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He was supposed to be dead.
But he wasn’t, and it was all his fault.
Looking down at his hand, he counted his fingers.
He did it every morning to remind himself of what he had done.
Seven fingers. Three of them are long gone. Just like the lives lost because of one night of drunken madness.
He didn’t want it to end that way, but his mom was shouting at him to slow down, and his little sisters were crying in the backseat. He didn’t notice that they were in the wrong lane until it was too late. He shouldn’t have taken the drugs before picking them up from Tim’s place.
Tim was his mom’s boyfriend, and he wasn’t exactly fond of him.
His mom should’ve fixed her marriage with his dad. Then his father wouldn’t have committed suicide. His mom should’ve known.
And she did.
But left him anyway.
John Walters was messed up. Almost any teenager would say that. But maybe not as messed up as him.
Everything started going downhill when he was twelve.
Tim hated him, but he touched John whenever his mom wasn’t home.
He’s seventeen now and lives in his own crappy apartment near Betsy’s gasoline station, where he works seven hours a day. He vowed never to set foot in his stepfather’s house again.
But that was after he took the drugs. Betsy’s son was known for dealing this stuff to the kids at his old school. And he was lucky to get them for free.
The night he picked his mom and sisters up from Tim’s place to eat outside, they had an argument. John wanted her to leave him. And maybe it was because of the drugs that made him tell her about what happened.
About the nights he cried to himself. The nights he feared the silence. Because the silence meant that his mother wasn’t home. Those nights when Tim would touch him while he pretended to be asleep—when all he wanted was to drop dead.
She cried, of course. Told him she was sorry. But what good could a stupid ‘sorry’ do?
It fucked him up.
Fucked him up real good.
She had no idea how it felt to go to school and have the other kids stare at him like they knew what had happened the night before.
Nobody would listen to a boy who shouted a word that would cause a fuss if a girl even breathed about it.
Rape.
He was mad. Mad at his mom. Mad at Tim. Mad at the kids at school. Mad at the guidance counselor who told him it was going to be alright. Mad at his dad for leaving him to face the nightmares alone.
Mad at himself.
Their cries were drowned by the ringing in his ears as they approached the highway. Traffic was heavy, but John didn’t care. John wanted it all to stop. The last thing he saw before the truck hit the car was his mom throwing her body on the back seat to cover his sisters.
...
It’s been a year now. He still has the scars. But they were nothing compared to what happened to his family. The ones he vowed to keep and protect.
Tim didn’t even think of sending him to jail or to some shitty rehab center. He knew what he had done and was smart enough to know that John had something up his sleeve that would get him to jail, too.
John was supposed to be dead.
But the truck’s driver turned it just in time to hit the left side of the car instead. Right where his mom sat.
There was no such thing as ‘normal’ for him anymore. The community was kind enough to send him back to school so he could continue his studies for free, but there was the occasional ‘poor thing’ whenever they visited him to ask how he was feeling. He knew they labeled him as the ‘troubled child.’ He didn’t care.
He was breathing, but he was far from alive. Back then, he hated the silence. Now, he welcomed it with open arms.
It was better than thinking that everybody seemed to mock and point a finger at him.
He just wanted to escape.
And it was at the town’s library where he found it.
He found peace while walking in between the bookshelves, knowing that he has the chance to know all these people and what they have done with their lives.
He was looking through a shelf with books about poets when he saw someone peeking from the end of the bookshelf. Not knowing what else to do, he waved. The girl smiled and started approaching him. He started to panic. What should he do? Would she start a conversation with him? Does she know him?
“Edgar Allan Poe? ” She looked at the book he was holding.
“John.” His name wasn’t Edgar Allan Poe.
She laughed and pointed a finger at the book he was holding. His ears felt hot, and he was sure he was blushing.
“Alice.” She offered her hand, and he had to wipe his hand on his jeans before shaking hers.
“Are you into poetry? ”They started walking and sat down at the far end of the library.
“No. Just wanted to read, that’s all.” He saw her nod.
He waited, but she said nothing.
“You’re not going to ask why? ”
She frowned and shook her head. “You don’t have to explain yourself. If you want to read, then read.”
John liked her already. Every time he talked, people would always question him.
Why do you like being alone?
Why did you do that?
Why are you putting yourself down?
“I think people should accept the fact that socializing isn’t for everybody. Some of us just want to be left alone. Being on your own doesn’t automatically make you lonely.”
He blinked.
“I’ve done things... I’d rather be alone than see them looking at me.” He started flipping through the pages, hoping that she would leave. Alice should leave. It would do her no good to talk to him. The librarian would probably warn her later.
Stay away from him. He’s no good.
“How do you hold a pencil? ” He looked up to see her staring at his hand.
“I use my left hand.” She made an ‘oh’ sound and nodded. But she still wasn’t leaving.
“You should leave,” he whispered, looking around to check if somebody already noticed them.
“No.” She was shaking her head.
“Why? People wouldn’t want to see you with me. You should know what I did.”
After all, everybody knew.
“I know.”
He stopped flipping through the pages and met her eyes.
“What did I do then? ”He knew it was wrong to challenge her. The first person to reach out to him in a long time, and he was pushing her away.
Instead of looking away, she merely blinked and opened her mouth. “You got into a car accident.”
That was it.
“It was more than that. My family was in there. I used drugs. I killed them.”
“Did you? ”
He looked at her with confusion. “What’s the difference? ”
“Did you do it on purpose? ”
He looked at his hands.
Seven fingers.
“No...”
He saw her reaching for his hands, and he froze when the warmth of hers spread through his skin, leaving him with goosebumps as she touched him. She didn’t say anything. Just held his hand and let him stare at it. Stare at it for a long time.
“I know things aren’t alright. I wouldn’t ask you to be alright.” She smiled and gently squeezed his hand as if she was assuring him.
And that kind of did it for him. He had never cried before.
Not when he woke up after the accident.
Not when he found out that other people were involved in the accident, and he was left to remember them before he closed his eyes.
Not during his family’s funeral.
Not when Tim would creep into his room at night.
Not when he finally realized he had no one.
But now, knowing that this girl, who he tried to push away just like everybody else, knew about what he had done but tried to understand him anyway made him feel weak.
Not the kind of weakness he felt when he knew that he had nobody, but the weakness he felt because he was trying to act strong—and finally got tired of it.
And for the first time, John told someone everything.
She just looked at him, still holding his hands.
She didn’t nod. Or tell him that she knew how he felt or that he should cheer up. She just sat there with him as he told her about finding his dad cold in his room after his parents’ divorce papers were finalized. About meeting Tim and what he did to him when his mom had to go home late. All the while, she just held onto his hands.
Seven fingers. Three of them are long gone.
When he was done talking, she silently wiped away his tears.
“You’ve been through a lot. I understand now.” He looked up to see her smiling sadly at him.
“Thank you for telling me. You may not be okay now, but in time, I know you will be. Move at your own pace. People will never understand you, so you have to understand yourself. You may not move fast enough for them, but you know what? They can go fuck themselves. It doesn’t matter how slow you go; what matters is that you keep going. Moving. Forward.”
“I’ve never told anyone...” He took a shuddering breath.
“Well, you know what they say about telling secrets. It’s either you tell them to somebody you really know or tell ’em to a complete stranger.” He smiled as she got up from where she sat and winked at him.
“I better go.” She was turning around now.
He started to panic as she slowly walked away, putting more distance between them. He wasn’t afraid that she would tell anybody, but he felt like he wasn’t going to see her again.
He got up as she turned towards the door.
“Alice! ” he called out to her. He ignored how the librarian glared at him.
Alice paused and turned to look at him.
“John.” She smiled before walking outside the door.
He ran after her, almost tripping as he took the steps out of the building. He had to see her again. He had to tell her that he would try to move forward.
It almost felt like he knew her. Like they’ve met before, not just today. She felt like an old friend. Funny how foreign the feeling was.
But as he took the last step—
She was gone.
He walked back inside the library and approached the librarian.
Still catching his breath, he asked, “The girl. Alice. Does she come here often? ”
The librarian looked at him with disapproving eyes, but to hell with her. John just wanted to know where to find the girl.
“I only know one Alice.”
He felt it then. Hope. A chance. A possibility. “Where is she? Where does she live? ”
The librarian put down the stamp she was holding and looked at his hands.
Seven fingers. Three are long gone.
“She died in a car accident a year ago.”
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