Page 5 of Creatures Like Us
Everyone is busy with the fireworks, the parties, the resolutions, the countdowns.
And I’m busy dying.
Let’s see. I waited too long, so most of the fireworks have fizzled out. It’s two o’clock already, later than I planned. At this time, people will be going home, drunk and happy and stumbling, which means I have to hurry. I’d rather they not hear me, and I’d rather they not see me.
As I walk through the community park with my hunting rifle on my back, I let my gaze slide over the kids’ playground and the array of trees lining the gravel path. I’ve always enjoyed this park. Always enjoyed watching the joggers and the parents and the children and listening to the birds chirp in the sun.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.
In the distance, I hear the thump of music from that run-down house that always hosts parties on Fridays. Ghastly techno that rattles around in your skull and makes you feel sick, if you didn’t feel sick already from all those people surrounding you. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to any parties—not that I’d ever be invited. Not that I’d even want to go.
I pass an alleyway by a side street, leading into a small thatch of greenery. There’s a pile of snow here and a single lamppost, shining a light on a lonely figure: a young man, whose dark clothing stands out against the whiteness of the snow.
Hm. He must have stumbled out here drunk from the party and fallen asleep. He’s got his arm slung over his face, and what I can see of his skin is pale, a shifting blue.
I tap his shoulder. “Hey.”
No reply. He doesn’t even stir. Not good. He’s been here too long already.
“Hey,” I say again, patting him harder.
He rolls out of the snow—a sluggish mass of thin limbs and curly blond hair—and lands on the side of the road. He’s wearing an oversize red-and-black striped sweater with more holes than his ripped black jeans, and from what I can see of his face, he looks about my age. Maybe a year or two younger.
I hear the music still, from that party. I could carry him inside and let those people take care of him, but what good would that do? It’s thanks to them he’s out here in the first place.
I cup his face in my hands. He’s freezing. Like a statue of ice. As if he’s about to become one with the snow and only be discovered in spring when his body thaws. In these temperatures, he’ll perish quickly.
I can’t let that happen.
I was supposed to have other plans tonight—I was supposed to sink into nothingness and forget about the world—but it seems I have one more duty to fulfill.
I can always kill myself tomorrow, I guess.
I don’t meet a soul on my short journey home. Even if I did, I could just pretend I have a drunk friend slung over my shoulder, which I do, even if he’s not exactly a friend. Either way, I’d rather avoid interactions with the people of this neighborhood if I can help it.
My boots creak against the patio as I unlock the door and lift my quarry inside. I carry him into the living room and set him down in front of the fireplace.
Even when I wrap him in blankets and light a fire, he doesn’t wake up. Strange. He mumbles something unintelligible now and again, but other than that, he’s unresponsive.
Searching through his pockets, I come up with a small ziplock bag filled with specks of brown powder, along with a syringe. Hiking up the sleeve of his sweater, I find the needle marks dotted in the crook of his arm. That explains it.
My long black hair falls in front of my face while I go through his pockets. A phone, a wallet. His ID tells me his name is Asher Dalton. The surname makes me do a double take, and I file the information away in the back of my mind.
I could have used some Narcan. If he’s overdosed, he can stop breathing, so I make sure to check his mouth and chest from time to time. Still breathing. Still alive. Maybe I should call 911, but this feels like my responsibility now.Hefeels like my responsibility now.
His head lolls, and his fluffy blond locks tumble over his face. When he wakes up, he’ll be disoriented and scared. Most people are scared when they first catch sight of me, but to avoid that particular issue, there is not much I can do.
All I can hope is that he will wake up, and that when he does, he won’t hate me for what I plan to do.
Chapter 3
Asher
Iwakeuptomy whole body burning.
Fuck, why does it hurt so much? I’m supposed to be high; I’m not supposed to hurt.
I put my hand up to my face. I’m hot, uncomfortably so, but I’m burning at the same time, like when you’ve neglected to wear gloves in the winter cold and wash your hands in scalding-hot water when you get home. That icy burn. That ache.
