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He accepted it easily.
Many would fight for it, or prey on the smaller kid. He didn’t seem to want to do either.
The boy slowly lifted his head and bent his body to mirror my position on the floor. He struggled with each movement. He was in pain.
He remained in the shadow, his features hard to decipher, but it was his labored breathing that gave him away. Taking a closer look at him, I saw it. The clinginess of his shirt and the dark stain over his torso.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I am. The nurse may clean it in the morning.”
“Why?” I asked. But I didn’t mean the nurse.
“I told you.”
I regret not using the glass to end it instead.
“You did that to yourself?” I asked.
“Yes. It made me ugly.” His teeth slid over his smile. It wasn’t over happiness, it was formed by broken thoughts.
I didn’t say anything else. I understood. He’d jarred his body to escape his suffering. Little did he know, ugly and evil were lovers.
That night, I helped the boy whose name I’d learned was Arlo. Offered my cot and sat at the end, watching him fight his demons in his sleep. And as days passed, an unspoken bond faded into our miserable lives. I gave him most of my food, he needed it more. We didn’t speak much those first days.
Words weren’t needed when two were broken.
And as the boys came and went as quickly as they showed, Arlo snatched the cot to my right.
It felt normal, to have the wall against me, and him on the other.
He never mentioned that night, and often I wondered what he meant by “ending it.” Ending what?
The creator of his nightmares?
The monster that stalked his eyes when closed?
Quickly, I learned he’d referred to himself.
That night, a boy regretted living, because even after scarring his body, he cried, understanding the damage was deeper than what the glass was capable of slicing through.
That night, the boy cried for breathing.
That night, the boy did die.
It wasn’t too soon after that he embraced his darkness, and we found the two brothers we didn’t know were missing.
We never fought.
Never raised a fist.
Never allowed anything to come between us.
And after long nights in our room learning each other’s languages, I watched the lost boys before me, hanging on to every word I spoke. Not a trace of innocence poured from their lost eyes. All of us were different, and yet identical.
But as the youngest, Ilias, held on to my tattered pants with bright blue eyes when his brother wasn’t around, did I comprehend, I would do anything for them three.
Hurting them would be hurting myself.
