When I first had laid my eyes on him, in all his oddly dressed, bandaged glory, my first take on his character was honestly stereotyped. He was a loner, I thought. He was the kid who would sit by himself on a table for four in a dark corner of the cafeteria, the musty smell of old books emanating from his very person.

He was the kind of kid to write his suicidal thoughts on a themed journal of the sort; I had mused to myself more often than not.

All my days on this planet, I have never been wrong about people's attitudes. I was an expert in reading the flaws and capabilities of a person, determining their worst points within the span of twenty-four hours at most. I could take good guesses on their skills at the sound of their names, with a flick of their wrists, with the way they held a pen. Knowing people had become some sort of involuntary action for me, and I would not have the need to offend to segregate their displeasure from their treasure.

Appeasing those who sat above us was never an issue, and things would always go my way after the tongue lashes out and retracts smoothly as a whip, together with the gears of my brain that turned accordingly.

The last time it all had gone into a chaotic disarray of red in my ears and vision, I had insulted a senior, thinking she was out of hearing range. I mainly ostracized her discreetly for her excessive use of perfume.

"She smells silly. Doesn't the general public have a law against prostitutes? Let alone a school."

That line I had let out earned me guffaws and snorts from my freshmen friends. Our faces flushed with the poison of laughter, slapping each other's backs in a moment of frivolous excitement. The hallway of my old school was heavy with reverberations of our mockery, only to halt as the senior slapped me across the face I use to my advantage.

I have not mentioned that to imply I was very handsome. I have no such banal intent. Among the population of boys in my class, I was the only one the adults considered particularly good-looking during this age of ours, where boyish grins were a common form of adorableness, and it was as convenient to offer to the older generation as it was among my peers.

Her palm had made a nasty pink print on my cheek, and the others had immediately ceased their chuckling. Heads had turned to look in our direction, the other students stopping to get in on potential gossip. She looked up at me from under her straight-cut black hair, and it was then that I realized I had done something awful. The quivering of her skinny form as she bit her lip told me her self-esteem was in high contrast with her saturated fragrance. The angle of her back was crooked, hunched; the wet spot on her disheveled uniform gave a nudge at the presence of physical violence.

Of course, I apologized all too quickly, giving her the impression that I was continuing to mock her. When she left in a frenzy, it was then that I realized I had still been wearing that foolish grin on my face, hungover from the earlier wave of immaturity, and perhaps frozen over from the cold that permeated my system as the mistake sunk into my skin.

The next day, my suspicions were skewered with confirmation, supported by a commotion in my class. A self-absorbed girl sat on the desk surrounded by her friends, and those who weren't sat at their tables giving them wary side-glances. We called her the egoist, and this nickname was as justifiable as it would be if we called her tragic. Or desperate. Starved. But no one else knew, nor were they ready to address the truth.

"I dumped that bottle on her while we was in the comfort room." Here, she raised her head, a perfect display of arrogance. "She smelled like lettuce that had gone bad in the fridge. I pitied her as a junior."

The girls broke out into shrill cackling, making me wish I had not cleaned my ears that morning. It was more than just the noise; it made me feel a strong guilt that consumed me from my breast, growing like a snake, larger, until it took over my whole being. This was the last time I had neglected to stay alert, to take everything in my surroundings into account.

It did me little of a favor, the fact that the transfer student was not the way I had first perceived him to be. He was a small, pale seventeen-year old who had worn a big jacket instead of the school's blazer since day one. His right eye, covered heavily in gauze and bandages, gave him an aura of untouchability, the chill of ice radiating from his very appearance. He always carried a large bag, which I learned very recently had contained mostly books. He introduced himself, every note of his declamation monotonous, although powerful in its own way. His messy golden hair had mesmerized me, although this attraction had no affiliation with any kind of romantic sentiment; it was merely a platonic gaze of appreciation that I directed at him, captivated by the change in the mundane endeavors of my other classmates.

They reached for the stars when they were bound to return to the mud, foolishly thinking they could become something in today's world, where speed and privilege defines everything. It was sickening. It was pitiful, and I averted my eyes as I continued to chat according to their script.

The transfer student, though, was not the same as any of them. He had no dreams, no hopes for the future. He was not the typical high school student that broke out into a rodomontade of unrealistic fantasies every-now-and-then.

It was not that he was incurable; he was unique in this way, having convinced me he was, indeed, the kind of person I first had thought him to be. My initial impression of his character was something quite distant from that of my own. As I have stated, I saw him as your common introvert, keeping to himself more than he interacted with stray animals (which, on a later date, I would learn to be real since he hated cats), but no. It surprised me.

The way he walked over to his desk and personally asked me, his new seatmate, for a handshake, took me away from my stupor. The smile he offered me, particularly uncharacteristic and ill-fitting for his solemn appearance, shook me so much as to delay my reaction. He laughed, and in my head, there was a ripple of an image, like a drop of water that caused oscillation in still waters.

It was one of those gentle winters, snow falling like flower petals, a sliver of warm sunshine peeking out from behind the grey skies.

It vanished as soon as it had come, and it ceased to remain vague like the other pictures that would flash in my head. It was as if it wanted me to have its foreboding beauty implanted in my brain, etched into the curves of my thought patterns for as long as I lived. A glowing scarlet seal that burned brightly for people to see from below the platform.

And indeed, it succeeded in doing so, for to this day I still can paint the details on a blank canvas as if it were mine. The boy had forever remained in my thoughts, and I didn't know whether I should fear for myself or for him.

We became friends. We hung out every day, sometimes causing me to neglect my buddies from middle school. I learned more about him, as he learned more about me, including the sordid act I had pulled off when I was younger. As I recounted the events, he listened to me intently, nodding occasionally as I emphasized a few points. To most people, it might not be much of an issue, but for a person like me who grew up in a household that valued ethics above all... well, it was not something they'd have tolerated had I come out clean.

I'd already violated the rules by withholding the information. Even if I got the courage to step up and offer my confession, I have kept the secret for too long it had fermented into a lie. Every night after the occurrence as I closed the lights, I turned and twisted in my sheets, fearing the wrath of my father were he to find out. We both lay quietly in my futon after I had told him, and I expected him to walk away and tell me to rethink my actions. Instead, he punched my arm playfully.

"I guess being such a good boy has taken a toll on your conscience."
I could see the smile on his face as he said this to me, changing my opinion on that incident, making me feel the weight of my burden alleviated greatly. The snake no longer continued to grow, and with every word of comfort he had advised me with, I could very much say that it was shrinking to a size akin to that of a pea. I did not turn my head towards his direction, barely moving my lips as sleep slowly latched onto my eyelids.

"Whatever do you mean?"
"Look, it happens. You couldn't have known, could you? That the girls from your class were bullying a senior like her."

Indeed.

Indeed!

I told him he was right, but I still could have held myself back from bothering to insult a person who was not even doing anything to cross me. Her scent at that moment might have attacked my nostrils harshly, penetrating my brain and making it spin; I convinced myself that must have been the cause, but I immediately felt ashamed at not having had that decency and willpower to counter my innermost. So I recoiled.

The boy simply shook his head as I pointed this out, the blanket underneath us rustling as he performed this action, and he pushed himself up, putting his weight on his elbows. He recounted to me a story of his own, about him accidentally dropping his mother's favorite vase when he was seven.

Somehow, his gentle voice dropped to a tone more solemn than I have ever heard before, sharper than the ice that struck my heart with wonder when he had stood before the whole class that day. I shivered, aware about the way my body seemed like an autumn leaf that shook out of season. Somehow, when he speaks about himself, he would seem detached from the rest of the world, and his personality would hop out of the normalcy he's built up.

If I were to make a comparison, it would be like a child who fears unfamiliar relatives curling up on the couch on a Christmas evening, the logs in the fireplace crackling as they sing carols that eventually turn to a background din, voices melting into each other, creating a hypnosis effect paired with the yellow glow. Active with his close family, apprehensive with the new faces. When these kinds of things happened, I would immediately question myself; 'where am I wrong?' I would look back on the days we spent, just the two of us, having friendly little talks about how bad the weather was, or betting on what would happen the next day. I would look back on the times we ran away from cleaning duty, and there was only a smile and refreshing fit of laughter, like the pealing of little bells in the summer.

It was an image so detached from the guttural cry on the night that he thought I was not listening in on his woeful weeping. Deep. Monstrous. The armor of a war general that weighed him down; his passage to hell instead of glory.

He told me about the way his mother scolded him. About the way her voice was distressed, her last string pulled taut as if the shattered porcelain was the aftereffect of a hurricane ravaging the farm. And then...

There was a pause, and then he clapped his hands together all too suddenly, surprising me another time. When I looked back at him, finally, as something compelled me to look at anything but him at that moment, he was already smiling like usual, and the next sequence was like the ocean waves come to shore to swallow up the words carved on sand. It all seemed wrong; there was something wrong with all of this. Something I could most definitely not understand, something I missed, a pungent smell that jutted out of its hiding place somewhere in the timeline of our friendship that I had likely ignored... it was there.

It existed but I moved to kick it out, the euphoria I felt at having a new friend riding my wariness over. My childishness had led to what we call 'neglection', feeding me an even greater guilt of being 'ignorant'. I felt lost at this point in time, but he took me by the wrist and showed me the beauty of my own yard, which I have never come to appreciate after all these years.

"Look at your garden. It's very pretty, but someone had to work on the soil and sow the seeds. You would never have seen humility bloom if you never watered the seeds of shame."

I did not respond to his dramatic analogy. I simply took in the words he had launched towards me, swallowing the pride that made my head swell, unbelieving, convincing myself that I was different from the other kids that made mistakes. I gazed at the greenery around me, inhaling with a renewed sense of vigor I did not know I needed. I thanked him silently, inviting him back inside for a snack of tea and biscuits. I regretted not verbalizing my gratitude, realizing it might have given him another reason to cling onto the hope that the wheel of time would mend things for him after the current ordeal passes.

Who is the greater fool? He who deceived, or he who clapped at the sleight of hand?

We went to school like normal the next few months, mostly with my other friends during lunchtime, attempting to get a view under the skirts of the females when the wind would blow strongly. I wished not to get involved with such vulgar acts, but it was part of my youth, and it was meant to happen. I already realized the code of being a gentleman, but I had to be involved in the process of creationー of the gardening stageー instead of presenting my rose amidst cavemen.

Summer came, and we had to say our temporary farewells. Him and I being an exception, everyone went to their summer homes scattered around the outskirts of the country. I was to stay in the city this year, with my family, including my cousins that would be coming from overseas. Of course, I was thrilled to meet them, see what cultural habits they have picked up from a different land, from places that I could only ever dream of at this age. I was giddy, readying my barrage of queries and favors, the uncharacteristic nervousness of a head-shaker taking over my senses.

It happened all too quickly; we went to the airport to meet them, and I happily hefted a large baggage over my shoulder, to which the old women complimented me about my strength. I could very well say I felt flattered, and my face flushed with the contentment of receiving praise from those I respect, and those I was expected to revere. We chatted all the way back home, in the car, and as we fixed their bedrooms and unpacked their things, I had forgotten about everything else. I eagerly swallowed the information they handed to me, like a starved prisoner offered bread and water.

When I learned that it was nearly dinnertime, I began dawdling over to the kitchen to help with serving meals, wanting to keep chatting with my older cousins instead. My mother was leaning over the low table, placing bowls and cups in their respective places. It was a long time since I had seen her wear her best kimono, and I admittedly felt abashed as I remembered I was still in my informal attire.

I offered to help her, and she shook her head with grace befitting that of a married woman, her red lips forming a curve that was most definitely beautiful. She declined my help and told me to instead get my friends to come over if they were still nearby. Knowing she was just as excited as I was, I nodded vigorously, half-sprinting over to the boy's place, as he was the only one who did not go somewhere far this summer. My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him and having him among my family at the table. He would love the stories, the atmosphere, the food.

By the time I got to their doorstep, I couldn't care less about prim and proper demeanor, but I at least collected myself before ringing the doorbell that was at the gate. I was quite surprised: no one bothered to answer the door, or even peek through the curtains to check on the visitor. Indeed, it was seven in the evening, and perhaps they had something else to do; the lights were on. I'm guessing they didn't exactly hear me, nor did anyone else here know who I was as I never really went inside the household. He simply decided to show it to me that one time I had been so insistent.

I could not fathom why he was extremely displeased about me paying his house a visit, and at first I thought he was shy because I lived in a fairly large mansion. I could not confirm anything on this matter, and I opened the gate in a clandestine manner, as if I were a robed figure carrying a lamp on the evening streets of old, escaping the public eye. Placing my slippers silently on the inside of their yard, I was beginning to repine and chide myself, but I tossed all my conscience down the drain as I brought my hand up to knock on their old wooden door.

Silence.

No shadows moved in the light, and there were absolutely no footsteps, nor even the lightest of footfalls. I waited. I knocked louder, my excited impatience gradually rising up to a consistent rapping instead of knocking with intervals. I inhaled deeply, coating my face with layers of shamelessness.

I twisted the knob of their front door.

Oddly enough, I found it unlocked, and I hooked my footwear on the fingers of my right hand as I began making my way through the hallway at the front, uncaring, my body seeming to suffer from the lingering effects of my earlier preparation, as it was a slingshot drawn back too far to hit a target too close.

I had to hurry; my mother was probably wondering what had been taking me so long. I didn't bother looking at the kitchen, where a smell of slight rot had begun to attack my nostrils. I tried not to linger on this olfactory torture, as it might lead me to another misinterpretation, and simply walked up the stairs to the second floor. I ignored the pinpricks on the back of my neck, on my arms, or the scratching sounds of nails dragging against the concrete floor as shadows calling for help were pulled down under.

The lights on the living room were open, and the low buzzing of the television was audible as I walked past a doorway, sneaking as if I was here to rob, fearing the conclusion someone spotting me might reach. The pounding of my heart grew faster, and as I inhaled to calm the excitement I felt at imagining how he'd react to my surprise visit. The foreboding feeling came once more, and it was then again that I remembered the image that had flashed into my mind when I first met the boy.

A winter morning, snow covering the branches of trees and the pavement, the small ray of sunshine dimming as I get closer to the top of the staircase.

Was it making way for spring?

Definitely.

My face was flushed with joy, with exhilaration, with the impending weight ofー

I didn't know what to do with the sentiment, with the sudden wave of nausea that washed over me as my ability to determine the whole life of a person at a look of their faces poked me hard in the ribs. My heart stilled. The gates of hell closed, and the cold settled in, and once again, the creation was happening. Lava flowed from the ground, the boiling lakes spitting fiery acid. My heart restarted, faster than it had ever been, rattling my bones as if it wanted to destroy my form before I finished my current quest. It was then that I had started to feel how narrow the halls were, how low the ceiling was, how dim the lighting was, how strong the stench of rot actually was.

No matter how much I tried to convince myself the wolf was innocent, it was wearing the face of the sheep it slew.

I stopped dead in my tracks.
Should I continue? Should I call out for the boy and risk the chances of me being caught by his other family members? Not that I was intending to be a thief. Not that I had intended to do anything bad at all.

I turned away, swallowing; sweat slid down my skin in rivulets. The feeling of ruefulness had reared its ugly head once more as I inhaled sharply, nearly retching at the repugnant smell of maggot-ridden flesh. It was getting stronger, the beating getting louder and louder, assaulting my ears in a way that made me want to curse myself for having a beating heart at all. I could not bear it any longer; I stomped down the stairs, intending to leave, but as soon as my toes departed from the elevated platform, I heard a loud thud come from the top, then the sound of something heavy falling down the stairs.

I could barely make out the shadow of a headless body moving rapidly towards me as my eyes moved to the silhouette of a smaller, round object fall from what could only be considered a noose hanging from a low beam. I could do nothing other than thank the distractions that had diverted my attention from the body that hung from the top of the staircase as I backed out and away from the place. I no longer cared about the rotting meat, nor did I care about the low hum of the television as I sped down the hallway, down the road, not bothering to protect the soles of my feet with the slippers I had worn on the way.

I no longer could determine what was right or wrong, what was good and bad, as I looked back on all the things I had documented; I could make out the whole existence of a person the instant I would look at their faces, years of practice allowing me to look through even the densest masks that stone-cold people wore. My first impressions were never wrong.

When I first had laid my eyes on him, in all his oddly dressed, bandaged glory, my first take on his character was honestly stereotyped. He was a loner, I thought. He was the kid who would sit by himself... his very person... the kind of kid to write his suicidal thoughts on... I had mused to myself more often than not. My initial impression of his character was something quite distant from that of my own. The smile he offered me, particularly uncharacteristic and ill-fitting for his solemn appearance... He laughed, and in my head, there was a ripple of an image: it was one of those gentle winters, snow falling like cherry blossoms... And he laughed.

And he laughed.

And he laughed, and he laughed, and the sun shone, and he laughed, and the pealing of the summer bells tickled my ears, and he laughed, and I thought I had the right to rest and retire.

I could only feel my delayed tears escaping into the cold of the night, the burning of my feet as they scraped against concrete the only thing keeping me from breaking out into a frenzy of hysterical sobs. He was the person who changed my life. He was one of the people who left a great impact on my journey, if not the only one. I would look back on the times we ran away from cleaning duty, and I would recall nothing other than a happy expression and a refreshing fit of laughter that came from him. It was a person so detached from the guttural cry that forced itself out of his lips he'd practiced sealing and opening for the correct purpose, on the night that he thought I was not listening in on his woeful weeping.

It was the night I thought I could not hear his woeful weeping.

It was the night I decided not to hear his woeful weeping.

The snake in my breast grew larger once more, seeking to remind me painfully of its existence, and that would stick with me as long as I was alive. I would take this secret with me to the grave, and I would never, ever again be so shameless in the face of what I might think to be a turning point. I was selfish, uselessly exultant at the defeat of my abnormalities.

I stopped running as soon as my tears grew cold against my cheeks, as soon as I felt my skin grow numb against the friction of the road. I held my hands together, as if in prayer, and I gazed at my household's yard, remembering the butterfly that moved from flower to flower on that day.

The seeds of shame will always bloom to a momentary beauty before they return to the earth to fertilize the next. They cannot grow on water but thirst for blood, and I feed their folly, drawing me into the trick and proving me a huge jester.

With these thoughts, I announced my return, and never had the feeling of going home been so warm. Never had the feeling of having a home been so satisfying, a home that would never lead you to take your own life as the television buzzed, and the scent of the kitchen haunting you until your final moments. It was not even mine, yet to this day I feel the chill that crawled up my spine as the world proved me wrong.

I have never been the same ever since, knowing that to the others I acted different, yet in my heart was the same old snake I knew was there since I was born.

Rot.