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Obie deserved to be in prison. He was an attempted-murderer. The whole school saw what he tried to do, even if they didn’t know what his true intentions were.
Ray sat down with the town’s detective, desperately explaining how he manipulated him, how he used his creation to try to kill someone.
Afterwards, Obie sat in the same chair in front of the same detective, looking into the same small and blue eyes of the big, bearded man. He fumbled nervous lies to his questions, all while his heart was pounding and his hands trembled in fear. He claimed Archie was his best friend --and ask anyone, they were always together-- and that he would never try to do anything like that, that he was so thankful of the guillotine’s safety precautions as he made an honest mistake trying to operate it.
His interview was inconclusive, just like Ray’s. Obie was a good kid: average grades, no history of trouble with the law— and he’d never even gotten a detention. It was hard to believe that a boy so nervous and stiff could have tried to do something like that. Ray was a good kid too. He seemed to honestly believe that Obie manipulated his access to his guillotine to try to kill Archie, who was his enemy. Therefore, Obie’s fate all relied on the next person’s interview.
“Archie Costello,” a police officer called out to the station’s waiting area.
Archie didn’t look at anyone at first, not at Obie or Ray who sat distanced around him. He stared blankly ahead at the wall in front of him. He was silent. He then looked at Obie as he walked in, giving him no expression, no hint at what he was going to say.
Archie sat down, looking downwards at the table, then up at the detective.
He charmingly smiled and laughed: “He didn’t try to kill me.”
After what felt like only a few seconds for Obie, Archie was sent back out. He met eyes with Obie, who was sitting in one of the chairs tapping his foot furiously. He smirked at him.
The detective himself then walked out next and called Obie back in. He was sat down across from him. He was too nervous to look up. He felt as if he might cry if he was looked at in the eyes.
“Do you ever feel like you’re always anxious, constantly, even if there’s nothing to really worry about?” The detective asked.
Obie knew that sounded exactly like him, but he wondered if it was some trick to reveal his guilt. Yet, he answered honestly, “Yes, exactly.”
The detective picked up a notecard, then picked up a pen, his beefy hand moving rigidly to write something. “I think this could really help, it’s a psychologist. I know this must have been hard for you, to have people thinking you tried to do something that you didn’t.”
Something that you didn’t. Obie perked up, his eyebrows raising. He tried to hide his joy: Archie must have defended him.
He then looked down at the notecard now filled with a name and contact. He knew sure as hell he would never go. He couldn’t risk talking about any of his feelings, which were now all revolving around his guilt of what he tried to do.
He looked up at the detective, who looked back at him earnestly. His face was neutral, but he smiled with his eyes.
Obie looked back down at the notecard, taking it politely. His chest then flared in a sudden rouse of anger: it was ridiculous; he doesn’t need psychological help, Archie does. Archie’s a psychopath, a narcissist, or just has something seriously wrong with him. Obie thought there was nothing wrong with himself, that he was just ruined by Archie and The Vigils, like so many other boys.
The detective shook his hand, nearly crushing the frail hand with his strong grip. He thanked him for his time, and told him he was free to go. He was asked if he had a ride home. He lied and said he did, trying to leave as soon as possible— he could figure something out.
He then walked out, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He felt like he was floating, his weak legs not really moving; he felt out-of-body.
He couldn’t believe it. He had done something so horrible and got away with it. His plan to kill had failed, so he figured he’d be going down with it. Yet, he had made it out. He was like Archie himself, getting away with awful things.
“Ray Bannister.” He heard a police officer call as his legs carried him out. Obie didn’t look back. He left. Opening the door and unleashing himself to the summer heat outside.
Ray sat down across from the detective once again, anticipating a conclusion.
“You’re a good kid, Bannister, and I don’t think you had any bad intentions with this, and I appreciate your efforts in trying to keep Monument a safe community.”
Ray hated this bullshit. They were dealing with a damn attempted-murder here, and from the sound of it, they were about to not believe him.
The detective continued: “After talking with Costello, I’m near-definitive that we’ll be able to officially close this case within the next few days, but for now, I’ll tell you that I believe Obie is innocent—”
“Are you serious?” Ray interrupted. “The whole school saw— he tried to kill him!”
“Well, Costello himself doesn’t think that, and that’s really what matters the most here, the feelings of the victim. I appreciate your efforts to help us, but you’re not the victim here—”
“Yes I am— he tried to use my work, my creation, to kill, to damn kill—”
“Bannister.” The detective called sternly. “If there’s any more evidence, if you can find anything else, I’d be happy to hear from you. For now, I think you should go home, get some good rest. You did a good deed, contacting us when you felt something was wrong, but I think this will be out of your hands now. Is that all right, Bannister?”
Ray met eyes with him. That detective was a good man, another falling victim to the tricks of Archie. But why? Why would Archie defend someone who tried to kill him? Ray thought he would get an ally out of him from this, but now it seemed he was making more enemies.
“Ok, I’m sorry sir.” He said. He knew it was no use. He knew it was best not to waste his time. He learned already that the best thing to do at Trinity was to lay low, to conform, to do as you were told. He needed to do that.
“Don’t be sorry. Thank you.” The detective said, shaking hands with Ray before sending him off.
Ray walked out slowly, absolutely shocked. How could this happen? He approached the phone on the wall, his hands shaking as he dialed the number for his mom to pick him up.
Meanwhile, Archie was standing outside the building, smoking a cigarette. He was free to go after his interview, but he was waiting for Obie. He thought about him. He wondered what Obie would come home to once he was dismissed— which he was sure his convincing interview would do for him.
No one would call Obie up thinking of him after this. He had no friends, no girlfriend. That Laurie girl had broken his heart, and he didn’t even get further than kissing after all his pining. Poor Obie. Just thinking about Laurie infuriated Archie once again; he hated her, or he hated her with him. He wanted Obie for himself, at the time even just as a Vigil, but maybe as something more too.
He was in disbelief that Obie had attracted her in the first place. He was confident he was hopeless with girls. Watching the look of terror on a boy like Obie’s —or especially Renault’s or Goober’s— face when a cute girl was nearby was amusing. That look was an immediate tell they had no chance with her. Archie wasn’t like that. He wasn’t scared of girls, unlike most boys. He knew girls weren’t some sort of docile, pure, inhuman creatures like some boys thought, and it was why he wasn’t scared. He saw them as they were, as cruel and fucked as the rest of society. Their verbal cruelty, social hierarchy, and mental-based bullying at Miss Jerome’s was almost comparable to Trinity’s, just lacking the physical beatings and a group like The Vigils.
Obie was cute though. A girl would be lucky to have him. He was loyal. When he loved someone, he’d kill for them— like he practically did for Laurie. Archie liked this about him, but of course not what he did, with him as the target to be killed for the girl.
It was in the wrong direction, the wrong target and wrong girl. He should have killed Bunting, the try-hard who’s idea it was to try to rape her. Archie thought he should have killed for someone who loved him as much as he did, and Laurie clearly didn’t.
Obie would probably come home to no one. His home was lonely too, though Archie missed his house. They’d spent all the past summers there and did whatever they wanted. Both of his parents were never home to their family. His mother was a night-shift nurse, only up in the early mornings, sleeping all day, and gone by the evening. His father was a salesman constantly on business trips— with detours at shady motels with young women. His parents never fought, or really even spoke. He had no siblings. His house was always quiet. There was no one to notice or care when he was at his worst. Though it wasn’t too bad: almost average-tier dysfunction for a boy at Trinity.
Archie had the opposite problem: his house was always loud. Unlike most, he was lucky enough to have two parents that sure did love each other— at the price of waking up to their loud sex at night. Everything was loud. He had two brothers, one older and the other younger. That is how he got away with everything: he was the quiet one. His younger brother was still in middle school. He was loud and obnoxious, always arguing with their parents and sneaking out. His older brother was even more of a troublemaker: a pervert. He’d gone to Trinity before him, and thankfully quite a bit before him. It was never with him, and long enough ago to avoid tarnishing his last name for teachers’ recent memory. If anyone asked, he’d lie and say they weren’t related.
His older brother got drafted. Archie honestly hoped he’d never come back from Vietnam. He was satisfied imagining him getting blown into pieces with bombs or run over by a tank, some sort of payback for bullying him for all his youth. Though his brother was back, more alive than ever after taking a few lives, dwelling at home as a 25-year-old while impending a rape trial. Archie prayed he’d be locked up for life. He hated being home with him, but he thankfully wasn’t mean anymore, or couldn’t be: he was now just as afraid of Archie as everyone else.
He was Archie’s motivation to take down the world, to never end up like him besides their shared psychopathy. He wouldn’t rape and kill people like his brother, but instead that system and world which made him so powerless, that made him feel alien in his own household and be stomped on by everyone older: he was going to be great, not sucking on his mom’s tit while old and fat, not like that grotesque metaphor that summed up his disgusting brother perfectly.
Of course Archie was a bit jealous of Obie in his quiet and lonely house, but at the same time he wasn’t. While over at Janza’s house —which he was encouraged to do by Emile’s mother as she saw him around her son, and enthusiastically accepted out of his curiosity around that animal— he bit back laughs imagining Obie in his place. While at his dinner table, politely swallowing some of the worst food he’s ever tasted, one Janza brother was flinging peas into his ear, the youngest crying hysterically, Janza’s parents shouting at each other in another language, all while that crazy Emile Janza was rubbing up on his thigh under the table.
Each angle of the room was a different emotion, he could be disgusted, laughing, feeling sorry, turned on, angry— any would make sense depending where in the room you’re looking. At that table, Obie would die; his house didn’t prepare him for the world. At his house there was none of that, it was the same: boring, flat, empty, lonely. It made sense that such a house bred and raised someone so stiff like him.
The police station’s doors opened, the stiff boy himself exiting. He sure was stiff, rather than his usual walk of fearful hurry, he was walking like he was trying to avoid slipping on ice despite it being late June. Archie turned to face him, calling him over with his eyes. He looked back at him nervously, then approached in that same stiff walk.
“I saved your ass.” Archie told him, harsh but still calmly, and as quiet as his voice would go without whispering.
“Why did you do that?” Obie asked, matching his volume yet unable to match his tone, sounding weak with his worry seeping through his voice.
“I want the best for you, that’s all.”
Obie struggled to understand how Archie was such a horrible, evil person, but he was willing to save him— he was good to him, always. He had never forced him to follow him, and had never explicitly plotted against him. In return, he had tried to kill him.
Obie wondered if this would make him just as bad, or even worse? He didn’t want to think about it. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He blinked, tears rolling out of both of his eyes.
“Oh, Obie, there’s nothing to cry about,” Archie said softly, getting closer and looking into his eyes, which were glassy under his tilting eyebrows. He took off his glasses and wiped his tears, gently brushing his fingers upon his lower eyelashes.
Obie spoke, his voice trembling, “Thank you.”
“Obie,” Archie said in his gentle tone of compassion that always confused people. He kept his hand on his face.
Obie looked ahead as he sniffled and sobbed, the tears pouring more rapidly. He knew he looked pathetic. He wondered if Archie enjoyed this, if he got off to it in some sadistic way.
He barely could see Archie in his blurred vision. He saw a glimpse of his blue eyes, and there was nothing behind them. He then could make out his face. It showed no emotion, nothing to match his gentle words and tone. He wondered if he was hallucinating all of this, that this voice he was hearing wasn’t really Archie.
“I’m a—” he choked then sniffled, “horrible person.”
“Obie, it’s fine. I’m a bad person; I’m not all sad about it.”
Obie didn’t know what to say, his fears were basically affirmed. He hoped Archie would tell him that he wasn’t so bad, not the opposite.
Archie moved up closer to his face, wrapping his arm around his neck. He used his other hand to hold his face, wiping his tears with his thumb. He then walked him to the bench outside the station, his arm around his neck pulling his head close.
They sat down. He kept him held close and talked right into his ear: “Obie, you tried to kill me. Goddamnit, you almost got my head cut off— you are a horrible, horrible person.” He said, now enthusiastically, smiling as he spoke.
Obie shook his head, not speaking and continuing to cry.
“Would you rather have my head cut off? Would you be so sad then?”
Obie regained his breath, speaking shakily. “Archie, shut up— I don’t want to hear it.”
Archie wanted him to stop crying. He loved messing with Obie when he was scared or pissed off, but it was just depressing when he was sad.
He scoffed and shook his head. “I had my doubts about you, but even I wouldn’t plot something like that. You’ve surpassed me. You should be proud of that.” He said.
Obie didn’t even know what to say to once again being praised by who he attempted to kill for trying to kill him— there was nothing to say. He sighed, looking up at the sun. It was a perfect day, wasted on being miserable. If it was the last summer, or the summer before that, he’d probably be out with Archie somewhere— and he now sort of was too, despite how he thought and hoped Fair Day would be the last day he’d ever see him.
Now, Archie was alive and practically capitalizing after his failure, taunting him with the guilt and making him feel as awful as possible. As usual, he was never forcing it. He was not forcing him to feel bad, never insulting or berating him —hell, even praising him for having such a plot— but just reminding all of the reasons that he should be insulted and berated.
Archie realized all he was saying wasn’t helping. Obie wanted to be good, to be doing what was right. People like that annoyed him, but he loved them at the same time— they were easy to mess with.
This was the opposite of Janza, who’d practically get off to being told how bad, gross, or sick he was. That was something Archie found beautiful about him. Janza was practically his only friend, besides Obie —if he counted— and he loved to see the stark contrast in how they wanted to be perceived.
“You hate me, don’t you?” Archie said, looking down at Obie’s glasses which he held, knowing well that if he wasn’t keeping them, Obie would have already gotten up and left.
Obie looked at him, at his profile from the side. He looked perfect. Archie always made him feel ugly in some sort of way, but at times like this it was physically. His clear skin glowed in the sun, his nose was perfectly straight, his jaw was perfectly structured. He felt hideous next to him. He covered the side Archie would see of his pale, overly-thin, acne-ridden face with his hand.
“You know the answer to that.” He replied plainly.
“Say it.” Archie said, looking over and into his eyes, which looked small and especially sad without his glasses.
Obie did what he was told. “I hate you.” He said, his tone defeated and not matching the malice of the phrase.
Archie nodded, making Obie feel a bit sorry, as it was clear he didn’t hate him back. He then stared at his lips, letting him notice and get uncomfortable.
“I love you, Obie.” He said, not looking up from his mouth. Obie felt his stomach drop with these words. Was he joking?
Before he could respond, they were interrupted as the building’s door opened, Ray stepping out. He looked at them and shook his head, walking out to the parking lot quickly before anything could be said; he didn’t want to further any conflict with the two: an attempted-killer with a widely-feared gang-leader. The scariest part is they’d look like normal, sweet boys to any other passerby.
Obie was a bit embarrassed by his glance. He looked up and slid further away from Archie on the bench. “I should really get going.” He said.
Archie still held onto his glasses. “How are you getting home?”
“Walking.” He thought that he’d rather walk the five miles from the police station home than face the tension of being in a car with Archie, so that’s what he planned to do.
“Let me drive you back.”
This pissed Obie off even more. He was picked up by an officer at his door, taken in a police cruiser, mortifying him. Of course Archie had his car, and was just called here by phone— everything was so easy for him.
“Get yourself together, Obie.” Archie said, finally handing him back his glasses. Obie did, sniffing back his snot and blinking his eyes until they dried. He walked to Archie’s car, the notable run-down Chevy which was funny to be belonging to such a big shot like himself— but no one could say much, as it was good enough that he had a car in the first place.
The car door slammed as Archie sat beside him. They were alone together now; Obie expected this to make him feel more tense, but for some reason it was relieving.
Archie wanted to help him, to do one last thing for him after they probably wouldn’t see each other again. They were going to college away from each other. Archie got into Boston College, a great pleasure for his parents to brag about. Obie was going to some normal-seeming, mid-tier, overpriced and boring college in Michigan— prompting Archie to somewhat-jokingly question how much he hated himself. Obie said he wanted to go where no one knew him, especially relevant now that he was known as an attempted-murderer. He’d probably have way better luck with girls there, girls who didn’t know him.
For now though, Archie knew he was lonely. He seemed all pent-up again. Clearly, since he was still engaging with him, there was something other than pure hatred he felt for him.
Archie turned on the car. The radio came on, with static-ridden hollers coming through. As the sound cleared he recognized the voice as Jim Morrison, but he couldn’t make out the song quite yet. He loved The Doors, so of course that made Obie force himself to hate them, to take on the same perspective of his mother: that type of music is sinful— and he hitched on just like Archie to that idea. That type of music is sinful, just like Archie.
“Obie.” Archie said, turning to him.
“Yes?”
Obie looked at him. Archie’s hand was down and ready to shift the car’s gears. His eyes scanned the dashboard. L.A. Woman: he concluded that was the song that was playing as he turned its volume up. He then looked to the side, meeting the dark eyes of the boy beside him, holding a stare.
Obie almost flinched at the piercing look he gave. The tension was unbelievable.
“Do you want to make it up to me?”
“Yeah—” he croaked.
Archie was then even closer. “Do what I know you want to do.”
He knew what Archie meant; he was right about him wanting to. He was nervous. He’d barely ever initiated anything in his life, until now when he practically slammed his mouth upon his face.
He gripped the back of his head. The top of his glasses bumped into his brow, his lips pushed hard onto his and were kissed back with vigor. He felt his soft hair, kissed upon that perfectly beautiful face, bringing himself upon the boy who’d practically made him lose his mind.
Archie groaned as he finally pulled off, seeing Obie then glancing around nervously as if someone could see. No one but them would be at the police station on a perfect day like this; the lot was empty.
Archie held his face, caressing his cheek with his thumb as he turned his head back towards him. “Again.” He demanded, his tone not crass but playful.
Obie gave him a quick kiss on his lips. He wanted more, so after he leaned in again, gripping his face and kissing him intensely. Archie held onto his back, Obie’s force pushing him to sink into his seat.
Obie made out with him for what seemed like blissful ages until he finally pulled off, out of breath with saliva running down his chin.
“Feel better, Obie? I think I do.”
“I do.” Obie said, still leaned over Archie. He felt bad, dirty, wrong, but in a way of powerful rebellion rather than shame. He concluded that he liked the song that was playing too. He was a sinner, but he felt free.
He had always done bad, always let boys practically get tortured under The Vigils. He was socially-acceptable enough to convince himself that he was good, but not anymore after he’d attempted murder: he was an outcast, socially-unacceptable, and there was no reversing that. So why not embrace it by doing something so explicitly homosexual?
Obie stared at his face, looking into those intelligent blue eyes which were now under him. Archie was below him, for once— at least physically. Those lips. He watched them, twitching open as if to say something. The upper curved in an elegant M-shape, and the lower fit below it perfectly, thin and long in some sort of perfect ratio to the thin tip of his nose.
“You’re beautiful.” He said to that face.
Beautiful? Archie loved that word. He was always the one to use it, never to be called it himself. It truly was the best compliment.
Obie pressed his lips onto his once again, his tongue sliding into his mouth and grazing his teeth. He pressed his tongue back into his, sliding beside it and curling it into his mouth. Obie moaned in a hum, kissing him endlessly until Archie had to be the one to push him off.
He forgot how frail Obie was and surprised himself with how easily he could lift him. Obie looked back at him blankly, his chest heaving and his eyes glowing in lust. He was stunned at what he just did.
Archie sat up straight, turning his car to reverse and pulling out of the lot.
He then smiled at Obie. “Beautiful.” He remarked.