Lonely Hour

I'm not crying, but my eyes are wet and every time I close them I see blood. Billie sits next to me on the beanbag, patting at my eye bags and my tears and my snot.

"It's okay," she says, smiling. She's buzzed. "It may not seem like it, but she got what she deserved."

I don't understand what she means.

"She's cold, cold-blooded," Billie insists, sounding so cold, cold-blooded herself. But, she doesn't realize. Grace Pattin and what's left of who she was shines in Billie's eyes, playing over and over again like a film. The pictures. The blood. The goldfish girl who got cut open open open.

"Can I go home?" I ask. I can't move. "Please."

"Of course not," she says, laughing but I can tell that she's not joking. "There's a full moon tonight. I'm having friends over. We're going to watch the stars."

I imagine laying in this muddy place, on dead, dead leaves, staring up into the potent midnight, looking at stars. I close my eyes, seeing myself amid the clouds and among the stars, shining down to make life a little brighter for people like Grace Pattin. For people like me who can't stand up to people like Billie. I nod.