PillowFace by Kristopher Rufty Page B

Joel’s word and put the mask back on the desk, then turned around, keeping an arm draped over his bloodied chest and stomach.  Facing Joel, he still appeared uncertain to give him his trust.
    “I swear.  You can trust me.  I won’t hurt you, or even try to.  It’s not like I could do much if I wanted to.  Look at me.”  He grabbed his shirt, tugged, and let it drop.  “I’m skin and bones.  You’d kick my ass.”  Joel nervously laughed.  “I want to help you.”
    Why did he want to help this guy so much?  He’d disagreed with his own words even as he’d heard them spoken.  Nothing was right about this.  He shouldn’t be offering anything to this man.  And, so far he’d given up his room, soon the bathroom, and the first aid supplies.  What was next?  Food, a bed, a place to stay? 
    Just have to see how the rest of the day goes.
    The deep stomps of boots pulled Joel out of his conflicting thoughts.  The man was tottering toward him.  His tread reminded Joel of Frankenstein.  Another classic movie, but this one had a scene where a child was accidentally drowned by the monster.  More red flags that he should really pay attention to.  Nothing good ever came to the children in horror films. 
    He already regretted what he’d done, but that didn’t keep him from bracing the man, draping his arm over his shoulder, and helping him to the bathroom, making sure he didn’t bleed all over the white carpet on their way.
     
    (III)
     
    The kid locked the door once they were inside. 
    Starting with the wide gash across his abdomen, the kid studied his wounds, following them to the two massive gorge-like wounds on his chest.  Those were the ones that hurt the most.  They were deep, and burned like fire in his lungs. He wondered if that girl had busted one of them, but he doubted he’d be breathing if that were the case. The only trouble he’d had so far came when he took deep breaths.  Those pulled against the wounds, triggering more jolts of pain in his chest.
    He was in bad shape.  Fortunately for him, the boy was more than willing to help.  This was odd, too.  Why was he?
    Pointing to the toilet, the boy said , “Might be easier if you sit down.”  
    He escorted him to the porcelain seat and helped him down.  He could feel the coolness of the lid seeping through his pants.  He leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees, letting the burden fall against his arms.  Taking the pressure off his chest helped the pain.  His dog tags fell out from under his shirt, dangling against his thighs. 
    “Wow, dog tags?  Were you a soldier?”
    He grabbed the tags and tucked them back under his shirt.  They marked a time he wished to forget but knew he never would, but he definitely didn’t want them consuming him at the moment.  Usually when that happened, people died.  The boy was nice, and seemed like a good kid.  If he continued letting his mind drift he wouldn’t be able to help himself. 
    “Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”  
    The kid responded better if he acknowledged him, so he shook his head. 
    “I understand. My Dad was in the Gulf War. I hadn’t been born yet, but my sister used to tell me stories about how he’d just get quiet on certain dates and times. She figured that was like an anniversary or something of one of his army buddies being killed.  You know, a lot of people pick on the Gulf War, but from what I hear, it was pretty bad for the soldiers, too.”    
    He’d heard the same stories.  But much like the war in Iraq, civilians looked at the American soldiers as the bad guys.  The way they’d been treated after nearly killing themselves to protect them--he had to stop--was something that he-- stop it --
    They’d just been doing what they were ordered…
    Stop! 
    He took deep breaths to stagnate his rising heartbeat and blocked those images before they could surface.  He could hear the screams; see the red, all of it, everywhere.  When he looked