"Hey."

"Hey."

It was awkward, the meeting, that is. Unplanned, unexpected. Neither of them knew what to do as they stood in the middle of the hallway, thin carpet smushed down under the soles of their shoes. They could hardly look at one another, their past hanging in the air between them. They couldn't move, it was like time was frozen. It had been years, seeing one another was like seeing a ghost. Unnatural.

"Uh.." he began to speak, trying to leave by going around the other boy. This encounter was too weird, it was too soon. The wounds were still too fresh, he couldn't. "I should probably get going-"

The other boy gripped his arm tightly out of nowhere, startling him as he turned, silently judging if he needed to scream for the help of his neighbors. The desperation in the boy with the tight grip was blatantly obvious.

"I'm sorry."

————————

Tyler Wilde expected better for himself. He followed the rules, mostly, was polite, to most people, got average grades, for a good portion of the school year. Like other kids, he had goals, dreams, aspirations.

His spiral into darkness began with an essay. A single assignment given to him in English class.

What is guilt, exactly?

————————

"Why did you do that?" He looked at himself in the mirror, the door left open since he was the only one who was home. His parents were on a date, or something of that nature. The teen looked himself over in disbelief. "Why did you do that?" He repeats the question, gripping the edges of the bathroom counter.

Earlier, when he had confronted Evan at his locker and created the whole bet, he hadn't felt what he was feeling now. Then, he had felt confident and clever since getting Evan to agree to the bet was the first step in Tyler's grand plan. The plan to make sure Evan was over whatever he had for Jonathan.

Tyler had known about his friend's crush for about a year, now. It wasn't hard to catch on, after following Evan one day after they arrived at school at promptly 7:13 AM. As usual, Evan hurried off somewhere for a few minutes, but this time, Tyler's curiosity got the better of him. He had to know where his friend was running off to every morning, where he had been running to everyday since freshman year.

He saw the way Evan looked at Jonathan as he passed by with his friend, Luke. He saw the way Evan's gaze followed the two boys as they disappeared into the sea of the student body. He saw the small frown appear on Evan's face once he realized he could no longer see him.

It was a weird experience for Tyler. He had never thought of Evan as the type to hold those kind of feelings for someone, especially not Jonathan, who the two had known since elementary. Another thing he noticed, as he quickly ran back to where his friends were, was that he felt something other than surprise. He had never felt it before, but it must have had something to do with Evan. Because he liked Jonathan....instead of him.

Suddenly, all of Evan's behaviors that Tyler had always found weird but seemed to make sense. Evan was always trying to get a glimpse at Jonathan, ever since the day the two had been lab partners.

Tyler's stomach had twisted as he realized all of this. He was glad his best friend had found someone, but on the other hand, he hated it. What did Jonathan have that Tyler didn't? What was it about him that fascinated Evan, that caught hold of his attention for so many years? Why couldn't it be him?

———————

Sadness made his body feel like it was made of lead as he went through the motions of confessing. After having his breakdown during the interrogation he gave in, spilling everything that had happened but the only thing he could focus on was how he would never see Evan again. Whether he confessed or not, Evan wouldn't be there. So, he told the officers everything.

It's not like he could have lied, they had proof of his crime. How he had taken advantage of Evan's heartbreak. The heartbreak he had caused him. He just wanted Evan to love him, but he didn't. Now, with Evan gone, Tyler felt sad, empty, almost.

That feeling, was that guilt? It was nothing like what he had wrote in his essay.

———————

Interesting fact about guilt: I'm not quite sure what it feels like. Is it supposed to feel like a black hole ripping through you constantly, or like you stubbed your toe on a coffee table everyday of your life?

I mean, I'm not guilt-free, per say. There are some things I should be guilty about, but, I just don't know what it feels like. Like that part of my brain is just shut off. Is that why I do the things that I do, then? Without much thought, feeling, or anything that may have some chance, even if it's small, from stopping me from doing what I do?

Maybe I won't know I'm guilty if I never confess to what I've done. If I keep everything bottled up inside my head, maybe it would have never existed at all. If I don't admit to it, I can't possibly feel it. You can't believe in something if you don't feel it, can you? I can't believe in feeling if I've never experienced, right?

How can you feel if you never let your emotions show? Just keep them inside.

No one will know if you're angry, sad, happy, anything, really. Not even yourself. Because not even you knows what it feels like to not feel anything, so it's like nothing's wrong. Because I'm not sure what wrong is.

Unless.

It's the feeling I felt when I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him so that he could know he wasn't alone. That I was there for him. I'm always there. A warm feeling spread throughout the whole of my chest, but there was still a hollowness about me. Something in me was telling me it was wrong, the whole thing was wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Is that guilt? Is that what it feels like?

Because I feel that all the time. Especially around him.

———————

He stood at the gates, the ones he had seen in movies and television shows before he knew he'd be standing in front of one. It was surreal, being able to step on free grounds once again. He carried a ziplock bag that held the possessions that had been on his person. It wasn't much, considering he had been practically dragged out of his bed, but at least his phone was there.

He had to stifle some laughter at the thought of him choosing to grab his phone instead of trying to escape the cops. Either way, he wouldn't have his phone, but it somehow made sense in his head for him to grab his phone. He was going to jail, but at least he took his phone down with him, right?

Tires screeched against the asphalt, jolting Tyler away from his phone-filled thoughts. The device was probably dead, anyway.

"Hey, jailbird, come on." The accented man called out to Tyler from the car. A smile lit up the newly free boy's face as he saw one the man in the car. It was someone he hadn't seen for a few months (his sentence was a few months shorter than Tyler's) and it was honestly surprising to see him come back to this place willingly. Tyler rushed over to the car with his bag. "You look good, kid."

"Feel even better." His words made him feel wrong.

———————

He ran his hands along the shelf, feeling everything that was on it in perfect detail, every picture and who was in it, every figure and the reason he had put it there. Dust collected on his fingertips, leaving clean lines behind so he could clearly see the items he had touched. He hadn't seen all these things in so long that he almost forgot that they were there, that he ever had a room to keep these things in.

In the middle was the largest photo on the shelf, everyone was there. His friends: all his friends were there. Stood in a line with smiles on their young faces. He focused on the boy besides him in the photo primarily, taking note of how happy he looked as he posed, surrounded by everyone. It was a simpler time; a time of freedom and sleepovers and pizza and actually enjoying one another's company. A time of truth and trust. It was a photo from middle school, of course. Where he was happiest, surprisingly. He smiled at the photo, saddened by those lost times.

Next, he stumbled upon a photo of him with his parents, and it hurt him to look at it. Physical hurt, because of how happy they looked, how proud they looked to be standing next to their son. His head tilted, hands gripping their hands so tightly he was surprised their faces weren't scrunched up in pain. He was hurt by the sight, it was so innocent, so care free.

"What do you think of me now?" He whispered to the photo, fingertips running down the smooth and cold glass, over his parents' smiling faces, then over his own face. Tears welled in the outer corners of his eyes. "Are you still proud of me? What do you think of me now?" He wondered aloud. It was a genuine question that he was scared to actually ask them.

What did they think of him now? Did they wonder what ever happened to the boy in this photo, who smiled so easily and who had friends he would do everything with? Did they still recognize this boy, who hid gaze from them when addressed, who slumped his shoulders as he walked and hardly spoke a word? Do they wonder if they were the ones who did something wrong? Maybe they raised him wrong or didn't ask his doctors enough questions, maybe there was more they should've done... maybe they were just bad parents. Did they think those things?

Maybe they knew all along. Maybe they saw the signs, but didn't want to admit that there was something wrong with him, no parent ever does. Maybe they knew... but they thought they could fix him.

Or, maybe no one knew. Maybe he was so good at hiding things no one ever knew anything would happen. He smiled, not as easily as before, but he smiled, wide and made sure to show all his teeth. That's how people know it's real, right? What did they think of those smiles?

What did he think of them?

He continued to move his fingers across the shelf, feeling everything as he tried to push the questions he had for his parents out of his head. He shouldn't dwell on them, it would only make things worse. He'd only be inclined to ask them, which would only result in what he knew would be bad results.

They'd tell him they're not mad, they're just shocked, they would've never expected things like this to happen. They'd avoid the question well enough for him to forget what he even asked and instead just focus on their answer. They wouldn't want him to dwell on it either, they'd want him to move on.

He scooped a few coins off the shelf, intending to put them away in his coin bank as his thoughts continued to wander.

That's what kept him from asking. Because they'd encourage him, tell him it's okay. They'd lie to him, through their teeth and to his face, they'd lie. Tell him it's alright when it isn't. Tell him things are fine when they aren't. Tell him he can still fix it when he can't.

He dropped the coins through the slot at the top of the coin bank, listening to the jingle as they fell on top of the other coins he had stored in there. One after another, they fell and hit one another with a small clang, the sound gave him something else to focus on, but his mind kept wandering back.

———————

Is it okay, to admit to yourself that you're a monster? That you aren't wired correctly, that something is wrong with you and you are destined to do terrible things even though they make you feel horrible. That you push down your emotions because you don't want to feel them, because having a soul hurts too much. Is it okay to say you like the way you hurt other people? Is it okay that you want to ruin the people around you because then you can keep them close? Is it okay to make them trust you, to believe you, to follow you? Is it okay if you make them just like you?

Can you make them monsters, too?

———————

I felt guilt today. Or, at least I think I did. I was with him again, which was weird, since I think he's been avoiding me. Ever since that night, he won't look at me anymore, but I wish he did. I miss him.

He wasn't happy, he never is these days. I wish he was, he has a wonderful smile, it can light up a room. But, today was different. Today, he was shaking and looked scared. Today he smacked me across the face and told me that he hated me, then he hid his face from me like I was going to hit him. I didn't, I would never want to hurt him. Everyone else walked in a little later, but I didn't want them to, I still needed to talk to him, but he'll never let that happen. Not again.

I wonder what he thinks of himself, if he knows how wonderful he really is. I wanna know what he thinks of when he stares off into space, or when we're in math class and he suddenly drops his red pen like it's poison. I wonder if he knows I think of him all the time. I wonder what the others think, I wonder what they know. Do they know what I did? Do they care what happened to us? Do they even notice a difference?

Maybe they don't know, maybe this whole thing is one big secret, and maybe that's why I felt wrong. Maybe that's why I felt guilty, if that's what I actually felt, I really don't know anymore.  He probably doesn't know, either. I don't think anyone knows anything, if I'm honest.

Well, that's a lie. I know one thing. Actually, it's more of a theory, but I want to know something so badly I'll state it as a fact.

He's a monster, too. He has to be, how else can he act like he does? Like nothing is wrong? He's like me too, we're like each other, but I don't think he knows it. I felt like that once too. It's a hard concept to grasp at first, but soon he'll catch on. Because we're connected, we always have been, that's why I love him. That's why we're destined to be together, even if he doesn't love me now, he will, eventually.

With that, I'll end this entry with a simple question. I remember better when I write my internal questions, it gets the gears in my brain going. Does he do that, too? Anyway, on to my question.

Can you make someone love you?

———————

You don't know me, but I know you. I know you very well, but you still don't know me. I've met you but you will never meet me, because that's not how this agreement works.

I make you tick, make sure you know how to function. Can you guess my identity yet?

You don't feel me, but I don't take it personally. You can't feel anything. You're welcome.

Maybe you recognize me now. Maybe you don't. Just know I'm just like you, hell, one could even say that I am you, but I won't take it that far. We're two separate entities, but you don't know I exist, because I won't let you. You're not supposed to know me, you're supposed to feel me.

There are others like me. You know that, but you don't know who they are either, but they're like you, too. There are many people like you. I know them, but they don't know themselves.

He's like you, too. You're like each other.

Monsters.

Unknown monsters.