Fan Fiction ❯ 12:34 AM ❯ 12:34 AM ( Chapter 1 )

12:34 AM

 

Violet Dragon

 

If I were to die, I would want the most horrible, excruciating death so that when my body was finally lifeless, my soul would be in a pure state of elation. I believe in that... the soul moving on when the body dies. This belief of mine comes into quite a bit of conflict with others who think that the body and soul are one. I tried cutting myself once, but I was too cowardly—well, not in particular, but it was just too painful for me. I can't hurt my body like that, apparently. I wore long sleeves for a while that summer.

 

It is wintertime right now, my absolute favorite season. I can stand out on my deck for hours on end with only boxers on. The chill of the snow and air in winter is the only thing that makes me feel alive, like a drug. My skin would go completely numb, which for me is complete ecstasy. I go on walks quite often, and for some reason never get sick from the cold. Well, they do say that more people get sick in the winter since they tend to not go outside.

 

My clock on the wall read eleven thirty p.m. Usually no one was out in the park at that time of night. So far I hadn't been attacked there, which was a fear and hope of mine.

 

Snow was freshly cascading from the clouds, the innocent white specks covering every inch of the loud city. A full moon shined light down, illuminating the already bright snow. It was painfully beautiful, one of the rare moments in which I believed in life. I always wanted, as silly as it is, to be like the moon. It was pure and simple, only showing itself at night when most people were sleeping, and not even the sun could touch it.

 

“It's rather late to be walking alone in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”

 

I whipped around, my movements jerky and stiff as always, with a bout of fear invading my gut. I slipped a shaking hand into one of my pockets. “It's the park,” I replied, my voice steady, “not the `middle of nowhere'.”

 

I got a good look at the stranger. He was maybe ten years older than me, tall and thin, handsome, dark, strong. He looked like a superhero.

 

He snorted flippantly, and tousled his dark brown hair. “Aren't you cold in only a shirt? It's fifteen bloody degrees out.”

 

“No.” I replied shortly. “Please leave me be. Piss off. Understand what I'm saying?” My insults were pathetic, but when you're terrified, you don't really care.

“No.” He mocked me with an imitation of my own reply. “I'm Andrew, what's yours?” He held out his hand, smiling cordially.

 

I stared at it, and without realizing had a look of disgust written all over my face. “Andrew is a faggot's name,” I said venomously. I stepped two feet closer to him, still intensely afraid, and pulled my switchblade out of my pocket. “Leave me the hell alone.”

 

His grin left his mouth. “That's not funny. I'm not going to attack you, I just want to meet some people, you know.” He walked away.

 

I let out my breath, and closed the knife. I swore inwardly, wondering why I was so tense, reflecting upon my previous insults, which were like a small dog's tiny bark. The man seemed harmless, and heroic. He wasn't a psycho, just a good man. It didn't matter though, I wouldn't see him again most likely. I walked home quickly, and when I arrived, it was twelve twenty-one a.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next night, I again went out on a walk at eleven thirty p.m. I stopped by the playground this time, seemingly without distractions. My fingers lingered on a swing hung by old chains, and I sat on it, slightly swaying. The stars were out tonight, the sky being clearer than the other night. I breathed in the cool air and slowly exhaled, picking out constellations in the dark sky.

 

“Are you going to pull a blade on me again if I try to talk to you?” The same strong voice from the previous night spoke from behind me again.

 

“Shit, why are you talking to me?” I faced him, a little less afraid this night. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

 

He held up his hands as if surrendering to me. “Whoa, stop,” He said, seeing my hand move to my back pocket, “I know what you said. I just moved here, you see. I always go on walks this time of night, back where I was from. Except here, it's much more easy to get stabbed by a stranger. We have something in common, see? I'd really prefer that you not open up my guts. Your eyes fascinate me, you see.”

 

I stared at him, feeling my jaw drop. My eyes… fascinated him? “Who the hell do you think you are? I'm not a faggot, you freak.”

 

“Neither am I. I'm simply one who is appreciatory of beauty. I want to be friends with you.” He smiled softly.

 

“No. Never. I'll cut you up if you approach me again. Okay?” I walked away as fast as I could.

 

When I got home, slamming the door behind me, locking it with a shaking hand, my clock read twelve twenty-five a.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next night I left at about eleven thirty-four p.m. That night it was cloudy and about eight degrees Fahrenheit. The clouds were gray and wispy, hiding the bright stars and dark blue night sky. This time I wore gloves, as it was chillier, and my hands tended to get more cold.

 

“Hey!” I heard footsteps coming up behind me rapidly. It was Andrew again, I knew of course. “Hey,” he was out of breath, clutching something to his chest. “I know you said not to both you ever again, and I totally respect that, but I have something special for you.”

 

I frowned testily, but my curiosity had always had a rather strong pull to it. “What is it?” I asked.

 

He smiled toothily, pulling something from inside his coat, a small bundle. He pulled a corner of the bundled blanket down, revealing a tiny, pathetic-looking gray kitten. “I found him a couple of days ago, but, my apartment doesn't allow pets, and my roommate is allergic anyways. You're the only person here that I know… so… I didn't want to give him to a pound or whatever. Take care of him for me?” His face pleaded. “He's really beaten up, so he needs a lot of love. With your charms, I think he'll get along with you really well—” (I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic,) “—and I think he was abused and ran away from home. He's pretty brave, huh? At least, I think it's a he. I guess we'll have to wait and see `til he's older.”

 

I sighed heavily, frowning angrily at him. “Fine,” I threw my hands up, “Whatever, I'll do it if you want.” I snatched the tiny little mewling object from his arms, and wrapped my scarf around it.

 

“Thank you so much!” He smiled happily, almost hugging me and then realizing what he was about to do.

 

“I mean it, don't come near me again. If you do, I'll gut you.” I gave the usual threat, and stalked off.

 

“What's your name?” he called after me.

 

“Piss off!” I yelled back.

~~~~~~~~~~

I named the kitten Meatloaf, since it ate the substance so fondly. He threw up afterward, however, and so now I only gave him cat food to eat. It felt good to bathe it, brush it, feed it… I liked taking care of the little thing.

 

As usual, I went out for a walk. Meatloaf was sleeping contently on my scarf, which I had become accustomed to not wearing any longer. As usual, Andrew was there in the park. I had even gone to take another pathway in the park to avoid another possible confrontation, but fate seemed to bring us together once again. He was sitting on a park bench, and this time around I approached him.

 

“Aren't you afraid of dying,” I said.

 

He smiled, brushing hair out of his face. “No, but I'm afraid that it'll be painful.” He sat there uncomfortably, and went on, “I just want to get to know you.”

 

“No, you don't. You wouldn't like me. Believe me.”

 

“I like you right now. Why don't you let me decide?”

 

“I'm a twisted human being,” I tried to convince him, “I'm morbid! Stay away from me, I'm trouble!” I couldn't help but to smirk a little at my own dramatics, which I had always been—dramatic, that is. No longer deathly afraid of this man, I decided to sit down on the bench beside him.

 

“Just give me a chance,” he laughed, and scooted closer to me. “Have lunch with me sometime.”

 

I didn't back away. “I… don't know. I'm not gay, you know.”

 

“Neither am I.” He looked at me weirdly, as if wondering why in heaven's name I kept saying this. “Here,” he handed me a pen, “write your number on my hand.”

 

I hesitated to take it, the pen lingering in his fingers. I took it quickly, and wrote my number inside his warm palm.

 

“Your hands are deathly cold. Wear a coat and gloves or something.” He shivered.

 

“No,” I shook my head.

 

He laughed, his joy painfully infectious. “I'll call you later. What's your name?”

 

“Tavish,” I replied.

 

When I got home, my clock on the wall read 12:34 a.m.