deep talks and all that crap. But even so, I kinda feel like talking this time. And I know Petey's gonna do it for me eventually anyways, so I glance over at him and wait.

It's a long pause and the next thing he says is completely unexpected. It sends a ghostly shudder through me, causing me to stop and stare at Petey almost in disgust. The metal beneath my palms suddenly feels clammy.

"What do you think they're… doing to him?"

His voice is timidly quiet and he actually throws a nervous look over his shoulder, like he's expecting Gary to snake his arm around it any minute. And obviously I can't reply to that, so instead, I just shrug. Petey continues.

"Do you really think he's okay? Like, I'm not stupid, I know lobotomies and all that stuff are illegal now, but they could still be hurting him."

I shrug again, this time rolling my shoulders. The cold edge of the brink is starting to dig into my flesh. I'm so uncomfortable, but it's my turn to speak now. When my voice eventually comes out, it's slower than I expected. More hushed. Like we're both fucking expecting him to be listening to us.

"I guess… it can't be very nice, that place. I mean. It's a goddamn mental hospital."

Petey nods, and from the corner of my eye I think I spy something shining in his. Whatever it is, it's quickly blinked away. And that's when I realize I need to start talking. Really talking. On his behalf, if not my own. About all the things I've been thinking about, starting from when I first entered the boiler room, and all those memories came rushing back, taking me to places I'd avoided ever since the day of his expulsion. It's like I've been putting off a long-overdue assignment all this time, and I just need to get it done. Said. Over with.

I turn towards Petey to look at his pinched look of confused emotion, and I felt the corners of my mouth twitching with a wan smile.

"You know, the entire time he was here, he was a total bully. Well – yeah, you know, obviously, but I don't just mean you, Pete. He was a bully to everyone. To all the other kids, even the prefects and teachers. To me. I seriously can't recall a single good deed he's ever done without any selfish reason or ulterior motive."

The smile is present now. I'm shaking my head.

"And you know what the fucked up things about it is? I'm not even all that mad at him. Sometimes I think if I'd tried to get him to start taking his meds properly again, or if I'd taken his 'issues' more seriously a little earlier, things wouldn't have gotten as bad as they did. He wouldn't have pulled all that crazy shit."

The more I think about it, the more I talk, the more I realize that this whole time I've really blamed myself for everything more than anyone else.

"I mean, the guy was paranoid, deathly afraid of my supposed intent on sabotaging his plans even though I thought I'd made it clear that I wanted nothing to do with this school and its fucked up little hierarchy. I should've realized that his fixation was more of an obsession. If I'd gotten my head together earlier, I might have been able to get him some help. Maybe he wouldn't have had to end up in there, y'know? He was rotten to the core, but you know, he's wasn't… He's not a psycho."

I'm staring down at the drop below my feet. When I finally look up, dragging my gaze over to meet Petey's, his brow is scrunched and his teeth are clenched. But his eyes are wide with understanding.