Suffering Alone In Silence

“Let's talk about why you have a kill list?” I suggested to the boy, Frank, after I sent Anthony off to class.

He turned his face slightly, so I could just see his eyes. Smirking slightly he answered my question, “I'll give you thirteen reasons why:
One; Because I can. Two; Because I have enough time to think over who I'd like to kill, how and when. Three; Because they deserve to be on it. Four; You don't have one, that makes me unique, and unique is good. Five; Because I've had enough of their shit. Six; Because they're just people who piss me off to the point where I'd love to let them bleed to death. Seven; Because it's better than homework. Eight; Because it's a pretty good idea. Nine; Because they brought it upon themselves. Ten; It doesn't mean I'm actually going to kill them, just who I would kill. Eleven; Because they need a wake up call and a death threat is the perfect pick me up. Twelve; Because everyone should have one. Thirteen; Because I can.”

I thought about this carefully, no-one I've ever known has openly told me that they made a list of everyone they want to kill. Let alone just because they can. At college we've met many mental patients, from sociopaths to schizophrenics. None ever said they had a kill list.

“Do you have a hard copy of this list? Or is it a mental thing?”

“Is this at all relevant?” Frank groaned.

“Not really, just that I would like to see it,” I pestered, I really would, these people must of done something to get on this list.

Frank was fumbling around in the pockets or his coat and pants, pulling objects of various sizes out. Finally, he managed to find what he was looking for. A homemade book, the type with approximately four pieces of paper simply stapled together. The cover was plain, but you could see the ink trailing through the fibers of the it. “Here,” he grunted, thrusting the book towards me.

I flipped through, only two pages were covered in the messy scrawl. I believe this is his 'kill list.' The first name was, indeed, Anthony Montague. Surprise, surprise.

“What have all these people done to you? There is obviously a reason as to why you have written their names down.” I asked, passing him his book back after having a good look. Some of the writing had been crossed out and replaced, Anthony's name was written down about eight times.

“Hmm, hurt me. Hurt people I like.” He stated simply, I hadn't noticed before, but his voice... it was, well, beautiful. It was light, and musical, but it was so, so dark and almost vicious. It was like yin and yang. The two opposites.

“Okay Frank, thanks for your time. I think you should be getting off to class soon. But I think you should come back sometime, so we can continue this talk” I smiled my 'psychiatrist-I-know-everything' smile and led him to the door.

“I don't have a choice, do I?” He asked miserably.

“No, not really. I expect to see you on Thursday, at around 1:30. Have a nice day,” I opened the door and sort of... pushed him out, so I could find Anthony.

Frank meandered down the hall in the opposite direction than I was going, not even bothering with a late pass. He didn't walk in a straight line, more drifting to each side of the hall and dancing his hands along the wall.

I asked at the office and made a beeline to room 314 for Anthony. I knocked on the door, and waited for the teacher to come out.

“Uh, hello? Can I help you?” A slightly fat, balding man asked, slipping out the door.

“Hi, I'm the counselors assistant. I'd like to take Mr Montague from you.”

“Sure,” the man said, and called through the door. Anthony came creeping up from the group of tough guys in the middle.

He followed me silently back to my office and sat politely when I asked him to.

“So, Gerard, is it?” Anthony sneered in a holier-than-thou manner, with his nose held high.

I nodded, and he continued. “You're probably gonna blame me for this shit, but Frankie totally started it. He came at me, it was all self defense! I fucking swear!”

“One; mind your language. Two; I'm not blaming anyone. And three; I don't particularly care if it was self defense, you still fought him.”

“Ugh, fine. But I don't have to go to the principal again, do I?”

“Not if you co-operate,” I smiled and tried to get him to lie on the couch that was there.

“You are so childish. How old are you?” He basically yelled when I pushed him at it. Which he later told me was abuse and that I could go to jail.

“I'm nineteen and I live with my mother,” I stated.

He laughed at me, and finally sat on the couch. Through the next half hour I asked questions ranging from if he had any loss or trauma as a young child, through to if he would beat me up if I went here. Eventually, I found out that he and Frank were once friends, but they drifted and then Anthony found out Frank was gay. It's a tragic love story; I weep for them.