Curiosity killed the cat. That's how the saying goes.

Such as in third grade, when my mother and I had just moved into a new apartment unit. An old, withered thing I’m sure was on its last legs. That’s precisely why it was so inexpensive. No one wanted to live there.

Still, it was just perfect for us. We had neighbors around, not so friendly from what I recall. My mother had a special kind of resentment reserved for them. She always call them some names in Spanish, and since I didn’t want to be left out, I’d decided to do a little research.

Suffice to say, the first words I learned in Spanish were profanity.

That became the ace up my sleeve. In times of arguments or minor incidents, I would call the other students some derogatory term in Spanish. They never understood, and it gave me the upper hand. That was until my English teacher caught on. Who would have thought out of all the teachers, she would be the first to get a hint?

I got into a lot of trouble for that. My mother didn’t really care, though.

“Ms. Buenavista.”

I look up only to find the career counselor, who isn’t the least bit thrilled at having to snap me back to reality. I can’t believe I dissociated in the middle of our conversation. Hardly my fault, though. It was less a back and forth than it was a lecture.

“As I was saying,” The counselor continues, fixing her glasses. “There are a couple internships this upcoming summer, all that suit your interest. There’s one as an HR specialist. A bit competitive and without pay. Four days out of the week.”

Isn’t that just a fancy way of describing slavery? I need money in my pocket, not hopes and dreams.

“Anything else?” I ask her, and she tends to her computer for more minutes to come. Didn’t she mention there being a couple available? Perhaps they’re all without pay. What an intense level of greediness.

Finally, the counselor pauses, studying some detail on her screen. I hope it’s something reasonable, or I might just end up going to prison. I hear there’s free healthcare and food in there.

“I found one for an admin assistant. Begins May and ends August. And there’s salary compensation.”

So no orange jumpsuit after all. Great. The counselor prints out a couple pages containing more details on the internship and company. All this requirement for a mere eighteen dollars an hour. I’m surprised they don’t require an ancestry DNA test.

But a job is a job, and right now my options are extremely limited. I leave the office with a new sense of direction, and yet with little satisfaction.

___

With it being a Friday, there are hardly any students in class. It’s the perfect day to start unwinding for the weekend. That hardly ever applies to me, however. A job that requires my attention from five to twelve P.M, and a life with nothing interesting enough to occupy the weekends.

Since the café closes down on Saturdays and Sundays, I get to have some time to myself. Sometimes I share my time with Jenny and some friends of hers. Other times I order in and waste away under my bed. Not sure which option I'm going with this weekend.

I'm by the Eagle fountain in search of Jenny when I spot her in the near distance, chatting with some guy. Probably a friend of hers. Or another one of her options. I’ve begun losing count.

But then I see exactly who it is, and my heart flips. It’s the guy from that night, the one I bumped into and was certain I’d never see again. He’s right in front of me, and he’s talking to Jenny.

I wish I knew what their conversation was about. I wish I were there with them, laughing and smiling at some nonsensical gossip. I wish I were half as outgoing as Jenny.

That’s all I ever seem to do. Wish.

I wish I were bold enough to at least talk to him.

My heart has grown a bit too heavy for me to carry, and my throat seems to no longer be placid, but rather lumpy. Because without even realizing, I’d begun hoping they were nothing more than friends.

Their conversation flows for another couple minutes until they go their separate ways. That’s when Jenny spots me and waves, trying to get my attention. If only she knew my attention has been hers for minutes.

Still, I smile and wave back, and soon we’re on our way towards the library. She needs a book checked out and I have an assignment ready for printing.

I don’t mean to dawdle so much, but my mind won’t rest at ease. So I decide to make a conversation out of it. “You know that guy?”

Jenny pauses, thinking. Until she realizes who I’m talking about. “You mean Shane? Yeah, why?”

So that’s his name. In a better world, I would have asked him that question myself.

I give off a sigh and shake my head. “Nothing.”

Jenny, however, doesn’t let it go. She stops and looks me straight in the eye. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

She pinches my cheeks, laughing. “You’re totally crushing on him.”

“Am not.” I swat her hand away. But the fact that my voice is shaky has already given me away. This is typically how it goes. Jenny finds out I have a crush, I deny it, she offers me help, I gladly accept. And then I’m met with disappointing news.

“If you want, I can talk to him for you.” Jenny says as we enter the library.

A tempting offer, but with all the rejection I’ve received since starting at this university, I’ve begun learning my lesson. Don’t ever let a guy know you’re into him. It makes for the perfect disaster if you do.

“It’s okay,” I tell Jenny. “Plus, I’m not sure I’ll see him again anyway.”

“Sure, you will. We’re having a little kickback tomorrow at Lisa’s place. He’ll be there, so come with me.”

This sounds like the perfect opportunity, and yet I find myself nervous. But this is the chance I need to take a leap. Make the first move – by myself and not with Jenny’s help. The idea sounds terrifying, but I’ll try my best. It’s just talking anyway, not confessing the fact that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since we bumped into each other.

Yeah, this should be easy.

“Okay,” I tell Jenny. “But only because you’re going.”

She smiles and releases something along the lines of a squeal. I can’t help but be excited as well. Terrified, but excited. Isn’t that what life is all about?

___

Later that day, a couple hours before work, I hole myself up in the student lounge, carrying out a top secret research on my computer.

It’s been killing me, Colt’s past. His confession to murdering his own parents. His own blood. I hate that his influence has traveled so far as to push me to these lengths. Or maybe this is all me. Maybe it’s my own obsession spurred from my own curiosity.

It doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m already entangled in this mess.

I input in a couple valid searches, starting off with Colt’s name, hoping something coherent pops up. There’s nothing much besides a couple headlines about football. He pops up on the school’s front page as well, but nothing else. Nothing useful.

But I keep scrolling, determined to find something, anything. Until I wander upon the first clue: Colt’s parents. Mrs. Sarah Bradshaw and Mrs. Cynthia Bradshaw. I do a bit more researching on them, trying to dig up any information about their adoption.

And that’s when I finally hit the jackpot, on Cynthia Bradshaw’s career profile. Apparently, she was a journalist, a very fine one at that. There’s a brief statement about her adoption, and in it lists Colt’s name. His previous name. Colt Whitaker.

There are much better headlines under that name search, especially the first one.

“Santa Barbara house fire leaves behind devastation.”

I don’t have time to be lost amidst my own bewilderment. I dig into the article immediately, where I learn the truth about Colt’s parents.

And it turns out that they died in a fire, charred down to their bones. The article dates back fourteen years ago. Meaning Colt would have been seven.

How could he have managed such a feat at that age? Unless he was lying about killing his parents. But why would he choose to do that? What does he gain from it? Who the hell is Colt Bradshaw?

This time, I do go searching for Colt, and I find him at the Jove Diner, the favorite spot for all students to hang. But with it being a Friday, the place is far more deserted than it is busy.

He’s by the window booth at the very back, enjoying some meal. Peacefully. I sweep up my disgust. Peace does not suit him. Not in the slightest.

I take a seat across from him and get right down to business. “Your biological parents died in a fire. Why did you admit to killing them?”

He looks at me with those dead eyes of his, the ones that have no soul. Then he looks down at his meal, which is just pasta and tomato sauce. Talk about bland. But then again, that’s right on brand with him. Empty and dull.

“You sure are persistent,” He finally says, playing with his food. “What are you, in love with me?”

I let the insult slide. “It says it here, on this news site.” I present my phone so he can see. “Fourteen years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker died in a devastating fire. Those were your parents, weren’t they? You were the only survivor.”

Again, he says nothing. I wish I could get a look, even just a peak, at what exactly goes on inside his head. He’s managed to build a wall far sturdier than steel that prevents me from doing so.

Then finally, he asks, “Do you know how to combat a fire?”

I shake my head, just to humor him. But he doesn’t provide me with the correct answer. He, instead, returns back to his meal, eating one forkful at a time, careful enough to not allow the sauce stain his attire.

This was useless after all. I’m not even sure why I thought this was a good idea. At the end of the day, Colt Bradshaw will remain just that. A soulless murderer.

Just as I gather myself to leave, Colt continues the conversation. “Humans are so easy,” He starts. “You give them what they want and they bend at your will. It’s honestly a bit sad.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I let him continue. “The group home was always loud. I could hardly ever hear myself think in the middle of all the grappling. But then a family showed up for me, the first since the fire incident. It was much more quiet after that. Much more peaceful.”

He takes some time, gathering the left-over spaghetti in the middle of the plate. “But then they had me returned, after a month only. Couldn’t figure out why. Same thing happened with the second family. It was out of the blue. Never lasted long with either one of them.”

I had no idea it was that easy choosing and returning foster kids. It’s a bit flawed and saddening, that they would be treated like seasonal clothes. Bought with love and cast aside when the excitement is gone.

“So I tried something different with the third,” Colt continues. “I tried smiling, laughing, hugging them. And they kept me. Just like that. I never knew it was that easy.”

So that really is the real Colt Bradshaw. Unfeeling. Empty. I begin shaking my head. “You really are soulless. That’s so sad.”

Colt doesn’t respond, and I don’t want him to. Let him sit with the truth. Let him simmer in it. Although, I’m quite sure he’s already done so. He knows who he is, what he’s made of. That’s exactly why he keeps it from everyone else.

With his head against his palm, Colt picks up the fork and places it against my collarbone. I feel it cold and wet, even as he drags the fork down my bare chest, slowly, until it sits inside my cleavage. There’s something else besides emptiness in his eyes now. But I can’t tell what it is.

"You realize you're digging your own grave,” he tells me, still staring at the fork. At my cleavage. “You know more than enough to make you a liability. What if I got rid of you right here?"

I’ve thought about it, that my actions could have consequences. That my probing could lead me to danger. But I’ve also figured something out. Something peculiar about Colt.

“You won’t kill me.” I tell him, trying to mask my uneasiness.

He smiles at me. “And what If I do?”

“Then you risk losing the only person who’s ever known the real you.”

He goes quiet, and I feel the slightest sense of victory at having made him speechless.

“That’s your goal here, isn’t it?” I continue, taking the fork away from him. “You want an outlet, a companion. You want a safety valve.”

With all the plans to make me another victim, it made little sense why he spared me. And I find it very difficult to believe that he did so out of the goodness of his heart. But living a double life is no easy task. It must take a great load of energy.

Hence why he needs me.

“One thing is for certain, Colt," I lay the fork down. "I’ll never be who you want me to be.” Then I take my leave. Work starts in twenty minutes.

Those who sympathize with murderers are others like themselves, callous and ruthless. Soulless and heartless. Or those who are insane.