"have you ever wondered where my dad is? why he isn't here, and why i never talk about him?"

stan gulped, sitting forward a bit. "...what do you mean you're a murderer...?" stan asked weakly, crossing his arms, but he put his arms down when bill's eyes began watering.

"stan, i killed my father. yes, on accident. but i killed him." bill wrote quickly, waiting for stan to run out in fear, but yet, he was still sitting in front of him.

"how?"

"with my mouth." bill wrote ever so perfect, making sure every wrote stuck out. stan looked down in a curious matter, taking in ever word bill had written.

"you remember one night when you came over to my house, you told me you always wanted to be a writer? it was your dream?" stan asked, hugging his knees, and bill nodded instantly.

"well, i want you to write for me, write what happened. we are leaving your house, and going to the park. we'll both sit on the black bench by your house, and i will lap around the park. every time, write me a portion of the story. don't rush, we have all night."

and that's what led them to the park, walking in silence. stan wasn't wondered about him being a 'murderer', because he wasn't. he was just a small kid with a big month.

so why was he practically biting off his nails? the cold night and pale skin? the anticipation? the fear?

"we're here. i'll see you in a bit." stan shivered a bit as he spoke, blamed it on the cold, and found himself speed-walking away from the bench.

as he practically ran away, bill felt his heart break inside of his chest. stan hadn't said anything to hurt him, but that was simply the problem.

and so he wrote.

bill was disheartened to find that the lap around the park wasn't a long one, but he still took his time, getting through a page when stan had soon returned. "lemme see." stan said, picking up the notebook and bringing it to his lap.

"oh, and thank you. for trusting me." stan murmured, and bill simply nodded, smiling a bit in the cold night.

the night was a long one, i remembered stealing a cigarette pack from my mother's drawer that night, and heading to some football game at school. of course i didn't watch, and max and i shared cigarettes and lighters behind the bleachers. yes, elle was there, but she didn't smoke. i had never smoked before actually, and i didn't like it very much, not the sensation on my lips or the lump in my throat. it was weird, i hated it, but yet the next morning i went through a whole pack.

it was two hours later when i left, it was barely 40 degrees outside and my hands had finally gone numb, unable to play whatever silly game we were playing that night. so i walked home in silence, i think, or i was quietly singing to myself, i tended to do that a lot. i remembered i had forgotten to take a breath mint from max, but i didn't mind, my parents weren't home that night.

i think that was the first cause of it, smoking for the first time—

stan took in every word, his finger sliding down the page on where he was at, until he took his finger up from the page, looking at bill. "you smoked?" he asked, concerned, even though bill had clearly never done it again. clearly.

but maybe stan didn't understand clear anymore.

or quiet.

~ penny (mar. 15, 2018 @ 7:50am)