6. ¡Dios Mio! ¡Mataron a Kenny!
Craig slammed the door shut, throwing me up against it. He dragged his tongue hungrily along my lower lip before holding me in an open kiss, forcing his hips into mine. I pulled my mouth back from his, breathing harshly into his neck and wrapping my arms around his middle.
"Mn, Craig, we don't have time for this…"
"Fine," he said reluctantly (as I was right), bucking his hips up into mine and capturing my lips with his one last time before drawing back slowly.
I stood there panting, trying to will down or at least ignore my erection as he gathered his coat and scarf off the top of the couch.
"Okay, let's go."
His teasing smirk faded as he followed me out of his empty house, starting off down the street. We got to Kenny's "house" after a few blocks of quiet, and became still, solemn. I cleared my throat at the doorstep, gesturing towards the door.
"You go in," I said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You practically live here."
He rolled his eyes and stepped forward, walking in without knocking and heading in the direction of Kenny's room with me at his heels.
I had a strange sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. A really bad feeling. The feeling one gets at the sickening click of a pistol, when they walk into a room full of strange sounds and can't see a thing and can't talk or scream or move and they know something horrible's about to happen. The feeling you get when your scalp itches and you reach up to scratch at it and you get a fistful of blood and skin and hair.
Something was just bad, in the stale air. Thick, like silence or darkness, or worse, both.
We entered the small bedroom together. Everything looked normal-messy, yes but normal. Clothes and magazines strewn across the floor, bed unmade with the sheets practically encased in white, other various and sometimes mildly disturbing items littered around.
Rain tapped gently on the single window.
Craig wandered over to Kenny's bathroom and I heard him suck in a slow shuddery breath.
My feeling of unease worsened, nausea creeping throughout my body.
I watched Craig pull something off the door-a folded piece of paper with both our names scrawled in pencil on the outside. Craig opened it, read it with a poker face, and gave it to me with out moving his empty gaze from the bathroom door.
Kyle-I thought I could trust you.
Craig-I thought I could love you.
I handed it back to Craig, wanting to break down in tears but feeling too sick, too sick to move.
The almost inaudible turn of a door's handle and the shrill pained screaming of the hinges as it opened could be heard. I dared not look in, letting Craig walk into the small room and close the door softly behind him. I waited, hearing a muffled, angry string of curses from beyond the door and then silence, stretching on until Craig finally exited, pushing past me with his eyes red and fists clenched. He slammed the bedroom door as he left the room, and I was left with a clear view into the bathroom.
As soon as I looked I turned away, clinging to the side of Kenny's bed and willing myself not to vomit. The image of Kenny was clearly imprinted on the backs of my eyelids. One end of the rope was tied to the bar where the tattered shower curtain was attached, the other loosely around his neck. The metal bent slightly with his weight, leaving his limp feet inches from the ground; his head fell to his right. Pale lips with a tint of blue in them just barely seen past his still shining blonde hair, a thin trail of red coming from the corner, dripping steadily into a thin crimson puddle on the concrete floor.
I felt my stomach churn uncomfortably just thinking about the sight.
With my head down, I walked quickly out of the room, finding Craig out in the hallway and wrapping my arms around him to comfort us both. He, however, made no move to reciprocate my actions, standing stiffly in my arms.
"Kyle," he said carefully. "He's gonna come back."
My stomach twisted sickeningly. "I…" I inhaled slowly, composing myself enough to talk. "I think…he won't."
I took my arms back, and he stared at me with dead gray-blue eyes. "He always comes back."
"He always wants to, Craig."
He looked down at the filthy carpet of the hallway. "But-"
He was in denial, and it was no use trying to argue with him. I had my opinion and he had his want for Kenny. Numbly, I turned away, starting towards the door, watching it in front of me, not willing to turn and face Craig when I felt tears welling up, eyelashes serving as a dam to keep them back, blurring my view of everything. I always thought Kenny rising from the dead was a choice. That only made sense.
I reached for the door handle, but drew back, realizing the obvious.
"C-Craig."
He was silent behind me but I knew he was listening.
"If…you're right…then he's just gonna keep dying. So-yeah." I didn't want to voice
my concern; it would sound crude.
I wiped the tears from my face fervently, hating them there. They made me feel weak, and worse, they didn't even make sense. For years and years I had watched nonchalantly as Kenny died, each instance more gruesome than the last. And now? He was dead, again, and in a few days he would be fine and dandy. But this time it tore me apart, gradually, each stitch being cut until I fell apart at the seams.
I closed my eyes, cradling my head in my hands, standing still as my mind replayed and replayed the thin stream of blood and saliva that spilled from Kenny's lips onto the cold unforgiving floor beneath his feet. Stiff body suspended in midair, twisting slowly as its unseeing eyes fixed themselves on the cement.
