AFTER SCHOOL, THE corridors were crowded with people of all shapes and colours and creeds, all rushing to get the hell out. He was walking with John to rugby practice. He had quite possibly said more in five minutes than Will had in the last six months. He felt as though he were slipping from this world into the next—a shadow world, where time moved slower, and there was only one thing to think of, that being death.
“Don’t listen to what Ramy says. You should do it,” John declared, with an air of finality. He gently brushed a lock of fiery hair behind Will’s ear. “You’d look good as a blond.”
“Belle of the ball,” Will murmured.
“Right. But only if you wear that dress I bought you to the dance.”
“And what if René doesn’t want to go with a boy in a dress?”
“Then I’ll walk in with Nasreen on one arm and you on the other,” John said, without a moment’s hesitation. He knew that Will had been having a hard time of it the past few weeks, what with their parents always fighting, and their mother’s addiction to alcohol and sleeping pills, and all that had happened with Maël. It wasn’t an easy life. But he knew that, even if Will didn’t always want him, he had to at least try to be the best mate he always had been. He put an arm round his brother’s shoulders and kept walking. “Come home with me today. I’ll help you dye your hair,” he offered.
Will nodded and gave him a small smile, but that was all he could manage. Lately, it had felt as though he’d been turned inside out, body and mind, so that he no longer recognised himself. He felt as though he were a stripped nerve, raw and exposed, so sensitive that it was excruciating even to be brushed up against. He took John’s hand, as he had when he was six years old and afraid of the dark. He held onto it like it was the last air on earth.
And that was when he saw him—the boy running down the corridor, toward them. He was a flash of light and colour in the shadows falling from above. He heard someone shouting his name, and a foot slamming against the floor. He turned to see a very angry Ramy screaming at Thomas, who was running down the corridor in his signature yellow hoodie. Ramy was standing in a short-sleeve shirt, arms bare for the first time, and even from a distance, Will could see the bruised track marks running up his arms—and so could everyone else. Thomas turned his head and looked behind him, laughing as he shouted back. He wasn’t looking ahead, and was about to collide with Will, who he had hoped would help him hide the hoodie from Ramy. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He darted to the side, and Thomas crashed into the wall behind him. It jolted him back into reality. Time ticked audibly forward, but the silence was all-consuming as Ramy landed upon him and began to rip violently at him, tearing the hoodie away from his body. Will could almost feel those white-hot fingers burning through his shirt, pulling it away from his skin, leaving smoking holes behind. He heard voices, muffled, in the distance. But he could not understand what they were saying, for he could see only one thing: the blue pill that had fallen out of Ramy’s pocket, and now was lying at his feet.
Fentanyl.
He couldn’t believe it. That match inside of him, which had lain dormant all this time, finally struck, and he started forward, intending to tear Thomas limb from limb. John snatched him by the back of the shirt and pulled him back. How could he have given Ramy fentanyl? Where the hell had he even gotten it? At first, he didn’t know what to do with this thought—it couldn’t have been his, could it? Murder. It was on the tip of his tongue, moments from spilling out into the open air. It was shimmering, and beautiful like nothing else on earth.
It was new, this feeling. It was like a wildfire, out of control, burning everything inside of him—every thought, every memory, every feeling he ever had, apart from pure rage.
He watched John reach down and pinch the pill between two fingers. He straightened, holding it in the palm of his hand. Will’s hands shook as he took it from him. He closed his fist around it, this time for a very different reason: because everything in him was begging him to pop it in his mouth and swallow it.
“What is that, Will?” he heard, as though underwater.
But he couldn’t answer him, because the bloody scene of Thomas’ death was reeling through his head, like frames of a film reel. He wasn’t supposed to be capable of such things, but he was. He had already killed one person, and now he felt that same tingling in his bones and blood—that quiet sense of power that only comes from taking a life.
He forced his feet forward, pulling John along behind him. If he didn’t move, he was afraid of what he might do instead. Thomas and Ramy were still rolling on the floor, but now he realised that what he had mistaken for shouting was, in reality, laughing. Ramy wasn’t upset—he was positively rapturous. He’d never felt so good.
And all because of a little blue pill.
After a moment, they were back on their feet, and he heard them running down the corridor, away from him. They should be running, he thought. If they knew what I’ve done, they would all be running from me.
“Are you all right, Will?”
John’s voice was loud and crystal-clear. Will looked at him, and felt the corners of his mouth tick upward. It felt as though he’d never smiled in his life. John laughed good-naturedly, and started forward once more.
And because he had no choice, Will followed after him.
“I SHOULDN’T BE doing it myself,” Will said, as they sat on the edge of his bed. “I’ll give myself a third degree burn.”
“Will, you can’t give yourself a third degree burn from bleaching your hair.”
The debate had been going on ever since they sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning. Now it was nine o’clock on Friday night.
“You’re sure about this?” John asked. They were sitting side-by-side, staring at the box of hair colour standing upright on the bureau before them. He had said nothing when Will stopped sitting with him at lunch, or when he found bloody blades and a packet of cocaine in the bathroom, but he had to say something now, before it was too late. “You’re going to look like a different person.”
“That’s… sort of the point,” he said, picking up the box and tracing his finger over the words on the back. “What if I cut it, too? I don’t want to have long hair anymore. It’s like I’m inviting them to call me a girl.”
John pressed his lips together, and said nothing. He couldn’t deny that it was true. “But what if—”
“Shut up, John,” he said, quite abruptly. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I-I am,” he stuttered. “It’s just… why do you think colouring your hair will change anything?” Will ripped open the box and began to line up the contents on the edge of his bed. John caught him by the wrist, finally voicing the question he had been meaning to ask for years: “Will, did something happen?”
“How many times does someone have to get hurt before they realise they have to change?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, and he didn’t. He had not known the same magnitude of pain that Will had—hadn’t been beaten, or made to eat his own vomit. But he did understand why he would want to do something like this, and so he took up the scissors and sat Will down in the chair at the dressing table. “Well, let’s do it, then.” Strands of hair fluttered to the floor, like auburn feathers. “Can I ask you something?”
Will opened his eyes, gazing up at him. “What?”
“This isn’t about Thomas and Ramy, is it? I don’t want you to change yourself for—”
“No, it’s not.” His eyes slid closed once more, and his head lolled to one side. He was imperturbably calm, like the surface of a still lake. “I got the idea from Thomas, because of his blond hair, but I’m not doing it to be like him. I just want to try something different.”
“Mm.” Will closed his eyes once more, as though he were falling asleep to the sound of John cutting his hair. “Can I ask you something else” Will nodded. “Will you ever come back to sit with us?”
“Probably not.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He turned round to look at him. “Hasn’t anyone ever invited you to sit with them? Haven’t you ever had friends before?”
“Of course,” he lied, laughing to cover the shock. “But I couldn’t leave you. You’re the only one for me, Will Hargreaves,” he said, tapping him on the nose.
He pulled on the plastic gloves and began to apply the colour of Will’s hair. But he knew in that moment that this wasn’t about the hair, or the clothes, or even what other people thought—it was about Will; his life and sanity. And this was his first small victory.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
IT WAS SURPRISINGLY easy to change oneself completely. His hair was platinum blond, and he was wearing an expensive skirt—not one he’d bought at a charity shop and snuck into the house, because he was afraid of what his father would say. Now, he couldn’t care less, and damn anyone who tried to tell him he couldn’t. His hair was short, and shaved along the sides. He had pierced his ears and septum, and now there was a little golden ring in his nose. He wasn’t wearing a great deal of makeup—only a bit of eyeliner, and a coat of lip varnish. Only enough to look nice.
He still wore his button-down and cardigan, and had even deigned to wear the black leather loafers that were a part of the uniform at St. Michel’s. He looked like a person who was old enough to make his old decisions, and who was no longer hiding. He looked sixteen, which he nearly was.
Thomas drove Ramy to school, but they were always late, and so Will stood on the steps, waiting for them. People stared at him as they passed. It was strange to feel the heat of the spotlight for the first time in his life. Then someone smiled at him, and his heart burst in his chest. No one had ever smiled at him like that before.
HE HURRIED DOWN the corridor, to his new form room. As he walked, he smiled at everyone, and most of them smiled back. He even noticed a few boys smiling at him first. This was how the world worked, apparently. He wondered, as he walked into his form room, if other people knew about this. It was simple: all you have to do is act like you’re normal and all right, and people will treat you that way.
He arrived late. There was a light clamour of conversation, but he could only hear the voices of Maël and his mates. The teacher asked him for his late pass, and Will waved him away like a bothersome fly.
He scanned the room for an empty spot, slowly pacing the aisles. He saw Thomas sitting in the back of the room, wearing his striped shorts from his days on the rugby team—his golden days, before drugs. Most of the boys, and even some of the girls, at St. Michel’s had been on the rugby team for at least a summer, and had the uniforms to prove it, but none had made it, in the end.
There were no empty seats. He began to panic, as all eyes fixed on him, and trembled, for he was terrified that they would see, beneath the hair, clothes, and makeup, that he was still the same person, lonely and forgotten. He stood in the aisle, looking down at the floor, until a voice called out to him: “Come sit over here!
He looked up, to find that Thomas was clearing a stack of books off the desk beside his. He looked round the room, then walked toward him slowly, wondering if this was some kind of despicable plan to lure him back into his world of darkness and despair, but the rational part of his mind told him that it was quite the opposite—that it was a friendly hand reaching out to him. He sat down cautiously, making as little noise as possible as he took out his German textbook. He opened it to page seventeen and made a small note along the bottom margin: Just smile.
He traced his pencil over the words, over and over, shooting out into sharp-ended fractals until they were scarcely visible. He considered taking out a fresh page and starting John’s maths homework, but that would only upset him, and for once, he just wanted to be okay.
Thomas leaned in closed, and whispered to him: “Hi.”
Will looked up, and that was when their eyes locked—blue eyes, piercing and deep as the sea. He looked down at his book, and saw the words “just smile,” staring up at him. So, he took their advice, and gave Thomas the smile he had been rehearsing in the looking glass for the last two days. The answering grin made his heart melt in his chest.
“Are you new?” he asked.
“New?” Will sputtered. “Thomas, I saw with you at lunch two days ago. How could I be new?”
He narrowed his eyes, as though he didn’t quite believe him. And that was when Will realised that he was high off his arse. He had probably taken acid, or snorted cocaine in the bathroom with Ramy. He had no idea who he was talking to, or where he was. He didn’t remember his own name, much less Will’s. In that moment, it was as though he had never existed. And, unlike most people, he actually liked the way it felt to be forgotten, at least by one person. It meant that he didn’t have to be who he was yesterday. He could be anyone, and no one would know the difference.
Thomas gave him a sideways smile. “What’s your name?”
“Will Hargreaves.”
“I like your hair, Will,” he slurred. Even in that scratchy voice, his name sounded better than ever, and Thomas was looking at him in a way no one ever had—a way he supposed no one would again.
“Thank you.”
“My name is Thomas… Ramsay,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought. So, he did at least remember his name. He reached across the aisle and ruffled Will’s hair like he was a beloved pet. It was a strange gesture, but what about the last five weeks had not been? Thomas’ skin was deliciously warm, just like his voice, and eyes, and laugh.
The bell went off, and Will flinched, thrust abruptly back into the world above the deep blue ocean. It was like leaping off a cliff, in that it was both frightening and exhilarating, all at the same time. But it’s never the fall that kills you—it’s the landing.
IT WAS THE moment he reached the door of the manor that he realised he’d left his keys on his bedside cabinet that morning. It was a Monday, and Pierre had taken his mother to see her therapist in Marseille. They wouldn’t be home until five-thirty, and John had taken Nasreen to buy a dress for the dance. His father had a late meeting in Paris, and would be staying overnight.
It was a nice day, hot and humid, and he could smell spices through the kitchen window. There was a pot of soup boiling on the back burner. He could easily have fit through the window, which had been carelessly left open, but he had been looking for any reason to go to Ramy’s, and now he had it. He turned on his heel and ran into the woods, disappearing into a stand of olive trees.
“THERE’S NO ONE home,” he said, as Ramy opened the door.
“What?”
“I went home, and there was no one there, so I came here.”
“Oh. Do you want to stay for dinner?” Will nodded. Ramy stepped aside, and waved him in.
Will was wearing a pair of knee-high stockings, and the new skirt. Ramy was wearing the same old hoodie and jeans as always. He had taken off his shoes, because his mother didn’t let him wear them in the house, and Will saw immediately that he was wearing the pale yellow socks he’d given Nasreen last Christmas. There was no keeping Ramy off anything yellow, he supposed, but still.
He followed him into the parlour. Ramy’s house was neat, in a way that made it look as though it had never been lived in. It reminded Will of the house in Knightsbridge, when his mother had cleaned until his fingers bled. Ramy sat down on the sofa, and Will sat next to him. It was orange, and comfortable—so much so that he wanted to lie down and fall asleep, cradled by its plush warmth. He wanted to sleep there forever, and never wake up.
Ramy had heavy circles under his eyes, and wore the same worn-out clothes every day, rather than the new ones his mother bought him. His hair was dark and glossy, and his face was grey, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Ramy never told anyone when he was hurting, or when he was feeling anything at all, but Will could see that if he were to curl up for a nap, Ramy would lie down beside him and fall asleep on his shoulder. They could stay like that, forever, and never wake up.
The phone in the kitchen rang, and Ramy leapt off the sofa to answer it, leaving Will feeling cold and violated. He looked out the window at the rain, leaning back against the cushion and closing his eyes. He had never liked to see anything cry—not even the sky. When he was five, he had heard his mother sobbing in the bathroom, and had spent half the night lying outside the door, waiting. And when she finally came out, he followed her to bed. He hadn’t known it then, but it was the night before she left forever. When he was nine, he had held John at their brother’s funeral, because he could no longer stand on his own feet. They had slept in the same bed that night, and for many weeks after, because John was afraid he wouldn’t wake up. Will had lain beside him, listening as he cried, and wondering if he shouldn’t have pushed Ben off that bridge, after all. And then, as John’s tears saturated the pillow beneath their heads, he had told himself that he did what had to be done.
Ramy came back into the room, looking slightly worried. “Your mum isn’t coming home. She said you can stay here tonight.”
“But Pierre was supposed to make bouillabaisse tonight,” he said, like a small child, and before he could stop himself.
Ramy shrugged. “Then we’ll make Malabar curry. It’s all just fish stew in the end, isn’t it?”
THAT NIGHT, WILL was told that his mother had taken a bottle of sleeping pills with her nightly bottle of wine. Pierre had found her on the bathroom floor, and had taken her to hospital immediately. She would only be staying overnight, but Will did not want to go home to that cold, creaky house where shadows ran wild, and so he stayed with Ramy.
Everyone had always told him, from that very first night he’d spent at the end of her hospital bed, sleeping at her feet, that Charlotte would recover. But now the worst had happened yet again, and he found himself wondering why they had lied to him. But he could do nothing to help her, and so instead he laid there in the darkness, praying through the tears. It was already too late when Ramy put his feet out of bed and joined Will on the floor—he had finally cried himself to sleep.
He and Ramy had never been allowed to sleep in the same bed. It was an unspoken rule that had passed between them and his mother ever since the first night he slept over. But Ramy broke the rules every day, and so, when he climbed into Will’s sleeping blanket and held him close, he was not told to leave. The truth was, if Azra hadn’t suggested it, it would never have occurred to Will that a fifteen and eighteen-year-old boy sleeping side-by-side was a cause for concern.
At dawn, Azra came to wake them, standing in the doorway. She was in a long nightgown, silhouetted by the early morning light. She kneeled down beside them and gently shook her son awake.
“Ramy, what are you doing?” she asked him.
“Will was crying,” he whispered, turning over, so that he could look her full in the face. They both looked down at the boy still asleep between them—at his violently red hair and skinny wrists, so small and fragile that if he were lying in the lavender, one could easily have mistaken him for a baby bird fallen from a tree. There was a long silence, as they gazed at him, thinking separately, and yet the same: I’ve never seen anything so helpless.
“Breakfast will be ready in half an hour,” she said. “Make sure he is showered and changed. I’m taking him home after that, so that he can be with his mother. She needs him more than we do.”
And so, he did. Will woke on his own five minutes later, and Ramy hurried him into the shower, leaving a stack of fresh clothes on the toilet seat. They came thundering down the stairs together, laughing joyously, and Azra gathered them both into her arms, her two beautiful sons. They sat across from each other at the table, stuffing themselves with kheer and egg bhurji.
In the car, he told Ramy everything. He cried once more, and told him that he was terrified, because they wouldn’t have kept his mother overnight unless they thought she was suicidal. He told him he was afraid that, one of these days, she would die before Pierre could find her. He told him that he was afraid of being locked up, too.
But Ramy only held him, and said that he would always be there for him, no matter what. He told Will that when he died, he wanted sunflowers at his funeral. And if Will ever went to hospital, or if he died first, Rany would return the favour.
But they never thought the day would really come.