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Repeat.
The shit has been banged into my head for the last three damn years by the medical staff that has graced these hallowed halls. Dr. Cross loved to preach those words to me every two weeks before Saint and his pet murdered the fucker in his office and exposed all of the doctor's naughty secrets in the process. The fucker's secrets were dark too, involving his proclivity for drugging and assaulting female students.
I shouldn't say Saint killed him. I think he did, but I'm not entirely sure. It's not like we're comparing body counts up in here, though no one commits a good bloodbath like Saint, except for maybe Kill, and I know for a fact Kill didn't do it. He was with me, watching the necrophiliacs be all weird at the campus cemetery while the good doctor was murdered.
At the risk of repeating myself, I'd have to say I'm like ninety-five percent sure Saint fucking did it. It had his mark all over it.
Blood, pain, and perfect violence.
If he did, I wouldn't blame him.
If Saint went to those lengths and did it publicly, then I know Dr. Cross deserved it. My friend may lack the ability to empathize, but he's not a sadist. Most of us psychopaths aren't, and if you are, you won't last long around here.
Kill, Saint, and I we coexist because we don't fuck up each other's carefully constructed worlds. Saint is allowed his pets. I'm allowed my fire fetish. And Kill is allowed to desecrate all things religious, especially those things of the female virgin variety.
We respect each other's boundaries because we understand each of us suffers from the same tendencies as the next. There's no room for a sadist in our world because a sadist doesn't respect anything. There are no rules with sadists, except to inflict as much pain as possible on as many people as possible, regardless of the consequences.
Saint won't tolerate anyone fucking with his pets. I won't tolerate anyone jeopardizing the flames. And Killian would kill anyone for messing up his unholy plans.
I'm still laying in bed when I reach over and dig my pack of cigarettes out of my pants discarded on the floor. I tap the pack against the palm of my opposite hand, still holding the lighter, and choose one carefully before I light up. I take a long drag, but the nicotine does nothing to calm my nerves.
I'm still thinking about my Firefly—obsessing about the strong-willed girl with a penchant for smartass remarks and hair the color of spun gold. If I was a good man, I would put an end to it now before I go too far down this rabbit hole and we both end up in Wonderland. But I don't like pretending to be something I'm not.
Thinking of her, I blow smoke rings up to the ceiling, cutting through the fireflies and blowing one through the other, making smoke puppets that only the ghosts and I will see. It's unfortunate too because I set a new personal best—four rings within each other, all evenly spaced—before they hit the stone ceiling above me and dissipate.
Even when I'm not thinking about her, I'm indirectly thinking of her. One of my fellow seniors and a self-proclaimed pyromaniac tried to give me a blow job earlier today. She's pretty too, Sila Shelley, with big tits and blonde hair that she likes to wear in pigtails, one reign for each hand when I fuck her from behind.
I expect she thought that the offer for a blowjob would lead to another sexscapade in one of the empty classrooms, but it didn't. At first, I couldn't even get it up, which is totally unlike me, but she wouldn't stop talking, and every time she screeched, the more I remembered that she wasn't my Firefly. She played with a limp noodle for a solid five minutes before I finally told her to please shut the fuck up, closed my eyes and thought of her, my Firefly. Then I screwed Shelley's mouth like a deranged animal.
She cried around my dick, snot and tears wetting her cheeks.
She turned red when she couldn't breathe and then pale when I continued ramming into her anyway.
But she was a good girl. She didn't even bite me when I said my Firefly's name and came in her mouth.
My Firefly.
I like the sound of it.
With the cigarette still hanging from my lips, I grab the book on the bed beside me and hold it up to read beneath the moonlight. There's enough light on a rare cloudless night like tonight, but still, even with the light, I can't manage it. It's bad today.
Pieces of the letters are missing, turned around, and reversed. Words become something else entirely on the page, melding into hieroglyphics. I try to focus, narrowing my eyes on the page, finding the first word and moving on to the second, but the numbers blend again, blurring and changing, and I wave goodbye to the last of my patience. I throw the book across the room, and it hits the door in my frustration, knocking against it hard—not that it disturbs Tompkins—and falls to the floor.
Somewhere thousands of miles away from here, I just know my father sits at his expensive desk and laughs at me. This is why I always watch the movie version of the book.
You stupid, ignorant fuck, he would say.Does the wittle baby boy not know his wetters?
I hope he chokes on whatever he's drinking—probably whiskey at this hour. I shut the lighter at my side unceremoniously, keeping the lit cigarette dangling between my lips, and climb out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. I walk over to the door to my room, pick up the book, and walk back across the room to my desk, where I snatch the ruler from the top right-hand corner where I always keep it. It may be Academy-approved, but even silicone is up for this task as I align the ruler with the first line on the first page.
Chapter 1, I read.
The words come into focus.
Slowly, methodically I read like that, line-by-line, and it's the first time in a long time that I've actually somewhat enjoyed a book. This one's a horror, written by someone who died ages ago, but it's actually not bad. The process with the ruler is tedious, though, as I go line by line like a fucking child.
Eleven pages in, I give up.
Again, this is why I always watch the movie version. Far away from here, my father mutters that he told me so.
