"...what made him begin with this theory of getting revenge?"
I liked telling stories anyways; about people and who they were, I never knew of what became of them. I always thought there was more beauty to words than a photo, instead of a blinding light that takes over in order to savour a glimpse of the present for the future, words were something timeless, something that is uninterrupted.
Better yet, I could use stories to tell a story however I wanted.
I didn't correct him.
People love beginnings, clean origins, all that type of stuff. Something that specifically led a person into a life of wrong, and something that made a person into a horrific being.
But Arlo's life was full of messed up endings, nothing Arlo ever did had a beginning.
The sky was bright the next day, it was brighter than the blinding lake was, with the sun reflecting off of it like a mirror. Bundles of translucent white creating milky layers that couldn't cover the sun from our eyes.
We sat under the damning heat, a green awning, bleached from the sun's rays loomed over our heads. Not that it did anything, not with all the holes and burnt age swelling over our heads like a joke.
The sea moved like always in front of us, there was no breeze that day, just humidity. So the waves stood still, only ruffling when a seagull would dive in, or maybe some ducks troddling around in the clear water.
I fanned my face with paper I folded from my workbook; homework that wouldn't be missed, only something that was taking space in my bag.
Arlo sat down next to me on that wood bench, he didn't pester me for ice cream in that sweltering heat, nor did he complain about said heat.
Carefully, every minute or so, he would stare down at the clock wrapped around his wrist.
Every now and then the bell would ring; signifying an hour passing, he'd perk up and say that it was just ringing too late.
He'd say things like, the ferry was running late, or school was running late, or anything was late except our thoughts.
By the time the sixth bell had rung, the third I heard since waiting. I cradled my legs, sneaked a look at Arlo's watch for confirmation, and spoke.
"I don't think he's coming, Arlo."
Arlo didn't look at me, he just sat there, at least for a short while.
Afterwards, he perked up and made his way over to the dock we were staring at for the last couple of hours.
I stood back while he haggled with the boat driver, I looked back and forth; back at the street and hill, back at the school, then I looked back at Arlo.
His face was blurry, he wasn't far away—not blurry in the way he looked like a mess of colours I couldn't tell where from what, but blurry in the sense that his image was merging to one I wished I didn't remember.
It was merely blurry from the humidity, I told myself back then.
The way his eyes scrunched up, the crease on his forehead. The way he spoke with his hands, his voice was quiet, but his hands were a mess of motions that even my eyes couldn't follow.
"You're saying this didn't start with vengeance," Coffee watched the door.
"What I'm trying to…imply, is that vengeance is what happens when grief turns around and all you feel is hatred."
I continued.
"Arlo didn't feel hatred, it wasn't in his nature." The words in my head scrambled to an image. "He felt hope."
Ink-man wrote something down in his book.
"They ever find this kid?" His voice was casual, slightly tired.
People usually stop asking questions when the city is always moving, it's just the way things are.
"No."
For once, an answer so clear to answer, yet too murky to think back to.