It's a horribly normal day. I hit my snooze button, roll out of bed, freak out at the time, make a mad dash through my morning routine, barely make the bus, sleep through math, buy a hamburger for lunch, pay rapt attention in Chemistry, and finally go to practice after class. It's just like any other day really. Probably the highlight of my day was when that girl – what was her name again? – gave me a love letter on my way to practice. It's the first one I've ever gotten. It smells nice, is done on creamy paper, and has a heart drawn on top in plain sight. Maybe it's silly of me to get so excited about that sort of thing, but I'm moving up in the world! I've finally gotten the attention of someone! Now don't get me wrong, I get a lot of attention normally, but usually not that kind of attention. For some reason, I've never had a girlfriend before, couldn't really tell you why.

Anyway, so it's a horribly normal day other than the nifty love letter from a girl whose name I can't remember. Good so far. Or, more accurately, it's normal until I miss the city bus. The school buses are long gone, and I stayed a little late to talk with the coach so all of my team mates are gone too. I go ahead and give my mom a call, but she doesn't answer. It strikes me that I've never had this problem before, but it sort of bugs me why that is. I shrug it off, not that important. My house is about an hour and a half's walk away. I can either wait an hour for the bus, or walk. Normally I'd wait, but the sun is starting to set, and there are a ton of stories about ghosts hanging out around the school at night. Who wants to stick around that place anyway? Staying at the school later than you have to is lame, my fear of ghosts has absolutely nothing to do with it.

So off I go; through that neighborhood that's suppose to be quaint, and then through the park. It's sorta late by then, so only the dim streetlights lead the way. I'm not really happy about being out in the dark, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, right? So on I go! That is until someone taps me on the shoulder. My heart about stops, before I can help it I've screamed like a woman, and socked who ever touched me. I'm about to run like the heavens, when I notice that it isn't a ghost or anything – cause seriously, ghosts can't touch you, they can just take over your body and make you do bad things and scare the crap out of you, right? Right. – in fact, it's a random guy.

I swallow my fears and do the decent thing. I apologize, offer my hand, and smile sheepishly. If things don't work out I can always run for my life, right? Besides, we're in a residential area – sorta – if I screamed bloody murder someone should at least be a little curious, right?

Off track, I know, back to the guy. It takes him a moment, but he takes the hand I offered him, and gives me a bright smile. There's something off about it, but I can't really say. I've been told I'm a dolt when it comes to reading people – the thing I'm best at reading is comics, people aren't as animated most of the time, ya know? – but who cares, from what I can see he's a nice guy. He's got a good smile any way.

Once he's up I notice that he's actually pretty tall. Almost around my height.

"Hey, sorry if I scared you." He says pretty casually. He looks like he's around my age, which is totally great. I shrug and smile in response.

"Na, you didn't scare me, I just have lightning reflexes! Sometimes things just happen and it takes me a sec to realize that I did them! Ha ha!" It's true, but it's also true that he scared the bajebas out of me. Not gonna go there with a random guy I've never really met before though, so the lightning reflexes will do.

He gives me a disbelieving look, and shakes it off with a smile. "Still, sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you. Guess I'm light on my feet." He looks like he's going to say something else, then shakes his head before going on. "Ah, anyway. You're Alfred, right? Alfred Jones?" He looks hopeful, and I always like showing off.

"The one and only! Star player of the Star Spangled Banners! I'm sure you've seen me on the field!" It's true, I'm totally the best player out there. I don't like to flaunt it, often, but I really do hold up the team a lot. Any highschooler in town has probably seen me play! Except for maybe the ones without team spirit, but that doesn't count! Since this guy is around my age, he's bound to know who I am, I'm sure of it.

He still smiles, but this time it isn't a happy one. Instead, it's super, super sad. Like, you just killed my puppy and I can't even be mad at you because you didn't do it on purpose sad. With that one facial expression, I don't know how to react. Did I ruin his schools championship? I totally have no idea, but somehow I don't think it's anything I did that makes him look so sad.

Instead of any sort of answer, he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. It's a tiny little red spiral notebook. Like, small enough to fit in your back pocket small. It's sorta beat up, like someone used and abused it a lot. He offers it to me without an explanation, and only after I've taken it does he say anything.

"It's for you. A friend of mine really wanted you to have it. I promised I'd get it to you. If it doesn't make any sense, you can give it back to me whenever. You should keep the picture though. If you don't want it, you can stop by my school some time. I'm usually easy to find."

I'm about to ask which school he goes to when I notice that he's still wearing his uniform. It's that fancy private school almost 15 miles from here. Figures. Now he looks really, really uncomfortable, like someone – not me of course – farted and it totally stinks, and he wants to be a million miles from here.

"Uh, Okay?" I don't really know what else I'm supposed to say to that. It's now pretty dark out, so I'm not all that excited about being here any longer than I have to be. The notebook sorta feels strange in my hand too, like it holds life's secrets – like that book called the secret that I bought so that I would know the secret- makes me either want to look at it right fucking now, or never.

He looks away from me, and it seems like he doesn't know what to say. Neither do I, really, so he'd better think up something fast or I'm getting the hell outta here. He doesn't disappoint me, and turns back with a smile not quite as bright as the first one. "Hey, do you want a ride home or something? It's kinda late out."

Awesomesauce! I can't help but be happy about that one! I don't think this guy's a secret homophobic axe murderer who has a thing against good looking men, so getting a ride home from him sounds like a great idea.

So he takes me home, and it's only after he's dropped me off, waved goodbye, and promised me an awesome homemade kimchi dinner, that I realize I don't even know his name. He's totally a cool dude, so I'll have to stop by his school and smoke him out some time.

I head inside, eat the diner mom made for me, head to my room, reread the love note I got that day – I Don't, giggle like a school girl about it – and crash on my bed. It's been a long, normal day, and I love sleep! After lazing about for a bit I hoist myself up and start taking off my clothes; first my shirt, then my pants. But when my pants fall to the floor they make a thumping noise.

I go down to check, I've been known to leave change, and my wallet, and sometimes food in there, and mom gets pretty pissed off when I leave things in my pockets. Once I left a banana in there, and she didn't catch it till after she'd washed it. It made a huge mess, and she threw a major hissy fit! So I dig out what evers in there.

It's the little red notebook, worn and weary, and now that I see it in the light – quite stained. Parts of it are darker than others, and someone has obviously had bad luck with red pens busting on them, though usually it's a really bright blaring red, and this is more of a deep, almost black sort of red. It's made the pages sorta stiff too, cause the little thing doesn't really want to straighten in my hand. It's just permanently bent, like someone kept it in their back pocket through a raging rapids ride, and then it just dried that way and never wanted to go back.

I take a lot of time just looking at it. I'm sure there's something important inside it, but I'm not really sure about opening it. But let's face facts, I'm impatient. So after a while, I reach down and slowly pry open the cheap plastic red cover. Surprisingly, it comes with relative ease. Someone had been reading or writing or just using this enough so that even though it should stick together, it doesn't.

The first thing I notice is that a ton of pages are missing. They've been messily ripped out from the very beginning, and you can still see the sad little pieces left behind, though they're caked onto the notebook pretty well. Someone emptied about half of this thing before giving it to me. That guy seems like the one to blame for that, but maybe it's the friend that he was talking about. It's really not that important.

The second thing I notice is the photo taped to the back of the red plastic cover. It's kinda old; the picture is sorta blurry, and the colors blend together in a way that colors don't do on pictures made these days.

The picture instantly leaves me with my mouth gaping. There are two boys, standing side by side; one with a bright smile as he holds up bunny ears on the other, and one with a shy smile on his face, posing for the camera. The first boy I know without thinking about it. That's definitely me. My mom loves to show off pictures of when I was tiny, so I know my baby face pretty well. The other boy I don't know at all, but I can't help but think that he looks a lot like me. Like, seriously a lot like me.

It kinda gives me a horrible feeling, I can't really describe it. It's kinda like a headache, but worse, cause you can take meds for a headache and make it better, and somehow I know I can't make this go away with any type of pills.

I read what the note book has to tell me, throw it across the room into the trashcan, and go to sleep.

Someone is playing a dumb prank, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it tomorrow. Maybe that guy is actually an asshole and I didn't realize it.

Regardless of what I'm going to do tomorrow, sleep remains elusive. I don't think I sleep more than an hour all night, and my head doesn't stop hurting.

I don't go to school the next day. Instead I grudgingly take the little notebook out of the trashcan, and catch the early city bus. I take it as far as it will take me, and catch another one. About an hour later I'm at that fancy private school, looking for that bastard.

There are a decent amount of students out and about here, but they're all really tiny, not like the guy I met. Somehow, I figure that they'll know who I'm talking about if I just snag one, so I grab a small guy on his way into the building. He turns to look at me, and he goes deathly pale, like, the color just drains out of his face like water drains out of a pool. He plays it cool with a soft "Yes?" But he's definitely not comfortable with the situation. It doesn't matter, I just need some help.

"Hey, do you know another guy, he, kinda looks like you, dark hair and all, but he's pretty tall. About this high? I think he said he was Korean or something?" I show about how high he was with my hand, or at least how high I think he was.

At first the guy looks quite puzzled, but then something happens and he looks really, really pissed off. Like, so pissed off that even I back down.

"Damn Yong Soo, I told him…" There is a ton of rage there, and who ever this person is – perhaps my mysterious tall Korean not friend? – is going to get it. Then he turns to me, and levels me a glare that's just plain nasty. "Did he give you anything?"

I sort of curl in on myself, I'm not used to people being as intimidating as this guy, who's literally half my size. It's actually really creepy. I dig into my bag and pull out the notebook "Just thi-" I'm abruptly cut off when he snatches it out of my hand and almost growls at me.

"Did you read it?" The answer is totally yes, and I wish I hadn't, but with this guy about to rip off my head in a fit of rage, I just sort of mumble out a half assed "..no.." but I think he knows I'm lying. He looks at the little notebook in his hand, sighs as if the world is balancing on his shoulders, and hands it back to me.

"There's no use taking it back now. It is rightfully yours." He states, his rage still hinting at whats going to happen to the person responsible for giving it to me. He gives me a long, sideways glance, before turning to stalk away. The only problem is I don't want this thing, I totally don't. So I sort of amble after him and stop him again.

"B-but I don't want it. It's not even a nice story. It's creepy!" So maybe I'm whining, but ya know what, it is creepy, so there.

The small guy turns to look at me again, shakes his head and gives me a sad smile, just like the last guy. "But it's addressed to you, isn't it? Someone really wanted you to have it."

With that, the guy walks away, and I'm stuck there looking dumb as the school bells ring. "But I'm an only child…"

I didn't think he'd heard me, but he must have because he turns to me, and the saddest look is on his face. I can easily forget that he was mad just a few moments ago. Actually, it's hard to imagine he was ever happy when I look at him. "You are an only child, Jones."

It only occurs to me later, that he knew my name. Somehow I can't shake the feeling that it's not because of foot ball.

Alfred,

I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

I don't even remember what we were fighting about, but I know it was stupid, and that I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't go to your game, I should have. I said I'd be there, and I intentionally ditched it. I should have swallowed my pride about whatever we were upset about, and gone.

Instead, I hung out with Arthur and Francis. We were at Arthur's place, because he wanted to try out a new charm he'd found. He really loved that sort of thing. Since we were there, Peter was pestering us, and eventually Arthur let him join in. It was all a horrible mistake, none of us should have been there.

I don't remember blacking out, but when I woke up I was in a rundown classroom of some sort. There were holes these gaping holes in the floors, and the desks looked really old, and really small. It was really dark in there, and I could hear the rain pouring down outside. Arthur and Francis were with me, but Peter was nowhere to be found. Arthur was really worried about it, he was sure that Peter should have been with us, but he wasn't. We set out to find him, leaving the classroom behind, and entering the rest of the school in search of him.

For a long time, we didn't find him. Instead, we found bodies. Bodies with smashed in skulls, bodies with their guts all over the place, bodies hanging in bathroom stalls, bodies in pieces, burned, drowned, cut, starved, smashed. There were just so many of them. I know it's hard to believe, but I can't describe it, I just can't.

We were so scared. We had to find Peter and get out of here as fast as possible. We found the exit pretty easily, but it wouldn't open. It was almost as if someone had painted on an exit just to taunt us. None of the windows would open either. We were stuck. All I can say is that this is a horrible place. Hundreds of people have died here, and even in death they can't escape this place.

Body after decaying body, that's what we saw again and again. It chipped away at us. I could see myself, the person I was, quickly slipping away. I was so afraid of everything else, that it didn't frighten me at all.

Arthur was the worst. We were all paranoid, and scared stiff, but he was the one that said things. Said how we were being watched, and followed, and hunted. On and on and on. I think we all knew that things were not right, but I wasn't giving a play by play of my every fear, and Arthur was. He was irritating. I was losing my patience with him all together. It had been his fault that we were in this mess. I couldn't see that he was trying his hardest to protect us. He was just as scared as we were, but he was the only one with the strength to say it, to make it all real.

Then he lost it all together. Arthur started screaming, and laughing, and talking absolute nonsense. His eyes looked dead, as if he just wasn't home. Francis was concerned. He tried to chase Arthur down when he ran off, but I held him back. I told him that Arthur was holding us back, that we would be able to do more without him there. Once we found a way out we'd come collect him, and bring him with us. I got him to go with me, but I know I didn't convince Francis. I could tell that more than anything, he wanted to go after Arthur. I wish I had let him.

We went on without him. I kept telling myself that we were better off without him, that he was extra baggage we didn't need, but it was hard to convince myself. Arthur had often stopped us, and said we should turn around, and go the other way. He'd sort of steered us, without him we were really directionless.

It seemed like we wandered forever till we heard Peter. His voice was coming from above us, he was screaming – more like wailing – and we could hear the stomping of feet. Then, there was a horrible, horrible scream from him that I will never forget, and a loud crash a few rooms away from us. We ran to where the sound came from, and we found him.

He was smashed against the floor, his limbs contorted in horrible ways and a pool of blood already starting to form around him. It was obvious he had fallen, how far, I'm not sure. The worst thing about it was that he wasn't dead. He was wheezing and gurgling and my god it was horrible, some of the worst sounds I'd ever heard. Peter was dying a slow, agonizing death, and there was nothing either of us could do about it. Francis did the right thing while I stood there speechless. He rushed to Peter's side, and cradled him in his arms.

He wheezed and suffered, and when he could he cried softly for Arthur. Francis hushed him, told him stories, and sang him lullabies, anything he could do. All I wanted was for Peter to stop suffering, to hurry up and die. Only now does it disgust me that I thought such a thing.

Finally, Peter died.

We didn't know what to do with him. We decided that we couldn't just leave him. Peter was someone we knew, and cared about, he at least deserved a proper burial. I had no idea how we would do such a thing though, we were thinking it over when we heard footsteps.

I don't know what we expected, but we were scared. We didn't know what to do as the footsteps got closer and closer. Suddenly, they stopped, and we could see a figure in the door way. I was so afraid, but Francis recognized who it was instantly. It was Arthur, but it wasn't Arthur. His eyes were dead, like a fishes. He was breathing hard, and mumbling incoherently. He scared me.

I took a step back, and then another, but Francis didn't do the same. Slowly, he approached Arthur. I think we both knew that something was wrong, but Francis was going to meet his best friend, and I was backing away from something horrid. With each step Francis made towards him, I flinched. Somehow, I could see what was coming next.

Ever so slowly, Francis reached for Arthur, and pulled him into an embrace. He started softly whispering to him, but Arthur didn't respond at all. Then, there was a sound. I couldn't figure out what it was, but it made Francis seize up, gasp, stagger, and scream. I heard the noise again, it was sort of metallic, but I still couldn't place it. Then, I saw it; a pair of rusty, blood soaked scissors were in Arthur's hand, and he was stabbing Francis with them.

I knew I had to do something.

I ran forward, and pushed them apart. The action was surprisingly easy. Francis sank to his knees, holding in his stomach. Arthur didn't move. The sound of the scissors clattering to the floor was piercing.

Francis was going into shock, his breathing short and grasping. The air wasn't getting to him, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do for him. My anguish turned to rage. I couldn't save Francis, but I could make his murderer pay. I turned on Arthur, only this time it really was Arthur. His eyes were wide and green and lifelike in disbelief.

I wish I knew then, what I know now.

I screamed at him; that all of this was his fault, that he was a murderer, and that the world would be a better place when he was dead. I said horrible things to him that I wish I could take back. He was still looking at me and Francis in disbelief. He kept apologizing, to me, to Francis, that he didn't remember, he'd never do such a thing, that it couldn't be true, that he didn't want any of this to happen. He was so, so sorry. And then finally, he accepted. He accepted that the whole situation was all his fault, that he had killed Francis. Arthur took all of the blame I flung at him.

When I handed him the bloodied pair of scissors, I knew what he would do with them, and I let him.

I regret this most of all. Arthur slit his throat, and I did nothing. Within the span of an hour, I'd lost all three of them.

I know now, that Arthur was not to blame. I wish I had let Francis go after him, I wish we both had. I think at that point, we could have helped him, because I think he needed us. Instead we, instead I, abandoned him. His death, and Francis's, was my fault. All my fault.

Now, I'm haunted by them. I can hear Peter's soft foot falls, and I can hear him laughing at me. It's a horrible sound, but children in this place are twisted into horrible things. I fear Peter has turned into something malevolent, and childlike in his amusements. I know if he ever finds me, Peter will kill me.

I can feel Francis's icy fingers softly creeping from my shoulder to my neck, because I kept him from saving Arthur when we had the chance. I don't think he hates me, but he resents me. He resents my words, and my actions.

And from time to time, I can see Arthur. He is always blue, and lifeless as he moves from place to place. His school clothes are always caked in blood that never seems to stop flowing from the gaping wound in his neck, and his eyes are lifeless and dull. He sort of gurgles, but I know what he's trying to say. He's still looking for Peter. I don't think he'll ever find him.

I won't stay sane this way, Alfred. I can't. So I'm writing to you now, while I still can. Alfred, I've done bad things, things I wouldn't dare tell you. The rest is too hard for me to say. I can't keep doing this, Alfred. I've tried, and I just can't do this anymore. I want to see you again. I don't want to die! I want to talk, and argue, and go to your games, and have ice cream together, and tease you about your weight.

I would give anything to see you one more time. If I thought dying would let me see you again, I'd do it within a heartbeat. It would be easy, I still have that pair of scissors with me, it would just be a flick across my neck, or a dive from the top floor. It would be so simple. But here, things don't work that way. Even after death, I will never see you again.

Alfred, I want you to have a good life. Marry someone nice, raise a family, be an astronaut, work on cars, teach kids science, work at a record company, anything you do, do it with everything you have Alfred. Please, be happy.

I love you, and I miss you.

Matthew

When I get home, I don't know what to do with myself. Everything sort of seems pointless. Mom's at work, so I don't have to worry about her, thankfully. I don't know what I'd say to her if she was here. I pace and pace and pace; denying and rationalizing and then denying some more, I hate it. I'm just so confused and conflicted, and above it all I'm upset, and angry. Finally, I end up sleeping, but I dream, and when I wake up I feel horrible. I pace, and pace some more, until something small and cream colored catches my eye. It's the cute little love letter that girl gave me. The one that I'd gushed over like a school girl. The cute little heart on the front of it says 'I love you!' carelessly, as if you could just say that to someone you don't know, to someone that doesn't matter. As if you could ever say that to someone who doesn't even remember your name.

Angrily, I grab it, and stomp downstairs. Somehow the sound of my foot falls; steady and fast and angry, scare me. There's a set of matches in the cupboard, and I hastily grab them, knocking over some thing as I do. Whatever it is crashes to the ground and shatters, but I just don't care at all. I strike one of the many matches, and the note goes up in flames.

I, Alfred Jones, have never had a girlfriend. And I never will.