Keith’s Perspective
I barely knew Lance McLain, but already, a simmering resentment had taken root. It wasn’t a deep hatred, not yet, but a prickly annoyance that intensified with every passing moment. It worsened when he cranked his music to deafening levels and then, inevitably, drifted off to sleep, the bass thrumming through the room.
Evening was bleeding into night, and the only illumination came from the windows. I pushed myself up, silencing the music and drawing back the curtains, letting the last vestiges of daylight flood the space. Darkness wasn’t just a lack of light; it was a suffocating void, and I instinctively recoiled from it.
Lance stirred, yawning. “Why’d you push back the curtains?”
“Because I can,” I replied, the words clipped and defensive. It wasn't a particularly insightful response, but I wasn't offering explanations. He had no right to question my motives.
He reached out and pulled the curtains closed. I immediately rose again, throwing them open.
“Dude,” he frowned, “how are we supposed to sleep with light flooding in?”
“Find a way. I’m not sleeping in complete darkness.”
“Why would you—oh. You’re afraid of the dark.” Lance scoffed, the sound grating. “That’s dumb.”
“Just like your face,” I muttered, retreating back into the tangled mess of my blankets.
I turned over, eyes closed, and sleep came swiftly, pulling me under a blanket of exhaustion.
***
I sat huddled in a pitch-black closet, arms wrapped tight around my knees. Silence pressed in around me, thick and almost…calming.
Until the scream tore through it.
It was a raw, animalistic sound, laced with pure terror, reverberating through my skull, repeating itself on loop. The sound was unforgettable. It was a shard of ice in my chest.
A slow drip, drip, drip began under the door. The liquid was warm and sticky, smelling acrid and metallic, like old blood. It pooled on the floor.
***
Lance’s Perspective
I shook Keith gently, trying to rouse him.
He opened his eyes, a glare already forming. “What are you doing?”
“Waking you up,” I said, matter-of-factly. “You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“Oh.” Keith didn’t bother with a thank you. Rude.
He crawled out of bed and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. He looked…good. Messed up, but good. The way his dark hair fell across his violet eyes, eyes that always seemed lit from within, ignited with some hidden fire. It was…absolutely adorable.
“Well, move out of the way, I gotta get ready for class.” I blushed, realizing I'd been staring. I shifted my weight, moving out of his path.
Ten minutes later, he emerged from the washroom, fully dressed in black.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “it’s kinda ironic that you’re scared of the dark but dress in all black.”
“First of all, I don’t *fear* the dark, I simply dislike it. And second, black clothes help me blend in.”
“No they don’t, they just make you look emo.”
He rolled his eyes. “Frankly, I don’t care what anyone thinks.” He was already heading for the door. “I’m leaving now.”
“Hey, could you wait for me? We have history first period together.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“Pretty *please*, with cherries on top?”
“UGH, FINE. Hurry up, you have five minutes.”
“Yay! Thank you, Keithy!”
“You call me that again and I’m leaving on my own.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t.”