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He was a kid who overcompensated for everything. For his hair being dyed too many times, and his frame being too small, and his clothes being too big. He had that look on his face like a kicked dog or something, and he never stopped fiddling with his keys, keeping them between his knuckles like women do in dark parking lots.
And well, he looked like a trap prince, an angel, on that futon. I wanted to pull my fingers through of few of the frizzy strands just to see what they were like, but I composed myself. I wanted to do a lot of things in fact, but none of them were a good idea and I needed to wake up without the consequences of those things.
But he was so pretty. Like in a weird way, not even really in a way that made you feel like ravishing or anything, or made you feel guilty or like you wanted to ball up your fists and bite the inside of your cheek, just like I wanted to look at him because his face was the most fascinating thing on the planet. He looked like he never slept, like he never ate, like he never ever stopped thinking for five seconds about anything, even in sleep, his eyes seemed to dart around, his jaw seemed tense, his expression seemed restless. He was so pale, I think he might have already been dead if I hadn’t felt his blood pumping through his arm when I looked as his wrists. I felt like I would literally break him if I wasn’t careful, thin skin and bony hands. But he wasn’t fragile, I knew he wasn’t. He’d put up a good fight when we’d ambushed him, bloodied a few noses, and there was no way he could have made it in this city if he didn’t have some hardiness to him. And size isn’t everything in survival, so maybe it helped it him that way? He was almost as short as me and very thin. And he had that look of silent shrewdness about it him, like he knew exactly what was going on but was trying his damnedest to convince us he didn’t so he could buy himself some time. And when he thought it would help him he’d try and gulp and open his eyes and look innocent and when he thought he shouldn’t he’d look like he wanted to spit in your face.
He was too damn smart. Too smart and too small and too fast like a feral cat that stalks and is stalked in the night. Like his whole body and mind was focused on not dying and there was no other mode of thought for him than to push on and on. Killing him was killing the human spirit. Killing him was killing pure grace and purpose and nature. Killing him was just being an asshole.
So I didn’t.
Not because I was a coward, but because I wasn’t going to ruin a good thing. Because fuck people who kill cats, when cats are willing to hunt every rat.