ON THE FIRST day of November, it was unseasonably warm. It was beginning to seem as though the summer would never end, for the days retained all the humidity, heat, and brutal sunlight of the dead of summer. Perhaps it would last all year, until a new summer took its place. Will thought that if Hell were to freeze over, it had best get on with it, because it was about bloody time.

And then, the day after, snow fell relentlessly from the sky, burying the world in a blanket of white. As the wind whipped through the fields, Will lay in bed, with a raging fever. He was beginning to hallucinate more than ever, until everything he saw no longer felt real, for when he touched it, reality melted in his hands. His eyes stung as though they’d been gouged with pencils, and he was coughing incessantly. Every breath seemed to be his last. By the end of that first day, he thought he was already dead.

And it was the first time in a long time that he wished he was.

Nothing had changed at St. Michel’s. It was the same crowded corridors, and the same horrendous people, up to the same things they always were. Their voices melded into one. As he walked to his first period, he looked back over his shoulder, and came face-to-face with Maël Renault. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, there was saliva dripping down his nose. Maël had spit in his face.

“What, you’re still alive?” he laughed. He flicked him in the forehead, bringing him back down to earth. “How many guys have you slept with, anyway?”

“One,” he said, confused. No one needed to know about his father.

“Hm. The way people talk, I thought it’d be way more.”

“Is this about that vandal in the toilets? My brother paid him to—”

But he was already gone.

OVER THE BREAK, Will had been moved to the Year 12 literature module, with John and René, because of his exemplary performance in the base one. It was the second one he had with them, including maths. He reckoned he’d have to take university courses by the time he was their age.

Because it was a small group, and because they were usually well-behaved, they got away with murder. It was something new and wonderful, this freedom, which was limitless and without end, much like the darkness in Will’s head. Something had changed after that night with Ramy—he had been depressed and self-injurious before, but this was an all-time low. He felt as though he were floating on a cold, black river, which would inevitably end in death, or a hospital room, wishing he were.

He had begun to write notes in his notebooks—out of boredom, he told himself, because he didn’t want to believe it was in preparation for the unimaginable. Gazing down at that page, filled with words that made him want to rip his heart out, triggered dark emotions that he had never felt before. His letter to Ramy was different than all the others:

Dear Ramy,

Can you believe it snowed yesterday? I’m glad I sit by the window, so I can watch it fall. I don’t understand why people hate it so much—winter has always been my favourite season. My birthday is in the winter. I’ll be sixteen on 6 January—or I would have been, if it weren’t for what comes after this.

You know, maybe it’s time we got to know each other better. There’s so much I want to tell you, and not enough time. I’ll be gone soon, but I wanted to say goodbye. So, I thought I’d write you a letter. You’ve left me so many notes, but I’ve never written back. I know we see each other at school, and after, but it feels like we haven’t truly talked since that night, when you made me laugh until I cried.

You know, I’ve spent these last few weeks thinking about you, and that day you found me in the toilets. It seems like so long ago, doesn’t it? I know you probably don’t hear this often, but I think you’re a nice person—the best I’ve ever met. But thinking of you know, knowing that we won’t have the forever you promised me… it hurts more than a knife to the heart, and that is the only way I can explain it.

I don’t know a great deal about friendship, and certainly nothing about love, but I do know that what I want, more than anything, is to see you again. I won’t be there for Christmas, or to see the sunflowers in the summer, but one day the spring will come, and we’ll be together again. The sun will shine on us, when the morning comes.

I want to be around for you, but you came into my life too late. And maybe you’re wondering if there’s really anything left to talk about, but I promise, when we see each other again, I’ll tell you stories until the end of time.

If you’re asking yourself why I did this, there’s no simple reason, or answer. I wonder about other people—at school, and at home, and out in this big, bright, beautiful world. You and I are victims, and not only of our circumstances—but what if they are, too? I wish they didn’t laugh at us, or call us names, but you can’t control other people. We all have free will, and the opportunity to take or to give. It may not always seem like it, but we all have a choice.

If I told them what I’m telling you, they wouldn’t understand. I learned from what they did, and I think it’s about time they learned from it, too. That is why I did this. My death was a culmination and a consequence. They can say whatever they like, but I will have the last word. I hope they’ll learn about themselves from what they did to me. I hope you’ll learn a bit about yourself, and if I could ask just one thing of you, it would be that you become a better person for me. That would be enough to justify my life.

Wouldn’t it?

He had never written a letter that long before. He read it over, and over, and over again, before finally crushing it in one hand and tossing it into the bin. He tried to write another, better than the first, and found that he couldn’t. Instead, he closed the notebook, hiding those blank lines from sight, and thought about Ramy. He thought about what it would be like to be dead, and when he was gone.

After a while, he opened his satchel to read through all the notes Ramy had ever left him. They were all so short, yet beautiful in their simplicity. They were undoubtedly alive, as though Ramy were standing there beside him, speaking loud and clear. As he flipped through them, he began to wonder how the letter he left behind would sound, and what it would convey. When he sent it, it would be out of his hands. It would no longer be his, although he had written it.

The bell rang, and he hurriedly pushed the notes back into his satchel, staring blankly ahead. He leaned back, and closed his eyes. It wasn’t simply sadness that was pulsing through his blood—it was something deeper, darker, and different entirely. It was profound and divine. He released a grip he hadn’t even realised he was holding, and a folded paper slipped out of his hand. He opened it, reading those words a second time—HI, PRETTY BOY—still unsure how he felt about them, and how he ought to respond. Reading them made him certain that he wanted to see Ramy before the end, but feeling the way he did, he was beginning to wonder if he should even leave a note, at all.

He thought about that first day, when Ramy had taken pity on him and chosen kindness. He replayed that moment in his mind, and the weight lifted from his chest. The pain was pleasant, in a way—almost addictive. He couldn’t move if he tried. He wanted something more from Ramy, which he could not give, but didn’t quite know what that was. Something terrible was awakening inside of him.

And so, he crossed his arms and put his head down on top of them, thinking of Ramy in that sombre darkness.

ON FRIDAY, FOR no reason at all, René brought him a rose. That night, they went to dinner in Marseille, and kissed in his car. For the first time, the worries of the world melted away, drifting up into the open air, and disappearing into the night.

René pulled away, and looked him in the eyes. His face was hardly visible in the darkness, but his eyes glinted with a light that came from deep within—an inextinguishable flame, burning bright. Will was startled by the sudden cold that passed over his lips. His first thought was that he had done something wrong. It was his fault. It was always his fault.

“Shall I give you your present now?” René asked, smiling. Will nodded, running his fingers through his hair. René reached into his pocket, and Will felt a strange, otherworldly fear flood his body. He was handed a small white box, and stared down at it, absently. “Go on.”

His voice was eager, and Will promised himself then, that no matter what it was, René would believe whole-heartedly that he loved it, because he deserved at least that much. He opened the box, and peered down at it. It was a silver pin in the shape of a raven, wings shooting out to either side. He took it up with trembling fingers, holding it close to his face.

“Why a raven?” he choked. A black bird tapped on the window. But he told himself it was only in his mind, no matter how real the voice seemed, as it screamed his name.

“They represent intelligence, creativity, and genius. And because it reminded me of you.”

“They also symbolise ill omens and death.” He laughed, because only he could possibly find his own death amusing. “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“You know, Will, not everything has to be so hopeless all the time.”

His throat tightened, and his eyes blurred. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He held René close and rested his head on his shoulder. He wondered how he could believe all those things he’d said—intelligent, creative, genius. How did he never once doubt himself? How did he never fear that they weren’t meant to be together? René Picardi never feared or doubted anything, because he had lived a life defined by certainty.

“You’re right,” he said, voice cracking. Somehow, tonight, it was easy to say. How could he lie in a moment like this? It would be cruel.

He pressed his face into René’s shirt, and began to cry. They stayed that way for a long time, until he could breathe again. And he thought to himself that this was it—he really did love him. They leaned their foreheads together, as the world came crashing down around them. The sky was falling, but it didn’t matter, because René was here, and he always would be.

ON MONDAY, HE walked into his first period, and sat down at his desk without a word. Something was different, though he didn’t know how he knew it. He looked down, and saw that his satchel was wide open. He leaned over and pushed his hand inside, realising with a start that it was filled with rubbish. The first thing he pulled out was a rotting wheel of Vieux Boulogne. Then came the decaying corpse of a skunk that had been run over, a cloth dripping with raw sewage, and broken shells of rotten eggs, together with a pair of sweaty, filthy underwear, a toilet brush, and a bottle of sour milk with a loose lid, which allowed the fluid inside to soak through the bottom of the bag, along with the gelatinous insides of the eggs. He leapt to his feet, lifted the satchel, and turned it over above the bin. Out came an untied shopping bag filled with used tampons and sanitary towels. The smell was unlike anything on earth.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at the hellspawn that had just come out of his satchel. He slammed his shoulder against the door and ran down the corridor, toward the toilets. He threw his bag into the sink, keeping it as far away from his body as possible, and turned on the tap, letting the blood and rot circle the drain.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, looking down at his satchel, which was slowly becoming a sopping mess of canvas and leather, but eventually he heard someone coming. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, and his heart raced. He felt high—but not the good kind. More like the manic kind.

He went tense, but it was only a stranger. He took one breath and then took off running, clutching one hand to his face. Will did not move, still frozen in place. According to the clock above the door, it was two minutes to bell. He took his satchel from beneath the water, wrung it out, and then hurried back to the classroom. He snatched up the rubbish bag, forcing down the urge to vomit, knotted it to seal off the smell, and then locked it in the supply closet with the keys from the teacher’s desk.

Maël and company arrived shortly after, with a crowd of followers. Will was sitting at his desk, satchel tucked under the chair, bouncing his leg up and down. Someone knocked him over the head with a book, while another pulled his satchel out and put it over his head. He gagged violently, but they did not remove it.

He heard, rather than saw Maël lean over and cough. “What the hell is that smell?” He snatched the hood off Will’s head and caught him by the chin. “Is that where you’ve been keeping that poor little kitten all these years? You know, that one you killed and tore apart? And I thought that dirty drug addict would be the one who made me sick?”

“Don’t talk about him li—”

Maël slapped him across the face. “No one asked you, you fucking queer. Now, either pull down your skirt and show us what you really are, or I’ll kick your teeth out.” Will pressed his lips together, glaring up at him. He folded his arms over his chest, and did not obey. Maël leaned in, with a blood-chilling grin. “That’s what I thought. You just signed your death warrant, Will Hargreaves.”

“You won’t really…” He trailed off, coming to the stone-cold realisation that perhaps Maël really was capable of taking a life. He certainly wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

“Now, we have places to be, but I’ll see you in the toilets after school. And if I don’t, I’ll hunt you down with my father’s pheasant rifle, and that really will be the end. Understood?”

He stared down at his hands, folded on the desk, in silence. The voices in his head were screaming at him not to give in. Slowly, he nodded.

BEFORE HE KNEW it, the day was ending, and before he could stop it, the clock ticked down, and it was over. He was so deeply disturbed by the fear that he couldn’t keep still for more than five seconds. He waited for the bell, then grabbed his bloody, stinking satchel, which he was carrying in a plastic shopping bag, and his books, which he held tightly to his chest with one arm. He looked back over his shoulder, searching the bodies flowing past for a familiar face, then pushed into the surge and disappeared. His stomach felt as though he’d been shot. He wondered momentarily if it was all the damage he’d done to it by vomiting up everything he ate, and then decided that if it was, it had chosen an inopportune moment to stir up trouble.

He suppressed the urge to run, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention, and instead made his way toward the front entrance, meaning to escape while there was still the chance of doing so. There was no time to be anything but afraid for his life, or to worry about what would happen tomorrow, when he woke up from the beating, still alive.

He hurried past the toilets, in the opposite direction. Then, turning the corner, he came abruptly face-to-face with Maël, who smiled and closed his fist round the collar of Will’s shirt.

“You’re going the wrong way, pretty boy.”

He marched him back the way he came, pulling him into the toilets, which had already been cleared by his mates. The window was open, and he could hear the screeching of children in the courtyard. Maël closed the door, then shut the window, as well. They were sealed in. No one could hear him shouting.

When he paused, Maël shoved him so hard that he collided face-first with the nearest wall. Will dropped his bags, and his books fell out of his grip, sliding across the floor. After that, something happened to the way sound echoed in the tiny room. It took on an ethereal weight, slamming into him, then out the other side.

The door rattled, and they both went suddenly still, eyes converging on the handle as it clicked first up, then down. When it opened, a boy stepped inside. He was tall, and that was all Will noticed. He watched in terror as the boy slipped in and closed the door. He put one hand behind his back, and the lock grated as it turned. Maël smiled at him, but the boy, Tristan, did not react, strolling forward with his hands in the pockets of his cardigan. His gaze met Will’s, but his eyes were black, bottomless, and utterly empty.

And that was where it began. Tristan stripped Will’s cardigan from his body and used it to bind his hands behind his back. He twisted his wrists, straining against the soft fabric, but it didn’t give. Even if it had, he didn’t know what he would’ve done. If it had been only Maël, he could’ve torn his cheek off with his teeth and walked away, but there were two of them. One would get a head-start, while he was preoccupied permanently disfiguring the other. A cold sweat coursed down every inch of his body.

A pair of hands clapped over his eyes, blinding him. He snapped his head back and forth, snarling like a rapid animal, and began to thrash, but not before he was given a sharp blow to the shins. He fell to his knees, hands clenched into fists. He tried to regain his feet, but they knocked him onto his back. The hands over his eyes were gone, but he kept them tightly closed, screaming like a psychotic patient.

Maël landed a swift kick to his teeth. A shockwave rippled through the floor, and a white light flashed in the darkness. With all his weight, he slapped against the floor, like a fish out of water. Pain pounded from his nose and mouth, and his vision stuttered in and out.

He’d never felt his heart beating so violently. He clenched his jaw until he felt the blood pulsing through every muscle of his face. Then it went numb. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and blood from his nose. His entire face was slick with heat. Blood ran into his eyes, and it was painfully bright.

After a while, he felt the fabric round his wrists loosening, and through the red shade, saw the silhouettes of legs. He was lying in a pool of blood. He turned over onto his stomach. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed he had this much to lose.

Will sat up on his hands and knees, gently touching his nose. It was still there, but broken, collapsed horrifically to one side. He coughed, and blood spattered across the floor. He dragged in a breath, for he could no longer use his nose for its intended purpose. The blood staining his shirt was thin and oily, and his cardigan was wet with it.

He lay down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He could see a reflection of himself hanging from it, or floating, like a ghost. The phantom’s eyes were thick, like jelly sweets, and its clothes hanging off its sparely built frame. Its lips were moving, slowly. It was speaking to him, but its voice was so low that he couldn’t understand it. It smiled sadly, with glistening red teeth, and then it was gone. Will turned onto his side and pressed his face against the tile.

The door opened, but he did not move. Someone must have overheard, and come to check on him, or to use the toilet. In the end, it was neither. It was Ramy.

He ran to Will, kneeling beside him. His hands found his shoulders, and gently turned him onto his back, guiding Will’s head to his lap.

“There’s blood everywhere. It looks like someone was murdered in here,” he said. “I can’t even tell where it’s coming from anymore. I mean, you’re drenched in it. Tell me where it hurts.”

“I… don’t know,” he gasped. “It hurts everywhere.”

“I saw Maël bring you in here, but when I tried to come in, the door was locked. I watched them leave. They were laughing, and there was blood all over their legs, but it wasn’t theirs. I didn’t know how bad they hurt you.” He put his arms beneath Will’s, and gently helped him into a sitting position. “Can you stand?”

He nodded, closing his eyes. He tried to smile, but his lips did not respond. He passed the back of his hand under his nose, and it came away dripping red. The pain was undoubtedly real, and only worse as time went on. He crawled onto his hands and knees and stood, head spinning. He found his cardigan and pulled it on, limping over to the sink. He turned on the tap, releasing a cool stream of water. He cupped his hands and washed the blood from his face and nose, before the adrenaline rush ended, and the pain came back in full force. He couldn’t imagine it hurting much worse than this—his face felt like it was splitting open, and he had a hand on both sides, pulling it further apart. His nose dripped into the running water, diluting the blood before it ran down the drain, disappearing forever.

“I know what it’s like,” Ramy said, as Will dried his face with a paper towel. “Before he died, my father used to hit me when he was angry. He never meant to—I mean, he never did it because he wanted to hurt me. He did it because I misbehaved… but it doesn’t change the fact that he did.” Will nodded, but said nothing. Ramy looked exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept in months, and perhaps he hadn’t. “What are we going to do about your clothes?”

Without looking at him, Will murmured: “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

He felt Ramy staring at his nose and mouth, and couldn’t imagine what he saw. “You don’t have to thank me. What are we going to do about your clothes? You can’t go home like this.”

“I’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay,” he said, holding on to Ramy’s arm as they stepped out the door, closing it behind them. “I reckon I ought to be going to A&E. I mean, just look at the state of my nose. Be a miracle if I ever breathe through it again.”

“Come on. I’ll drive you,” he offered, leading him away.

THAT NIGHT, THEY lay in Will’s bed, tucked up in his down comforter. Ramy was out cold, but Will was not. His body was heavy, and battered. He felt that he was going to be sick, but closing his eyes only made him more nauseous. His throat felt as though he were being strangled, hot and burning. It hurt just to breathe.

He had told Pierre, who was stunned by the bloodstains on his shirt, that he was hit by a man on a bicycle while they were walking home. Ramy had taken him to hospital, where they had cleaned and set his nose, stitched the cuts on his face, and bandaged the shallow ones. His nose throbbed, though the pain was nothing compared to what it had been at the beginning.

He went up to his room, to sleep it off. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He stripped off his bloody clothes, and went to throw them in the wash, but Pierre told him they were ruined, and so he surrendered them without further protest.

“At least it was a cyclist,” he sighed. “Can you imagine if it had been a car?”

“Maybe I’d have been lucky enough to die,” Will muttered.

Pierre ignored him, and said he’d take him to see the doctor in the morning, before school. But Will argued, and managed to convince him that it would be best if they went after, instead. Pierre went downstairs to ring the doctor’s office, leaving them alone.

As he lay in bed, a paltry heat rose in his stomach. It flooded his face, and then his mind. His nose was packed with rolled gauze, held together with long plaster strips across his cheeks. The surgeons had said it was a clean break—that the cartilage had been ripped halfway off the bone, but was still intact, and the bridge had broken in two along the fissure.

“We should get them back for this,” Ramy had said, before he fell asleep. “You could get them back. What’s stopping you?”

“They’d crack me in half if I tried to stand up to them.”

“Then let Thomas and I do it. We’ll kill them for you. Just say the word. We’re not scared of anything.”

“That’s not why I let them do it—and I do let it happen. The way I act is… Well, it’s the only way to respond to something like that.”

Ramy gritted his teeth. “But they shouldn’t have done it to begin with. It’s not fair, Will.”

“It’s not fair, but it’s right,” he whispered, and then turned over. He placed his hand to Ramy’s cheek, and found that it was slick with tears. “No, Ramy, don’t cry. Please.”

“I’m not.” He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, and then began to laugh. “All right, maybe I am. You know why they did this to you, don’t you? It’s because they’re afraid—of you, of me. People hate the things they can’t understand.” He leaned over, and brushed his thumb along Will’s bruised cheekbone. “But I like you just the way you are.”

HE WOKE BEFORE the dawn. Ramy was still asleep, splayed across the bed. He had stolen the blanket. As he put his feet out of bed, there was a new and strange sensation in the back of his head, and then blood trickled down his throat. He rushed to the bathroom, leaning over to spit it in the sink. He bent his head over the basin, and tried not to vomit as the trickle became a surge. He opened his mouth and let the blood run out, until it finally slowed. He waited a moment, letting the last of it drip from his lower lip, then pressed a tissue to his mouth. His hand was trembling.

He thought he heard rustling coming down the hallway, but when he popped his head out the door, there was no one there. Still holding the tissue to his face, he retreated into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. He thought about what it would be like if he could tell Pierre the truth—or, better yet, if he never had to leave the house again.

But he couldn’t stay, and he knew it. Ramy was out there, and he needed him. As he walked back to his room, he tried to remember what it was that Ramy had said to him the night before. It was all a blur of darkness and tears, but those words had a weight unlike anything on Earth, or in Heaven. He has so easily lost sight of what words could do, but they had taken him back in time, to where he had been before the fight.

Ramy had told him once that Will’s eyes were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. How could anyone look at him and be afraid?

And then he realised that not everyone was as thick in the head as Ramy Youssef. He had said that it wasn’t fair what happened to him, and Will had insisted that it was right, because it was. He’d done the unspeakable, and caused the unimaginable. No matter how bad it got, he deserved this, because he wasn’t innocent.

He was in a place unreachable by the light of solace and hope—that feeling that only came when he read Ramy’s notes, or walked home with him, or thought of him.

Closing his mind around that thought, he continued up the hallway, realising dimly that he had stopped in the middle. He stepped forward, then back to where he had been before. He stood there in his bare feet, which sank ever so slightly into the rug. He tried to breath, and found that it caught in his throat. That old, familiar pain bloomed in his nose as he continued on, this time turning the corner and walking out onto the gallery.

He turned his head up to the heavens, and looked at the sky. It was lavender at the top, and pale gold at the bottom, near the horizon. The clouds were bright along the bottoms. Whatever was left of the summer had faded, and he was standing in a winter world. He thought it all would disappear, but it didn’t.

Then the leaves shivered in the distance, and he smiled, because he knew at once what the rustling sound had been.

It was nature, calling out to him.