Amicus Mortis

People tended to think I was narcissistic.

I guess that was why I was sitting on my own in the kitchen, pushing around the bowl of slush that was sitting in front of me and mulling over my own hatred. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and it was making me want to throw the table against the wall, but I’d been told earlier that unless I learned to stop being impulsive and violent I’d be placed in solitary confinement.

Which was the stupidest fucking thing I’d ever heard, because I’d been put in here because I couldn’t handle being alone, not because I was bad around people. Now I couldn’t stop looking at the knife in my hand and wondering whether I was strong enough to push it right through my skin.

“Well aren’t you a bucket of sunshine.”

I glanced up heatedly to find her grinning down at me – all red lips and white skin, like something out of a movie; her cheeks hollowed in like their own secret hiding places and her eyes rimmed with red. I found myself wondering why her smile was so big, why the bags under her eyes reached her cheeks and how she’d managed to land herself in here, God’s very own hidden purgatory, when she looked like she could’ve belonged somewhere else. Somewhere better than across from me with that smile on her face – that hidden secret that curled at the corners and parted at the middle.

When I didn’t respond she simply settled herself into the seat, ignoring the fact that by now, everyone was watching us. “What brings you here, Nomad?” she asked simply, eyeing me with her lips curled and her coffee-coloured eyes sparkling.

Normally I wouldn’t have answered, or I would’ve told her that it was none of her fucking business, but I think I could tell that she was something different – something more than I was at six foot two, with a gloomy outlook on life and a fucked up view of the world. “I killed someone,” I said. And I guess it was kind of true, because in a way I’d tried and I’d also seen that look in her eyes – the way they’d shrivelled up and dulled as though she could no longer see me; as though I was nothing. I couldn’t get that look out of my head and I found myself clenching my hands in fists on top of the table, trying to forget the grey and see the brown instead.

She snorted. “Yeah, and I’m in here because I had sex with my sister’s husband.”

I stared at her blankly. “Are you?”

She grinned then, flicking a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Not quite.”

Frowning slightly, I turned back towards the bowl of slush in front of me and pushed it around a bit with my fork, before throwing it down and shoving my tray away from me. Then I remembered what I’d said, remembered why, and I couldn’t take it. “Fuck this,” I said loudly, slamming my fist against the table. Everyone started to stare but she didn’t even flinch, instead simply watching me with interest. “I’m sure God could get me a solid fucking piece of food at the very least.”

My hands started to shake and my ears started to ring, and I damn well knew what it was. My throat was dry and my lips were quivering and I wanted a goddamn cigarette or something because I was sick of constantly getting so worked up over tiny things.

She placed her hand over mine then and I think I fell just a little bit– fell hard and fast because it was just the gentle whisper of affection and for some reason I could feel the warmth throughout my entire body. “What’s your name, crazy?” she asked quietly, running her nail along the length of my finger.

I swallowed thickly, my ears still ringing and my head slightly foggy. “Noah.”

She laughed loudly and pulled away, pushing back her chair and standing up. “Sounds like you belong in a place like this, buddy.” She stopped and looked at me then, and in my haze I could see the way her thick lips curved at the corners. “Maybe God will treat you well.”

And then she walked away.