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1Chapter 10 Scene 1: Walking There.
2It has been a week since I witnessed the boy being sexually assaulted. There is still a trail of blood that is clearly dry but appears to be mostly untouched or messed with. Has nobody seriously passed through here at all? I suppose it makes sense considering what the man had intended to do. Looking around, the area still looks the act same, a clear silver ground with abandoned buildings, shadowing windows portraying a clear lack of hospitality and, simply,overall life. 
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4I begin to follow the path of dried up blood. As I continue forward, the spots and stains grow darker and darker, eventually looking more like black ink rather than genuine blood. Soon, there is no trail left, and all I can do is continue to walk. The path has leaded me to the woods, and while livelihood is nowhere near far off, this area is clearly not populated. I can see what looks like an abandoned house far off in sight, in almost the same, straight path of the blood. I'm at least relieved that the wound was not that deep if he did not bleed enough to reach his house, assuming that this is his house. The house is generically white, but only has one floor. It seems like an oddly shaped house that only people just on the brink of upper middle class would by as a starting house. It does not look bad by any means, but the paint looks as if its been weakening for quite some time, almost looking gray. There is no chipped paint, nor falling walls, just a sense of dullness emanating from the house.
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6I walk up to the front door and ring the door bell. A dimly echoed ring springs from inside the house, but, after a whole minute, there is no sign that anyone is coming out. I grab the doorknob and turn hastily, and, to my surprise, its unlocked. I fully rotate the knob, but do not push on the door. I'm not feeling particularly scared, but more so cautious, as if when I step through the door, a knife will slash through my stomach, leaving my entrails to splash on the floor as I drop to my knees. Its such a scary thought, but why wouldn't it happen? I mean, a trail of blood does lead here, to an unlocked door, I suck it up and press my chest against the door, slowly opening it while being cautious to anything that may jump out at me.
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8Chapter 10 Scene 2: Inside The House 
9I muster enough courage and fully step inside the house. I try to calmly say "hello?", but in my efforts to raise my voice to be loud enough, my voice cracks in an embarrassing way that someone would probably find cute. I will never get used to talking so loud... No response. To the left lies a moderately sized kitchen. Its not disgusting, the stove, along with the walls, are slightly stained with a darkly brown color. The middle, in parallel to the door, lies a hallway with 2 doors on the left and one on the right. To the right, the living room, which looks decently kept. There is a 3 cushion sofa, with single cushion couches on its opposite ends, facing a flat screen looking TV, and a glass table within the middle of it all, and a chair oddly placed within the corner of the living room, probably as a backup or something. I look around the living room, but there is nothing in particular on the sofas nor the table.
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11I make my way to the kitchen. The sink has no dishes in it, so I check the cabinets to find that they are neatly put away, albeit there are not a lot to begin with. About four plates, two rather small bowls, and three medium sized cups that are all nothing fancy or special, along with the typical cooking utensils. I open the fridge, and there is nothing in here but a gallon of milk which is a week outdated, only half way consumed I assume that the fridge must have not been open in at least a week, as so much nice cold air was let out when I open it. It feels amazing, almost like an AC, with light gasses coming out of the fridge. I turn around and bend over, letting the cold breeze freeze up my thighs a bit. The slight sting when it hits my thighs feels really soothing, removing that heat from earlier that gave me a headache for a bit. Luckily these shorts are the perfect length so that it hits the nice spot and flows up into my inner thighs and crotch too. Being bent over with these types of shorts on, I start to get a little bit hard, but I am not fantasizing about anything in particular. These shorts really do just make me super happy, I suppose. I turn back around and lift up my shirt a bit, letting the breeze hit my tummy while it curves upward onto my chest and nipples, which admittedly causes them to go slightly stiff and pointy, and along with my dick still being slightly hard, its calmly pleasing. My body is cool and cold again, pressing my thighs together and feeling the coldness slightly intensify, but I make sure to remove them quickly before they begin to produce heat. The coldness along with my stiff body parts makes me feel fully natural and, in a sense, naked, but pretty happy, and I just stand there for a minute or so, with the fridge still open.
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13I redo the process on my tummy and thighs again, this time without bending over, just to make sure they are fully cold before I leave. I close the fridge door and make my way towards the hallway. The door on the right is slightly open, with a creamy yellow light peaking out through the crack and onto the floor. I am extremely hesitant to opening the door. Its been perfectly quiet, it has been perfectly isolated. There is no way that I can be alone in this house. Once I step through here, surely I am going to get jumped and killed. Someone is probably waiting inside there with a knife. Is it the boy? I don't know. But why is the light on? Especially if this place seems completely inactive? This has to be a bait of some sort, but even so, I don't intend to die here. I want to see the boy, and while that is not worth my life, not accomplishing this through the mere fear of the thought of a presence is pretty pathetic. I lay my arm's length on the door and swing it right to open it quickly, but not with much force. It is empty. There is no one here, but the light is on. Immediately, my eyes turn to the skewed and corrupted figure on the bathroom mirror. It is the type of mirror that can be opened with a small cabinet for storing items inside, I assume based on its oval shape and the overall thickness of the mirror's exterior. The mirror's glass is broken, slashed in deeply enough to reveal its insides, which appear to be normal bathroom items. The black holes which are left after the slashes create a slanted but visible message: "I'V WAITED FOR SO LONG"
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15"Someone definitely has to be behind me", I think to myself. There is no way I could read something as crude as this and not have someone behind me to finally attempt to kill me, yet I'm not feeling particularly afraid. I slowly drag my neck around, but the door is empty, and there still fails to be any sense of presence or life in the house. Ultimately, I conclude that I am fully alone and decide to stop worrying about it. Looking at the bathtub, there is nothing wrong. I examine the contents inside the scratched mirror, but they are all normal and nothing "crazy", shaving cream, face washes, the usual.
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17I step out back into the hallway. The door directly ahead is closed, and the only other door is on the same side of the closed door, further down to my right, which is slightly open. I instinctively decide to go for the opened door first. I push on through, but the room is literally empty, the only thing in it being scattered rectangles of sunlight gently hitting the floor from the shades of the window. The surrounding darkness providing a melancholy tone, a purple underlining on the walls that is not necessarily sad, but simply a feeling of being "down". I walk back out into the hallway.
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19With only one room left, I make my way towards the closed door. I assume that it too is unlocked, so I begin to open it. However, when my hand reaches the doorknob, I am unable to provide a confident grip on it. I find myself just... standing here. I am staring at the door, but I feel like I see nothing. I hear nothing, there are no sounds for my ears to pick up on. I feel the feeling of death upon me, This feeling of overwhelming nothingness, this feeling of eternal insensitivity, the inability to perceive one's own existence in the world, physically or in that of the consciousness, what I feel is absolute nothingness. It can be contradictory to claim to feel absolute nothingness, for nothingness implies that you truly cannot feel anything, but for nothingness to exist, existence must hold a distinction of its own certainty so that you can even acknowledge the possibility that something can not exist. I have learned that us humans separate the sides of the world in order to be able to perceive it, from light and darkness, hope and despair, good from evil, yet the world does not exist in separation, but all these qualities coexisting as one at all times, the human brain being incapable of perceiving it unless otherwise separated into its different beings, especially so long as the concept of time is still present in their minds. The question is, however, can this principle of separation be applied to the concept of existence and nothingness, or to better equalize the terms, nonexistence? If death is where one enters a state of nonexistence, then how could they still exist in the conscious of others? This cannot even apply once everyone dies, as we live on in the soils of the Earth, as the energy and life force of other beings. Even in the ultimate destruction of the Earth, our specs of atoms will still float endlessly within the universe. Nothing is wholly deleted, nothing is wholly created. So, despite this, if the ultimate certainty of life is that death lies after, then are we not both dead and alive at the same time? I exist and live right now, yet, if time does not exist, and everyone must die in at least their physical state, then am I already not dead? This life is no different from the nature of death, yet it feels so... entirely different. It is logically sounding, yet, at the same time, there is no reason to assume death exists as the opposite half of life, and even if that may be the case, what do both halves create, if they do create anything? Assuming they don't exist as halves, then there is no contemplation of the human mind that can produce any formidable draft or ideas of what lies beyond death. Death holds total power for one thing and one thing alone, ambiguity. No matter what, we could never know what exactly lies beyond it until we are apart of it, yet we could never hold certainty or awareness of our own cognition or knowledge of being apart of it. If they truly are beings that are not halves of each other and have no relation, then these feelings of nothingness, am I truly feeling what it feels like to die? Or is it just a mental disconnect to stimulate what I think it feels like to die? ... I can understand the logic by being able to say I am already dead right now, but at the very least, I am so much alive.
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21After what seemed like an hour of nothingness followed by self contemplation, but was realistically no longer than one minute, I feel myself renter reality, the door blue painted door standing before me, my hands near the knob of the door but still not gripped. I feels something eerie on the other side of the door, something related to my thoughts, but not quite exactly. There is no real reason for me to continue contemplating like this, there has to be an answer inside. I grab the knob, and while pressing my chest to the door, I begin to twist and push. Its unlocked and, the door easily slips open. What I see on the other side was an... expected surprise.
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23Identical to the last room, this room's lighting is brought forth by the scattered lights of the blinds, in which minimal rectangular prisms of light strike the ground, surrounded by a dark blue lit room with the lack of any artificial light aside from the little light from the sun. A chair lies on the floor on its side, and before me is what seems like a floating body, naked and tender, attached to the length of a ceiling fan by rope. Uneasy limbs swing back and forth before me as I now see the corpse of the boy who I've been chasing all this time hanging before me. From my view, the face is just barely visible, but I can tell that it is him. I walk closer, slowly, and the shadows that attempted to hid his face failed to concealed it any longer once I bring my eyes closer. The look on his face is that of one who was just... tired. Someone who genuinely needed to lie down and take a comforting sleep, maybe in the arms of a comforted and trusted loved one, but he probably didn't even have that. The face looks normal structure wise, yet it radiates a tone of despair with its heavy eyelids that cause creases around the nose, lips that slightly curl down, and fingers and toes that are left to swing so freely yet only point straight down as their respective hands and feet do. His hands and feet do not seem as if they are ordering him to do this, rather, this is just how they are, how they always were, their natural essence.
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25I only just now realize that the room has been carpeted, as was the living room, and the empty adjacent room to this one. I don't know why I didn't realize this before, but, staring at the boy's body, I felt very much more in the my own skin, much more grateful to be on the side of the definite living, and not the living that seems to comfort philosophers who tell themselves that something can be perceived let alone exist following death. This gratefulness breathed life back into my senses for a bit, and I now realized that my feet stand on a carpet. I look down and notice a few stains on the carpet, moderately small and close to each other. I kneel down to smell the stains, but there is no scent to it. Not food, not blood, just mere stains. Instinctively I get back up and inspect his eyes to see what looks like a stream of drying up tears. I would open his eyelids to check them for redness, but I don't want to hurt him anymore than he has been already... I don't want to intrude on his body anymore then what's been forced upon him. Being this close now, I see just how tender and lovely his body was. His skin is seemingly baby smooth, it must have been waxed regularly. His flesh, despite being dead, has not yet corroded and seems so healthy. I grab his hand out of mere... curiosity, but it is still cold and definitely lifeless. His thighs, however, are marked with slashed scars, seemingly not too deep, but definitely enough to last a long time. Was this done by someone else? That scum he was with before only pulled a knife to his neck and arms from what I saw, and his arms did have the appropriate gouges to lead the trail of blood that I followed to get here, so it couldn't have been him. It was either the boy himself, or by someone else of similar clients, either of which seem plausible. His body really was beautiful... No, it still is. The actions of the despicable are typically displays of disgusting selfishness which insult my own existence. The thought of taking pleasure from the belittling, pain, abuse, rape, or constraining others is a very direct insult against my entire being. So long as people like this exist, while the universe is already wholly perfect, I cannot be fully... what? Satisfied? Comfortable with living? I am not sure, but, knowing these people exist is still an undeniable disgust. Knowing that everyone's set of idiosyncratic morals and emotional concerns are to themselves only does not justify this action. I can live wholly and fully for myself, not concerned with ever meeting or talking to anyone else, and not tread on the well beings and ultimate lives of others in the process.
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27I make my way back to the living room and pick up the chair from the corner. Dragging the chair, slight screeches sting my ear, but it doesn't bother me. Nothing particularly bothers me anymore at this moment except the existence of that man. Any and everything I might have been feeling eerie, sad, or annoyed about, is gone. Nothing compares to the absolute disgust I feel for that man. I return to the boy's room lining up my chair across from his corpse and stand on it. Now that I'm standing, our bodies are aligned perfectly from head to toe, and I reminisce again on the thought of being so abused and degraded by the world that you are driven to suicide. I mentally nor emotionally cannot experience this feeling. I have no intentions to die with my ideals weakened, but if I could at least understand what he was going through, would it have been enough? 
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29...Would empathy and understanding had mattered to him at all? Would it had prevented this?
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31I stand on my tippy toes and begin to loosen the noose, completely removing it from his neck. Pink constrain marks are left stained on his neck, meaning he accepted the ultimate crushing of his own lungs. The marks shine brightly in contrast to the rest of the body, almost as if they were screaming "I want this". As the rope no longer holds him, I clench his body lightly. The slightest hint of warmth exists, and despite the undeniable chill of death, I can still sense the life he once had within him. Even so, the touch of a dead human is completely distinguishable from that of a live one. His limbs fall without concern nor strife. He must have committed suicide while he was alive to have reached this state, the dead cannot kill themselves once more. Therefore... in a sense, death existed in him, it exists in me. The only difference between him and I is that he must have lived to die, and in that sense, its possible to exist as both an alive and dead being.
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33I carry the body with me off the chair, making sure not to let his limbs hit anything as i lay him down on the bed, which I presume is his. I lay him down slowly, gently lowering his back, then his legs, assuring he is comfortable and fit on the bed, Now that I could have at least let him down, I want to see what else is in this room. I turn my gaze towards his rather small (at least for what these things are worth) desktop in the righter most side of the room. Upon the desk laid a white paper with multiple stains scattered throughout its white body, from some sort of liquid, which completely damped and darkened the areas of the paper which had said stains on the paper. It must be tears again... I gaze my head over the paper, beginning to read it. It is a medical paper detailing an HIV test occurring about 6 days ago. I quickly turned my notice to six days ago. I quickly turned my notice to his status, in which it was indicated that he was positive. Is that why he did this? But why would he? You could still live for so long even after being diagnosed with the virus.
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35Given the state of the house, I come to the conclusion that he had no funding nor will to persist through it. A person completely devoided of all their chances, deliberately taken from them by the will of another.
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37It was only after these thoughts that I notice the details of the boy at the top of the paper; the name, the address, and his email. His address matched my current location. His name was Oliver. His last name isn't much of a concern to me, yet I feel oddly closer to understanding him now that I know his name. As if... just maybe, I could have been there for him, and he would have let me.
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39The desktop screen above is the paper is off, but not the computer itself. He probably didn't want to see what was on the screen during his final moments, but I feel an instinctive need to see what it was. I hit the power button on the monitor, and in three silent seconds following my "click!", the display came on.
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41Two tabs were open, one on Craigslist, the other, Gmail. Craigslist is what was initially left on, a post by "anonymous" asking as follows:
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43"Around the Jersey Turnpike area looking 4 a suck n fuck buddy to have 4 the day. Will pay up to 300 cash upfront if i like u, Email me @ throwawaymike347@mail.com.'
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45The post ended there, with no following messages or comments. Aside from noticing that the post was in the gay meet ups category of the site, there is nothing else of significance, so I begin to investigate the second tab instead, Gmail. I click on the tab, a history session of four emails, two from the owned account which matches that of the medical paper, and from the man on the Craigslist post. I begin at the first email and continue down, they read:
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47"December 2nd, 20XX, 2:53 PM
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49Hello... I saw your post on Craigslist, my name is Jeremy. I need money really badly. i'll do what you want. My whole body is shaved, I'm pretty much a twink.If you're interested, please reply."
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51"December 2nd, 20XX, 3:27 PM
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53sounds good, beenn wanting 2 fuck a smooth bitch boy twink for a while. Location is XXX usually empty and free, lmk what time is good 4 u, but has to be soon"
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55"December 2nd, 20XX 3:40 PM
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57Location is good. How's tomorrow at 9AM? I'll bring the condoms. I'll blow you till you cum, then let you fuck me for however long for the day, alright?"
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59"December 2nd, 20XX 4:02 PM
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61Ight, I got condoms 2 just incase. You do all that ill give you ya 300, just make sure ur ready 2 please me and get pounded. ull know its me when u see me. see u there"
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63It is currently December 17th, 9:36 AM. Their meeting went accordingly I conclude as I use my fingers to count back on the days and confirm that it was indeed the third day of December that the rape had happened. The date of the HIV test is December 11th. Had he gotten HIV from him, it would have been enough time for him to contract the virus and test positive.
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65Now that I fully understand, I stand in awe at which how all of the events tied up with each other. Emails, to rape, to this corpse. The only thing I don't know is when he hung himself. If it was the day he got the test results, when why do these tear stains seem so fresh? Did I just miss him? Was I here an hour earlier, could I had saved him? Maybe in the past twelve hours, I don't know, I'm not good at this stuff at all. The only thing I do know is that I feel like I am just too late.
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67I was too late.
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69i am too late.
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71A part of me feels that I could walk out of here apathetically, with no cares, and carry on with my life. I can do that. I am more than capable of doing so, of simply discarding this emotion. Something along the lines of "You shouldn't waste tears on the dead" echoing in my head, despite that I am not close to crying. However, another part of me thinks again, that this gross, horrible, despicable, disgusting. 
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73The thought of the scene of the rope kept playing over and over in my head. Even though he lies on his bed, I see the hanging corpse inside my head. The image of the shadow covered face with uneasy limbs swinging back and forth burned into my conscious. Even though all I merely see is the computer screen, I feel within my mind the clear vision of rape.
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75I turn my stomach, looking as Oliver still lays on the bed exactly as I had laid him there. I walk up to the bed. Gently and softly grabbing Oliver, I make sure that it was as, painless, light, and comfortable as possible as I lifted up his legs and place the comforter he was once laying on over him, up to his neck. With my hands under the comforter, I line his arms to rest at his sides. I readjust his head with the utmost care so that it lies straight and comfortable, fixing his long, blond hair to his sides. I stare at him for a bit, wanting to touch his cheeks one last time before leaving, but, he's been abused enough, he's... abused himself, enough.
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77Providing the proper burial, or, a way to at least rest peacefully I hope, my hands fall to my side, dangling. and I let out a melancholy sigh. I quickly check the windows and blinds, making sure that they are closed, before walking out of the room, locking the door from the inside before closing it behind me. Making my way back to the living room, I decide to not overstay my welcome and give Oliver his due solitude. I lock the doors of the front door, then take my way out of the house through the window, shutting it tight as I make my way back on to the road, walking out the house, not looking back behind me, with my hands in my pocket.
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79The day is still young. Checking my phone, I've only been there for about an hour. I'm walking, but to particularly nowhere. Hands in my pockets, my mind shifts to the scene of rape again. Left foot, "knife", right foot, "gun". Left foot, "knife", right foot, "gun". Left foot, right foot... screams, tears, force, infection, rape, pleas, deceit, betrayal, force, infection, rape, pleas. I haven't realized that I stopped walking. The words unwavering and recycling in my head over and over. I could stop caring about this. I could just label it as "life" as move on, but I just figured out that I don't want to. I want to be mad. The more contemplation, the more despicable, the more I realize how repulsively disgusting the act was, how it still is, The man is still out there, while I stand here, allowing his existence to continue on. I could stop caring about this, but I am taking the option to want to be mad.
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81It feels like for the first time in a while, I feel happy about going against the idea of not viewing the world through the lenses of emotion. I am happy with, at least this one time, letting my emotions, and sense of justice, take over me.
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83It doesn't matter who or what is good anymore, the man that belittles and degrades others for their sexual gratification against one's pleas, one's cries for stopping, one's will, is not the man, is not any man that I agree to share an existence with.
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85I don't want to think about it too deeply anymore. I want to act while the emotions are still strong within my heart.
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87I send a text to Rid, asking if he's home and if I can stop by. He replies around 30 seconds later with "Yeah, feel free to come!", and I take up on his offer eagerly and begin making my way walking there, faster than I probably have ever casually walked. Before I knew it, I was running, but when I realized I was, I decided to stop and begin to start walking again.