Ordinary Days

The death of Jenny was a blow, there was no doubt about that. It had occurred upon an ordinary Thursday in April. A grey day.

She was found sprawled on the floor of the male public toilet and covered in blood.

Kirby hadn't even been there at the time. He had been in his room, listening to music with his headphones on. That was what his mother said. That was what he said.

It was strange, that was all.

Ever since the death of Jenny, Kirby had not been exactly the same.

Admittedly, he was never the most upbeat of adolescents. Since the age of twelve, he had been monosyllabic, had refused to change his jeans or cut his hair, and he had isolated himself from his peers. They were repelled by him. He was the "weird" one.

It is an uncommon phenomenon in a social network to have a person universally disliked, not because of their clothes or their hairstyle or their taste, but solely because they were /awful/.

However, this was the case with Kirby.

Ever since Jenny's murder, though, something had shifted. Kirby was no longer quiet and dull. He was painfully effervescent, forcing himself into the company of others, words erupting from his mouth like a volcano. He did stranger things than ever. He drank alcohol and some said that he dabbled in drug-dealing. During weekend nights, he was often nowhere to be found.

Such a change in demeanour was a shock. It was conceded by most that this was at least a mild form of insanity.

Jenny and Kirby had never even been friends before her death. Those that knew the two of them had been interviewed, and there was not much information to obtain.

"He told me once that he'd screw her if she weren't such a stuck-up bitch," said Kirby's acquaintance, a young man named Tyler Scott. But when pressed for more details, the boy failed to recall any other details of anything Kirby might have said in regards to Jenny.

Kirby's mother was possibly the least concerned of anyone. "He's no different at all," she said cheerily. "The only difference is that he tells me things now. Talks to me, you know."

"Talks to you about what?" asked Kirby's counsellor.

Kirby's mother's smile slid a little out of place.

"Well, we argue a lot more..."

Kirby had had counselling since he was fourteen, and had been diagnosed with every mental illness known to man.

"Evidently," Kirby's mother said, "those psychiatrists only do what they do for the money. You can't go to see a therapist without going home with a diagnosis today, that's what. Load of old bullshit."

Kirby hadn't said anything in response.

In truth, there was nothing seriously wrong with Kirby, other than the usual teenage angst and gloom. But that did not matter. What matter was that people thought him to be different.

It is widely-known that who you are often depends on how you are treated. In Kirby's case, he was treated differently, and that inspired him to act differently. He wanted to be different. He liked being different. He liked to be seen as odd--the outcast romantic. And of course, because of this, he was all too ready to conform to this role.

And that was how Kirby became who he became, regardless of the speculations.

One Saturday afternoon, Kirby's mother hadn't heard from Kirby for hours.

Not a peep, wondered his mother. It was very odd. Either it meant he'd been at someone else's house for the entire day, or that something ahd happened. She thought it best to check.

"Kirby?" she called up to his room. "Kirby?"

There was no reply.

Kirby's mother made her slow way up the stairs, and knocked on his door. "Kirby?"

She listened, and heard slow, steady breathing. She smiled. He was asleep.

She turned the knob, and opened the door.

"Kirby?" she said softly.

He didn't move.

"Kirby, come and get something to eat."

Kirby groaned loudly. She jumped a little.

"Jenny," he said.

"Kirby, wake up."

"Jenny," he said, and groaned again.

There was a silence, and then Kirby screamed.

Kirby's mother backed away. As she headed for the door, something caught her eye. One of the many torn notebooks strewn across his floor.

She pocketed it, and hurried out and down the stairs.

-*-*-

'Dear Jenny,

It's not my fault you're dead, it's yours. Truly it is. I didn't help. I didn't lay a finger on you. I wanted you, you know. I used to look at you every morning as you left your house. You used to dash out on to the road, and it was a miracle you were never run over. You'd sometimes drop something and mutter curse words under your breath, and then have to sit and pick things up, and then you'd up and sprint to the end of the road, and you'd be late. It was the most adorable thing I'd ever seen. I knew you were the kind of girl I always wanted to be with. But I wasn't good enough for you, was I?

No, I wasn't. I deserved you. I did everything for you, everything you could possibly ever have asked of me. When people called you a slut, I'd punch them. When people said they hated you, I'd push them down the stairs. I was there for you, you know? I wanted you. I loved you. I was good to you.

But when I said "hello" to you, you didn't say anything. You just gave me a weird look. Why'd you do that, Jenny? What did I ever do to you? What could I have possibly done wrong?

The truth is, Jenny, I did nothing, and you were a bitch. A fridgid, cold bitch, and you deserved to die.

I wanted you even then, Jenny. I sometimes slipped from my window at night and watched you whilst you slept. You turned over and murmured. I wished to kiss your eyelids and play with your curly dark hair. I wanted you, more than any other guy could ever have wanted you. How could they have cared for you like I did, Jenny? And yet you gave them the chance. Not me. Them. Always them. What's wrong with me, might I ask? I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't, Jenny. I wanted you. I used to dream about you almost every night and wake up in a cold sweat because I could still feel the softness of your skin, I could still smell your powdery scent. I could still feel the bumps and curves of your body. Jenny, I loved you.

I knew what to do. I knew how to do it. I knew how to do it so it wouldn't hurt. I waited until it was late, dark. I waited until I knew you were asleep. I was quiet. Quieter than anyone could have been. A quick blow to the head and you were out without a sound. I stole you. You didn't even make a sound when you came round. It was as if you knew what I was doing, and you knew you couldn't make a sound or I'd be given away. You were quiet even after I cut your throat. And I locked you in a toilet cubicle, and you never saw me again after that, Jenny. Jenny, my love.

But the dreams, Jenny. They never went away. They never go away. I still wake up in cold sweats, I still moan your name in my sleep. I still want you. I still need you. I still can't live without you. But now I wake in tears, Jenny. I do. I love you.'

*--*--*

It was an ordinary day in May when it happened. His mother was a wreck, they said, and she retreated within her house for ten years after they found the two of them.

Jenny's grave had been dug up. She and Kirby lay naked in the yard. She was clasped in his arms. They were found at dawn.

Inspections showed that he had had engaged in sexual intercourse with the body, before cutting his wrists and successively bleeding to death.

"I always knew there was something wrong with that kid," people said wisely.

It was strange.

That was all.