How To Save A Life

There was a boy in my room. 

He sat on my cheap desk chair, leaning back as it squeaked slowly. Long legs parted and his hands in the pockets of his navy blazer. I tried not to stare for too long. Not because he wasn't nice to look at, he certainly was. With freshly faded hair at the side of his oval-shaped face and tight ringlets of lively black curls at the top, he certainly wasn't a bother. 

It was hard to know whether he noticed I was even there. His long, dark lashes curled upwards and sheltered his eyes that were trained down to the floor. His eyes were oddly enchanting. So brown that they drizzled to an almost fiery red, like honey. Golden sunlight filtered through the cracks in my blinds and melted against his smooth brown skin. He was enough to leave me breathless and I was choking. 

It wasn't as though I didn't know the guy, of course, I did - everyone did.  He was Deshawn Cervantes after all, Deshawn Cervantes no less. The expensive uniform of his posh private school, Zobel College for Boys, served as a reminder. Tailored trousers, cotton sweatshirt, navy tie, white shirt, navy blazer. With every layer, I became more and more aware of who he and his family were. Then, sitting proudly on the right breast pocket of his blazer, was the school emblem, the eagle.

The Zobel College eagle was infamous for the names it carried along with it. Poised for flight, it mirrored the students who'd soon outgrown our little country and disperse all over the world with their steady cash flow to fall back on. That stupid bird was what made commoners like myself trip over themselves. Zobel boys had that effect on people. Wealthy, privileged, and reckless, rumors seemed to follow their every move. 

I'd never spoken to Deshawn Cervantes before but after all that I'd heard and seen, it made it feel as though I'd known him forever. We were barely in the same universe. The city that he lived in and learned from was only a bus ride away from me, I could've made the trip blindfolded. Yet, we were so detached from one another that it was almost comical. 

My house was tucked in neatly beside the rolling mountains and towering trees of Red Valley. We were lucky to be living on one of the quieter council estates, our street was mostly populated by the elderly. Sure, we'd gotten the odd drunken brawl, burglary, maybe a fire or two, but we were lucky to be where we were. Surrounded by people I had known forever, sometimes safety was overrated anyway. 

I was trying not to look because Deshawn Cervantes was not meant to be here. My bedroom was the last place he should have been. Deshawn Cervantes should have been dead. I knew that better than anyone else because I found his body. 

It was the New Year's Eve party two days ago at Ross Rivera's expensively large home. In my tipsy state, I stumbled my way upstairs and through hazy eyes, fell into one of the many spare bedrooms. Then, I saw him. Sprawled across the floor, he was as stiff as cardboard while the red, hot blood pooled around his body. His face had softened off its sharp edges and he looked young, almost sickeningly innocent while his dark hair dampened from the scarlet that poured from him. The liquid surrounded his body elegantly and acted as a bed of roses for the golden boy and I couldn't move. 

He died that night from knife-inflicted wounds as he bled out onto Rivera's costly carpets. So clearly, I was pretty sure of myself that he should have been dead. Yet, this was the second day he'd sat unmoving and silent on my desk chair - seemingly very much alive. 

I was hesitant to start a conversation. We had unknowingly cocooned ourselves in a soft silence where every move and squeak of the chair disturbed the well-needed peace. I'd stayed up for two days just marveling at this quietness. It was unlike one I'd ever experienced before. It was calm but stormy, relaxing but painful, tranquil yet excruciatingly loud. The only thing that kept my hazel eyes open was the challenge I'd given myself. I was trying to catch the dead boy's eyes, the thought alone gave me the hit of adrenaline that I needed. 

Finally, he met my gaze and it was as though I was the lighter fluid and he was the match that jolted the blaze alive. Keeping those honey-brown eyes on mine, he tugged at his fingertips one by one. The crackle of his fingers clicking into place was the first sound that he'd made since appearing and gradually, like ink spreading through water, he began to regain his color. It spread slowly at first, making him look almost alive. Rosier cheeks, darker skin, and a blazing inferno sat in his eyes, waiting for that perfect moment to burn me. I furrowed my brows harshly, creating a deep furrow between the two that ran like a river between two mountains. 

"Am I in hell?" His voice croaked out. 

Deshawn Cervantes didn't look like his name should have been Deshawn Cervantes. It sounded like an old man, it wasn't the boy in front of me who overflowed in youth. 

"I thought I was d-dead. I was pretty sure I died."

He laughed slowly before scratching the back of his neck.

"God, how did I get here?" 

His eyes dragged themselves around the room and the way they traveled was painfully slow, like nails to a chalkboard. He inspected the plain walls around us, the perfectly made bed that I sat on, and the neatly organized desk beside him. Then, his eyes raked across my body before flickering to his own. 

"Did we..." He trailed off. 

"No," I answered quietly and scrunched my nose up. 

"I recognize you." He pointed at me. His voice had begun to catch its color back too. It was deep and soft.

"You're that crazy girl who gets invited to all the parties, right?"

I gave him a blank stare. There were plenty of 'crazy girls' who got invited to all the parties. He pressed a finger to his pursed lips in silent thought. What was going through his head? 

"R… Rei!" he yelled. "That's right. Rei! Reniella De Vega. I remember now, and you're Filipino too, right? That's mega cool."

"How do you know that?" I questioned hesitantly.

Though he wasn't entirely correct, the fact that he knew even half the truth made my head spin. I was beginning to doubt he was real, perhaps merely a hallucination from my PTSD. I wasn't sure which option I preferred, though. 

"You go to a lot of parties, Rei. I notice things." He shrugged. Then, a smirk slowly made its way to his full lips.

"Those little dresses are pretty noticeable for starters."

I had decided then that I didn't like those smirks. A smirk usually hinted at smugness but Zobel boys were always smug, this one was different. A Zobel smirk meant trouble. I couldn't afford trouble. 

"Okay, posh boy. That's enough." I frowned and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Posh?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Your name is Deshawn," I deadpanned.

"People just call me Shawn." He clicked his fingers again with an uneasy smile. "You know, not to get me confused between my dad and grandad since we all have the same name."

"Exactly," I retorted and resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

There was an expectant pause where all I could do was heave out a shaky sigh. I had been sitting cross-legged on my bed for far too long waiting for Deshawn to come around and my whole body seemed to buzz in protest.