“You’re not supposed to read someone’s diary.”
“Woodrow gave me permission years ago.”
“I didn’t.”
“Take it up with him.”
He rolled his eyes at the idea of it.
“It burned in the fire,” he said, pulling something from his pocket and placing it between his lips.
Disease-inducing ingredients were wrapped in thin paper, and hanging from his full pout as he pulled out a lighter the same color as his eyes, flicked the lid, and lit up.
“What the fuck are you doing!” I fumed, as a smog of smoke surrounded us.
I pulled the cancer stick from his mouth and dropped it into the grass. A tiny fear spread through me. . . fear of fire, a repeat of history, when people died on this land, burned by flames and choked by smoke.
The sole of Hell's sneaker prevented that from happening.
I released the breath that I certainly knew I was holding, sucking in the fresh air. I wondered what it felt like for him, to breathe using his lungs, cancer tainting each breath.
“For a while, we used scraps of paper, the prison walls, anything. Anything to pass messages to each other. Getting out, it got easier. Now we use this.”
Hell tapped at his pocket and the giant cell phone that filled it.
“You write notes to each other on a phone?”
“It's easier. It's always with us. Though we are internally closer now, as we’ve only had each other for so long.”
“Do you talk?”
“We listen.”
I nodded.
“Do you want to talk to me?”
“I'm not the one you want to talk to. I'm not your golden boy. Realistically speaking, you’d rather me be dead. . . if that didn’t mean Woodrow would be gone, too.”
“I can talk to you all.” I took a step forward, and with a dipped head, I whispered, “I wouldn’t want you to die.”
He rolled his eyes, so hard, the pretty silver flecks were lost for a second. And when they returned, they dug through my soul searching for lies.
He wouldn't find any.
“It wasn't so long ago you were telling us you hated us, wishing us dead.”
“Because I was angry. Scared. You did awful things to me. You put me in a cage; you knew what that would do to me. You shaved my hair!” My voice broke over the memories I'd so easily forgotten when Woodrow reminded me of the love inside him, the sadness catching up with all my other mental afflictions. “You raped me, again.”
“Just think, soon, you'll be free.”
“No. I'll never be free of you. You fucking haunt me. Even while you’re still here. You already haunt me.”
“Believe me, I'll be haunting you. So, don’t be thinking of bringing any other men into my fucking bed. I wouldn’t think twice about killing you both.”
He pulled out another cigarette, but before he could light this one, I pulled it from his lips and scrunched it in my hand.
A silver flame burned in his wild eyes, anger and something else brewing in the depths. . . sadness.
