One Week

Terrin was the kind of guy you fell in love with by accident. Fell in love with without meaning to. The kind of guy where you could wake up, brush your teeth, go to school, catch sight of him in the dining hall, and think, Oh, I’d do anything for this guy.

He was the school’s secret. A secret everyone knew but no one would fess to under torture. Every student would be able to paint him from memory if every student knew how to paint. Every student, when they came to school, would crane their neck looking for him. Not even realize they were doing it, even as they did it. Not admit to doing it, even after they’d done it.

He was like an object, a prize. People traded him around, everybody taking turns holding him for a couple days then reluctantly passing him on. He was their mascot, their pet, their god. The face of their generation, the picture in their wallet. He’d been there forever.

Everyone had seen him kill Riley Markus, but only Edmund had seen him kill professor Hollin.

They didn’t talk about that.

It was Monday when Danny punched Edmund. It wasn’t on purpose, Edmund didn’t think, but it wasn’t really an accident either. It hadn’t been a linear kind of thing. When Edmund recalled it later, all he could conjure from his hazy memory were snapshots: still images with the transitions stolen. One moment bled halting into the next.

Later, Cassidy had told him what happened. She had said it was about Terrin. Everything was, even if you didn’t know it. Everything was about him. The Earth spun, and it was his fault.

She had said, “Danny was waiting for you out front. You were alone—I don’t know why you were alone. And you said something to him, and then he hit you. Then he, like, frowned. Like he didn’t know what happened. He wasn’t at lunch.”

It was Tuesday when Edmund was in the car with Terrin. It was Edmund’s turn. He hadn’t realized it was his turn until he was in his car after school, already in reverse ready to leave. Terrin climbed into his passenger side without a word. He didn’t buckle his seat belt.

The top of the car was down and the whipping wind had mercifully made all speech impossible. They rolled up to a stop sign, though, and then everything was quiet.

Terrin was looking at him. Edmund didn’t need to turn to know that it was true.

Edmund did turn, though, and looked back at Terrin.

He wasn’t looking at the shiner Danny had given him, but at everything that wasn’t the bruise. He had an analytical sort of expression, like critiquing his skin, or his face, or something else entirely.

“Danny,” Edmund said in lieu of answer, a useless explanation.

Terrin shook his head.

The shitty old Honda behind them honked, so Edmund continued driving.

It was Wednesday when Terrin died. The nurse said he died, at least. He didn’t die, because he showed up for poli-sci the next period. Everyone else said he died too, but Edmund didn’t know. He’d been there, of course. He’s seen Terrin die along with everyone else. Then again, he’d seen Terrin die before and it never stuck.

This time it was foxes. They had come from the courtyard during Calculus, opened the door like they were people, and tore him apart.

No one tried to help him. Edmund didn’t know why, but no one ever helped him.

They just watched as sinew and muscle tore, as blood sprayed. It would evaporate—the blood—like it had never been.

One of the foxes, a white one not native to their wannabe-desert climate, had said something before it left, but Edmund didn’t remember what it was.

It was Thursday when Terrin apologized to Edmund. It was notable because Terrin didn’t really apologize for much. He didn’t do much that required an apology. But he apologized to Edmund.

It was warranted, probably, because Terrin had just hit him.

It had happened at lunch, just in the courtyard outside the school. He hadn’t given any reaction time, any preparation time, had just walked up to him and hit him, the opposite side Danny had.

Later, when Edmund was in the nurse’s office, Terrin was there too, sitting so close beside him on the cot that the perpetual warmth of him made Edmund sort of sweat. Like a space heater, or a supernova. Like holding a star.

He had said, “I’m sorry.”

Edmund said, “It’s alright.” It wasn’t alright. But it would be.

It was Friday when Terrin set fire to the Chemistry lab. It wasn’t on purpose, probably, but it happened.

Professor H was mad for only the space between discovering the fire and finding out it was Terrin who’d caused it.

She leaned down to him, hand on his shoulder, eyes meeting his eyes, and said, “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Terrin didn’t say anything.

She said, “What happened?”

Terrin had looked down at his splayed palm and said, “I’m not sure.” It was the worst response he could give, because Terrin probably knew everything. If he didn’t know something, then that something probably wasn’t something anyone would ever know. “I was just trying to . . . ” but he trailed off, didn’t say what he was trying to do.

It was Saturday when the principal suggested that Terrin should leave the school. He said it in soft tones, nice words, but the intent was there. Leave, please. And the unsaid second half, And don’t come back.

The school was deserted, of course, on the weekend, but everybody knew what had happened.

Edmund knew because Terrin had told him. Came right up to his dorm and knocked, and when Cassidy had answered, he said something to prompt her to leave immediately.

Inside, it was just them two, just Terrin and those dark eyes of his, that unnatural quality that no one could look away from. Just Edmund’s matching bruises looking like hell and aching like consequences.

He had said, “I’m leaving.”

Edmund had said, “I know,” though he probably hadn’t known until that moment. Hadn’t known in any real way, at least. He had just suspected. Had just felt it burn under his ribs, had felt it like strain in his jaw.

Terrin had been a constant. No one knew where he came from, and no one really knew who he was. But he was there.

Edmund had felt Terrin like a stinging at the back of his throat. Persistent. Nothing but a buzz of sensation as he went about his day, but burning like acid when he swallowed, when he laughed, when he screamed.

Maybe now it’d stop hurting.

It was Sunday when Terrin left for good.

Everybody felt his presence, felt it lessen and let up entirely.

No one met each other’s eyes. Everyone went about their day in a mockery of normal, pretending everything was alright—pretending everything was going to be alright. It was probably true, but it didn’t feel true. Not yet.

It was Monday when Edmund died.

It was a slow, achingly beautiful death, and he thought he saw Terrin as it was happening.

He felt cotton in his ears, a charge of kinetic energy in his skull. He heard screams, gasps, a choked-off word. He thought he said something—tried to say something—but he couldn’t remember what it was.

Everything felt like fog. Insubstantial as cloud-cover, hazy and slow.

It would be alright.

It was Tuesday when Edmund came back.

They had said he died—he did die—but it hadn’t stuck. They would get used to it. Him dying was a gateway drug to everything else. He was a gateway drug to life. He was a warm-up sketch to practice for the real thing.

Everything was going to be alright.