I stared at the figure thrown across the floor, breathing hard. Darkness circled around me, pulling me farther and farther in. I sat in a huddle on the floor, holding back tears that had been hidden inside of me for far too long. A cool breeze whistled through the building, brushing against my hair, pulling it back. I wanted to hide, hide away forever. It was sunny outside, but hidden in this worn down building you could have mistaken it for night. Pebbles of dirt and scraps of paper were thrown across the floor, and the little furniture that lay in the room was broken down and tipped over. I shuddered as goose bumps rose along my arms, but it was not from the cold. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard. After a minute, I looked back to the body. The body that was lifeless, the body that had no beating heart, no emotions. It was no longer a person, it was an object. The person was gone away, and only their shell remained.

Still his eyes were open, crystal clear, looking at me, pleading. I had taken the life of this man, of this young man. I had stolen it, squeezed it out of every part of him. Everything had gone so fast, every moment traveling at the speed of light. I crawled over to the body, laying there, and placed my hand on his. Still, it seemed to be warm, and if I didn’t know better, I would have mistaken it for alive.

It was the eyes that had told me at first, that crystal gaze, the gaze that announced eternal rest, eternal silence. I had caused this. I lifted up a limp arm, moving it around a bit. As if I didn’t know that life was gone. I looked towards the other arm, in which was grasped a knife, the blade dry, the rim still sharpened. He still lay on his back, as if simply waiting for the right time to stand up. Time had gone far too quickly, far too orderly. One minute I had been standing, waiting the attack that I knew would come at any moment. The next, he was laying here, the same as he was when I looked back at him once more. His hair was messy, but was covered with a black Yankees hat, ripped at the seams, and worn. I studied his hands, the ones that he had used to touch so many people, to hurt so many people. The hands that had held his mother as an infant, the hands that moved, and spoke of a hopeful life.

I crawled back to the other side of the room, and curled up again, sniffling back tears. You will not cry. You will not cry. I assured myself in my mind that I was strong, and that it had been his fault, but still, I could not help but feel guilty. Only when I thought about my mother did I cry. My mother had been the one who had protected me through all of this. My mother had been the one who had proven to me that life could continue, even when it seemed that you had reached a dead end. I couldn’t make my eyes meet the dangerously and falsely gentle eyes any longer. I had seen too much, and now it was time to leave. I had done my work. I had protected myself, I had protected who I was, but I had not protected him. Without a glance in his direction, I stood up, and walked towards the doorway, the one that I would never enter again. As I stepped into the sun, before closing the door, I looked back one more time, and stared into the ever-gazing stare of my father.