Archive of Our Own

Leland likes it here in the rehabilitation center; in fact, he likes it more than living in his own house. It’s not something he’s embarrassed to admit. The rehab center is much larger than his house and far bigger than any place he’s been to, even Mrs. Calderon’s house. It’s a mix of pastel yellow, white, and blue that Leland can’t help but appreciate. 

He’s always dressed in the softest shirts, and the nurses even go as far as to give him a soft sweater to wear underneath, just because the smallest size they have is still so loose over his frame.

They allow him to walk around the place barefoot from time to time, let him lie on the grass in the yard, and watch the clouds pass by. They permit him many activities that he never realized he enjoyed or even knew he wanted to do, like painting. They always tell him that he can paint anything, because anything and everything is art; even a blank piece of canvas can be considered art. Leland appreciates this and has come to enjoy painting.

He paints often now, sometimes in his room, but most of the time in the art room. He consistently paints different kinds of flowers he sees around the garden—tulips, roses, sunflowers, lilies, and many more. Occasionally, he visits the library to search for more types of flowers and kind of wishes some of the pretty ones were in the garden. But then again, some flowers can’t survive in this climate. So as much as he wants to see them, he settles for admiring them in the books he borrows or online.

His mother visits—sometimes, but his father, not so much. Leland understands; he’s far from home, and he’s no longer in Arizona. He’s very, very far away. The rehab center is a special place for people who want to heal their sadness. It's wonderful here; it doesn’t feel like he’s looking in a mirror and seeing himself. These are the people who want to get better, striving to pluck the sadness away from behind their eyes and lead fulfilling lives. Ryan would have loved to be here; Leland knows that well.

There is a part of the center where he can see people who are just like Ryan. But unlike Ryan, they like it here; they’re happy. There is no sadness behind their eyes. It’s really beautiful—it’s like a sanctuary. “So, what is it today, Leland? Basketball? Painting? Dipping your toes in the pool? Maybe watching the lake?” Melissa asks as she knocks on the door of his room. She finds Leland sitting by the window, his eyes trained on the cars below. “New people?” He points a hand toward the window as Melissa hums, walking up beside him.

They both peer down out the window, seeing three teens being brought in. One is a girl; she looks to be the same age as Leland. The other two are boys, one with a buzz cut and a permanent frown on his face, glaring at everyone. The other one has long dark blond hair, blank eyes looking around as if he’s not really there, but at the same time assessing the place, his brows lazily furrowed while Leland presses his face to the glass.

“Oh yes, that’s Samantha, Philip, and Henry,” Melissa points out, a small smile on her face. “Samantha is just your age, Leland. Philip and Henry are a bit older, but I think they’ll get along with everyone here,” she adds.

Melissa is a very kind nurse, and Leland likes her. Her hair is the same shade as his mother’s, but unlike his mother’s, her eyes shine with a comforting light that he found in Mrs. Calderon—bright eyes of a hardcore idealist. She isn’t too similar to the Mrs. Calderon from the past, but she reminds Leland painfully of how happy the woman used to be when he was younger.

“Are they going to be happy here too?” Leland asks as he watches the three being led inside, his view of them now gone. He turns to Melissa, who hums in response. “I’m sure they will.” Her eyes convey honesty. Leland smiles at her, and soon he’s led to the cafeteria, where Melissa guides him to his table. “Later, we can go to the lake. What do you think?” Melissa asks as she passes by him. Leland has already finished his breakfast—scrambled eggs, two strips of bacon, and an apple; his yogurt remains uneaten.

He’s not picky, but he doesn’t often like the texture of yogurt; however, there are days he can swallow it down. He pockets the cup of yogurt as he stands up. “I’d like that,” Leland murmurs. The center is a very large place—not just the white house, but the yard too; the land itself is expansive. Leland has to sit with the others on the very large golf cart just to go to the lake and relax for the day. “There aren’t many people going to the lake,” Leland points out as he and Melissa walk down the stone path toward the golf cart.

There is a single person sitting at the back of the cart as Melissa hands him a satchel containing his notebook, some books he likes to reread (mostly his father’s), some colored pencils, regular pencils, and a pen. “Thank you,” Leland murmurs. “No problem. Enjoy your trip, okay? Remember, if you need something, just page me. Or if something happens, don’t hesitate to press the button. Got it?” Melissa says, clipping the small rectangular beeper to the hem of his shirt, letting it dangle there as it beeps softly when she activates it. 

“Okay,” Leland says quietly as Melissa pats his head. He eventually rides the golf cart, sitting just beside the singular man who is sitting there, leaning back and staring at the roof of the cart. He wears the same thing as Leland—a soft shirt—and like Leland, a long-sleeved shirt underneath that covers his arms completely, pants, and slides on sandals with some socks.

Leland steals a glance—he looks familiar, with long dark blonde hair. It must be that guy who was just brought here earlier! 

“Hi,” Leland says, feeling a bit shy as the other man pays him no mind, not responding. His long hair covers part of his face. “Hi. My name is Leland P. Fitzgerald,” Leland says again, this time louder. He isn’t sure if it makes sense to speak up, since the place is quiet and they are sitting right beside each other.

The guy—Henry, as far as Leland can remember—just crosses his arms over his chest without responding. Leland frowns as he sits back down, leaning heavily against the backseat. He sees Mr. Orion whistling down the path, spinning the key in his finger, as always. He wears his blue button-up shirt, the lanyard around his neck, and his ID. “Fine morning to you two. Hello there, Leland,” Orion winks at Leland, who smiles at him, satchel on his lap, holding it there. “Good morning, Mr. Orion,” Leland replies softly. Orion just smiles at him as he hops into the driver’s seat and hums.

“Hold on, you two. No jumping out of the cart, alright?” Orion warns, and Leland nods. Henry doesn’t make a move as if he can hear the older man; he just adjusts his body, arms still crossed over his chest, his lips pulled into a thin, blank line. Leland can’t help but watch him from the side. He knows it’s considered bad to stare, but he has become so accustomed to reading people’s faces that he feels the need to look in order to understand their emotions.

Leland isn’t good at interpreting people’s emotions through their tone and voice, because most of the time, it isn’t genuine—or it doesn’t match the emotion they are trying to convey; that’s just how humans are. They can speak in an angry tone while their faces show fear. This generally means they are pretending to be angry because they are very scared.

Right now, Leland can’t read Henry’s face at all. It’s blank, though his eyes flicker to Leland’s as Leland looks away, down to his lap. He taps his fingers on the satchel. The golf cart finally moves, and air gently blows across their faces as Orion drives them down the yard, past the farm where a few patients are engaged in various activities. 

Sometimes Leland joins them; he likes planting potatoes and tomatoes, but better yet, he enjoys harvesting, so he often shows up during harvest time.

It takes about 15 to 20 minutes for the golf cart to reach the lake, mostly because Orion drives very slowly—some curious patients might try to jump off the cart, even if it is well barricaded. Humans are naturally curious, and Leland understands that well. So he opens a book and continues to read his father’s stories, thumbing the dog-eared pages, as he doesn’t really want to use a bookmark.

It’s a nice day today: blue skies, white fluffy clouds, green grass, and a refreshing breeze that feels pleasant against Leland’s skin, brushing his hair back. By the time they arrive, Leland steps out of the golf cart, slips off his sandals, and places them inside his satchel as he walks around the yard, spinning in circles and counting in his head while Orion sits in his foldable chair, watching him.

“Don’t spin too much, kiddo; you might get dizzy.” Orion laughs, chuckling as Leland grins, his eyes drifting towards the cart where Henry still sits, staring at the lake with a strange emotion in his eyes that Leland has never seen before. It's sadness, mixed with something else that Leland can't quite identify. 

“Aren’t you coming out? You’re allowed to come out, after all.” Leland walks up, leaning his cheek on the armrest of the backseat where Henry is sitting. Henry looks at him for a moment before gazing past him, lips pulling into a thin line. Leland can’t help but pout as he watches Henry lean back, turn his head, and look in the opposite direction of where Leland is standing.

“Don’t worry about him, kid. Just go to the lake and enjoy your day,” Orion calls from the side. Leland sighs and nods as he runs to the lake, sitting down by the water's edge, pulling his pants up and dipping his ankles in before continuing to read his father’s book, humming softly under his breath.

It’s nice here—so nice that Leland doesn’t really want to leave anymore. He doesn’t know when he can leave or if he’ll ever leave. Murder is not something to be taken lightly, of course. It’s not a mistake you can take back. There are many days and nights when Leland has stayed in his room, staring out the window with tears in his eyes, chest full of regret for what he did to Ryan. There are bad days when he still cries in sorrow because this place would have been perfect for Ryan. There is a strange emotion inside Leland that makes him feel like he sometimes doesn’t deserve to be in this beautiful place at all. 

But at the same time, he doesn’t feel he deserves to go back home either. 

So... the question is, where will he go? And where does he deserve to go? It’s all very confusing.

By the time lunch is nearing, Orion drives them back to the white house, where they are served chicken sandwiches, oranges, and more cup yogurt. Leland puts one yogurt in each of his pockets. Maybe he can give one to Carl, who is always by the main door of the white house. He’s a very tall man with a mean face but a soft voice when he talks.

“Leland, want to play ball?” Jeremy calls out to him by the court as Leland passes by, still engrossed in his book and almost tripping on a few decorative stones along the way. He stops when he hears Jeremy’s loud call. “Oh… I don’t know—” Leland hums, looking at his book and then at the court where he sees a few boys—some older than him—and girls too, with short hair as they laugh and push each other, passing the ball around.

“One-on-one; I’ll go easy on you. I promise,” Jeremy says, and Leland nods. He closes his book. “Okay.”

“There comes John’s sister. What a dear girl she is, and so careful of me. I must not let her find me writing.” Leland reads as he sits in the garden, which is empty at the moment. Most patients prefer to paint at this hour, but for him, it’s the perfect time to read the book that Michelle—another patient he always spots in the library—gave him. She loves to read and has mostly read all the books in the library, mainly because she’s been in this place longer than he has.

She urged him to read something other than his father’s writing, calling it “bland” and “fake,” claiming it was all for the love of the game and not from true passion. Leland doesn’t fully understand that criticism, but he agrees and takes the book anyway. “This wallpaper has a kind of subpattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then,” he reads, glancing over the lilies for a moment before refocusing on the text.

Leland sighs as he continues to read—his heart isn’t really in it. The story is incredibly interesting, and the weather is perfect for reading. He thumbs the corner of the book, folding it as he places it back in his satchel. With another sigh, he stands up and walks through the garden, inhaling the mix of flowers, soil, and wet grass. He pauses by the roses, which are barricaded with nets to protect against their thorns and prevent anyone from getting hurt.

Leland crouches in front of them, enjoying the smell of the roses while staring intently. Suddenly, a hand reaches past the net, grabbing a thorny stem and pulling. Leland gasps as he looks up, seeing Henry, whose hand is now pierced by a thorn. He stares blankly at it, seemingly indifferent to the pain, the thorn embedded in his flesh. 

“Your hand—thorns,” Leland stammers, feeling a bead of cold sweat trickle down his back as he notices blood dripping from Henry’s hand while he rolls the stem around his palm, unconcerned by the wounds it inflicts. Leland wants to shout, "Stop that!" but his voice seems stuck; his lips won’t move, leaving him feeling uncomfortable.

“I—” Leland’s mouth flaps uselessly as Henry tilts his head. “Does it matter?” he asks, and Leland blinks furiously, feeling a heavy emotion in his chest threatening to burst as he glances at the blood staining the green grass beneath them. He remembers stabbing his palm himself, feeling the digging motion in his flesh, the pain that accompanied it, and the red sticky liquid pouring out like tears. 

Henry grins at Leland’s confused and terrified expression, and it makes Leland feel a bit sick to hear the sound of the blood dripping and to see the proud look on Henry’s face as if he wanted Leland to witness this.

It was painful, Leland recalls vividly; it felt like he was searing a hot iron onto his palm that day. He had felt tears welling up but didn’t cry—instead, he bit his lip and held it inside as he touched his wound. “You’re hurt.” Leland scrambles to press the pager on the hem of his shirt, and for some reason, his hands are shaking at the sight of blood—he doesn’t understand why he’s reacting like this, but memories come flooding back: the blood from his own wound and Ryan’s peaceful face as he fell onto the grass.

Leland presses his palm against his face and looks at Henry, who is focused on the rose in his hand, blood trickling lazily and staining his sleeve. Leland stands there, unsure what to do. Melissa has told him about other patients—how their sadness is so profound that they would hurt themselves; those patients aren’t allowed outside. Henry might be one of those patients, but Leland has no idea how he’s permitted to wander the garden.

Three nurses approach, all of them large, burly men, and Henry drops the rose with a smirk at Leland as they take him by his arms and drag him away. Unlike other patients who sometimes have loud outbursts, Henry doesn’t scream or shout; he simply accepts it as Leland swallows hard, feeling a discomfort gnawing at the pit of his stomach. “Are you alright?” a nurse asks, placing a hand on Leland’s shoulder. Leland looks at the bloodied rose on the grass and the droplets spreading around.

He nods, and moments later, he finds himself alone in the garden. He remains standing; the rose has been taken away, but the blood remains. Slowly, he walks over to it and crouches in front of it. 

He closes his right eye, then switches to his left, and back again. He can see the blood with his left eye, while the right shows only the clean grass, disappearing when he switches eyes. He tilts his head, and now both eyes can finally see the blood, regardless of whether one eye is closed or the other.

He inches closer and presses a finger against the blood, raising his hand to look at the stain on his skin. He rubs his thumb over it slowly. Leland does not understand why people who experience such profound sadness would go as far as to draw blood instead of simply ending their lives and ridding themselves of that painful sadness. It just doesn’t make sense. If you experience sadness that hurts you, that makes your chest tight and your breath shallow, it’s painful. So why fall under the blade and feel more pain? 

Why feel more hurt when you can easily stop it with one blow? Why prolong the suffering? 

Leland doesn’t know. 

He wipes the blood on the grass, not on his pants—after all, they are white—and he stands up, clutching his satchel as he walks out of the garden. “The dog is back.” Leland stops when he enters the white house, spotting an old woman sitting on the couch, reading today’s newspaper. She doesn’t glance at him as Leland nervously rubs his fingers along the edge of his sleeves, deciding to sit alone at a table. 

He tries not to remember the lazy trickle of blood from Henry’s hand and how the memory sits uncomfortably in his gut.

—

Leland is considered the “dog of the center,” mostly because he’s the only one with a pager attached to him, which allows him to page all the nurses at any time. Most of the time, he uses the pager to send patients back to their rooms because, one, he worries about them, and two, there are a few patients who have dangerous outbursts. Leland feels it’s his job to warn the nurses about them. He doesn’t always feel particularly proud of this role; he’s seen teachers' pets who act like this. However, Leland knows that between a teachers' pet and himself, he does it out of care and concern, while the teachers' pet does it for power.

He doesn’t mind being called that; he doesn’t mind being called a dog. He wants to help the people around him. He’s had enough of the tightness in his chest, the profound sadness that bleeds into sorrow. He wants it to stop for everyone and for himself as well. It makes Leland feel better that he’s doing something about it.

“You gotta learn how to jump. You’re tall for your age, but you’re doing nothing but this,” Jeremy says as he slumps down and makes a frowny face while Leland lets out a small giggle, hugging the ball in his arms. “I’m trying,” Leland shrugs as he throws the ball back to Jeremy, who catches it easily, dribbling it between his legs. Leland crouches down to Jeremy’s waist, trying to stop him as Jeremy easily spins, juking him and preparing to score a three-pointer. 

One step back, ball raised above his head, jump—

Leland intercepts him and slaps the ball away as Jeremy almost stumbles backward, laughing. “Good job!” he cheers as he chases after the ball, coming back as Leland grins, feeling proud of himself; a rush of pride seeps into his chest as he watches Jeremy dribble the ball. “That was good, Leland. Very nice block,” Jeremy grins, wagging a finger at him as Leland shuffles on his feet, grinning from ear to ear while rubbing the back of his neck. 

It feels nice to be praised for something he doesn’t think is that important. Pride is something new he’s been feeling for a while, and he really likes it. “You taught me,” Leland shrugs as Jeremy grins at him, patting his shoulder. “I’ve got a good student then.” 

Just then, Leland is called by Melissa. “Leland, a visitor is here,” she says, and Leland runs over to her, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. “Who is it?” he asks as Melissa hands him a fresh white towel. He wipes his face, noticing the floral detergent clinging to it as he sniffs a little, wiping his face a few more times, then his neck, before pulling the sleeves of his shirt back down to his wrists.

“It’s Mr. Pearl Madison,” Melissa says, and Leland can’t help but smile at that, feeling giddy and excited. Pearl’s back! It’s been a month since anyone else visited him. Ever since Leland was moved here, Pearl always came to visit him, more than his mother and more than his father as well. 

“Hey kid,” Pearl grins as Leland leans over to give him a tight hug, hearing Pearl chuckle as he runs his hand through Leland’s curly hair before patting his back. Leland breaks from the hug, smiling broadly. “You visited again,” Leland points out as Pearl leads him to one of the stone benches in the yard. A few patients pass by, talking to their own visitors; some are smiling, while others are crying, saying they miss home, and some are asking about their lives outside.

“Of course, I would! I promised you that, didn’t I?” Pearl chuckles as Leland sits down, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “Yeah... yeah, you did—” Leland says. “How are you faring around here? Has anything crazy happened?” Pearl asks as he leans back. Leland just shrugs. “Not much has happened. I read Dad’s books again, but Michelle just told me they’re a bunch of junk and bull… so I’m trying to read other books,” Leland frowns, shrugging again. Pearl snorts at that, shaking his head. “Looks like Michelle and I are going to get along; she’s right. You should try reading other books. Anything else happening around here? The yard is amazing as always, and the smell is fresh. It’s not every day you get to live in a place like this, huh?” Pearl tilts his head as Leland nods. “It’s nice—uhm, there are three new patients who just arrived a few days ago,” he says.

“That’s interesting. They don’t get many new patients around here, do they? You must be very special to be in here,” Pearl says, and Leland shrugs. “I only met one of them; Melissa said his name is Henry,” Leland begins. Pearl looks interested; Leland never talks about someone unless they’ve done something interesting that would pique his interest, after all. 

“Just a few days ago, he hurt himself by picking a rose; he got thorns all over his hand from holding it tightly until he bled.” Leland gives Pearl a look as Pearl hums. “That sounds painful,” Pearl says.

Leland nods. “It is… it’s very horrible. Why would anyone do such things?” he asks.

“Well,” Pearl starts, shifting to look Leland straight in the eyes. “There are a lot of factors for that, Leland. There is a lot of sorrow in those kinds of people,” he explains. “Enough sadness to hurt yourself? Why not just… end it all? Why feel more pain when sadness already gives you pain?” Leland asks as Pearl eyes him for a moment, then takes a small breath and stares up at the sky.

“Look at the sky, Leland. The clouds are very beautiful today. Looks like a cat, don’t you think?” Pearl changes the topic as Leland raises his head to look at it as well. “Uhm…” he says. “How is Miranda?” Leland asks, closing his left eye to look at a cloud that resembles a cat. His vision shifts, and he can only see half of it. Then he switches to his right, now able to see the tail. He does this again and again until he gets dizzy from the light. “Miranda’s fine; she’s with me right now, actually, but she’s gone to get some stuff. She didn’t want to intrude,” Pearl says.

Leland turns his head quickly. “It’s not. She’s not intruding… I would love to meet her,” he says, frowning. Pearl pats his back gently. “Next time, she’ll come with us. What do you think?” Pearl asks as Leland nods. “That would be nice. You say a lot of good things about her; I want to meet her too. She sounds like a very nice person,” he says softly as Pearl ruffles his hair, and Leland can’t help but grin. It almost feels like having his dad with him—though rather, his father never really did this kind of hair-ruffling thing.

He’s not there after all, and he’s never spoken to his father the way he speaks to Pearl. They don’t have conversations that feel deep and important. Not that it matters to Leland; it’s fine that they don’t do those things. Leland loves him all the same anyway. 

“You know, you mentioned last time that you’ve started liking flowers. I bought a book about them. I haven’t really opened it, so I don’t know what’s inside, but it did say there are a few pages that pop out.” Pearl then moves his bag, opening it as he pulls out a hardcover book. Leland lights up, offering his hand as Pearl hands it to him. It’s still wrapped in dusty plastic; most likely, Pearl bought it from a book sale store, and this book hasn’t seen the light of day in years—not until now.

“Thank you,” Leland murmurs. “Open it,” Pearl says. Leland doesn’t waste any time, tearing through the plastic and opening the book. He stops at the table of contents, seeing the pages for specific flowers and their meanings. Leland can’t help but let out a small noise of amazement. “You like it?” Pearl asks, and Leland nods. “It’s amazing! It also has a flower language. I’ve been wanting one that includes this. I can’t always use the internet; we’re only given 30 minutes each day,” Leland explains as he pages through the book.

“Well, I’m glad I chose this one,” Pearl says, and Leland smiles to himself, closing the book and hugging it to his chest. “Happy?” Pearl asks. Leland nods wordlessly. “If you’re happy, then I am too. When you get out of here, where do you want to go?” Pearl leans back as Leland looks over the yard in thought, nibbling his lower lip gently as he blinks. “Hm,” Leland hums. 

“Home, maybe.” He shrugs, and Pearl lets out a soft sigh. “Aside from home,” he says.

Leland shrugs. “It would be nice if Dad would let me go to the Netherlands,” he says.

“Why the Netherlands?” Pearl asks, looking over at Leland, who turns his head to meet his eyes. “I want to go to the land of tulips there. I read there are almost millions of tulips there,” Leland says, looking at his feet and kicking at the grass. “Is that so?” Pearl asks. “I’m sure your dad would let you; he’s never stopped you from going to other places on your own,” he adds.

Leland snorts, shrugging again. “You’re right.”

They both fall silent at that. “Miranda and I have been thinking about where we can go for a vacation. When you get out, we’ll come with you,” he says.

“Really?” Leland looks over at him, his eyes wide and bright. He’s all perked up and excited. Pearl grins, nodding. “Yeah, why the hell not, you know?”

“Grandma Lynn embarrassed my mother by insisting on wearing her used furs on walks around the block and by once attending a block party in heavy makeup.” Leland lay on the soft couch, resting his head on a pillow that was propped up on Michelle’s knee as he read the book—another one that Michelle had given him, asking him to give it a try because it was interesting. Leland couldn’t help but fall into the story, not that the last book was bad.

This was his second book; he was getting there slowly. “She would ask my mother questions until she knew who everyone was, whether or not my mother had seen the inside of their house, what the husband did for a living, and what cars they drove. She made a solid catalog of the neighbors. It was a way, I now realized, to try to understand her daughter better—a miscalculated circling, a sad, partnerless dance.” Leland continued to read, and Michelle, above him, breathed softly, writing something in her notebook. 

Much like Pearl, she was an aspiring author as well, but life had gotten in the way.

Leland remembered coming here when he was still new and fresh-faced and would usually hide in the library. Michelle, like everyone else Leland knew, looked straight into his eyes. There was profound sadness behind her green-brown pupils. She looked like a normal woman in her forties, someone Henry would see in school teaching children whose futures were bright, much like Pearl. 

But she loved her books; she loved the library, and the sadness faded when she was beyond this large room, nestled between shelves full of books half-filled with words that Leland sometimes couldn’t understand.

She liked to write in her notebook, and Leland often saw her writing while sitting on the couch he was lying on. She never told him what it was all about—she was really good at drawing too. But she did tell Leland how she ended up here. She was just like Becky, chasing after the feeling of chemicals in her system. There were many patients like her in this place, but unlike Becky who always had that air about her.

Leland never paid much attention to it, perhaps because of the rose-tinted glasses he wore when it came to Becky.

But Becky had always been so skittish about everything, always prepared to run—even with Leland, even when she told him that she loved him. Michelle had none of those traits, mostly because she told him she was too old to be like that anymore; she had accepted it now. This just meant that Becky never accepted her circumstances, which was why she acted that way.

Leland felt Michelle’s hand move toward his head, petting his hair like she was petting a cat, and he just let her. He knew well it calmed her down; she mentioned she had a cat named Layla, who died due to her own stupidity—Layla had gotten into her stash and died, and Leland’s hair reminded her so much of Layla. So naturally, Leland found a way to help Michelle; it didn’t matter that it involved him having his head petted.

It was nice. 

Leland had never been one to be touched by anyone, mostly because they always hated the way he looked at them. He didn’t have it in him to tell them that he couldn’t just stop doing it; otherwise, he’d have a hard time understanding their emotions. 

His mother gave him hugs, but they always had an inch of space between them—never tight, never loose either. 

Becky touched him, but not in the way he wanted. She held him like she was afraid he would run, but in reality, she was the one doing the running. She dug her fingers into his skin, and he eventually came to like the pain that came with it.

Pearl’s touch was nice; Leland often sought it out before he sought out Michelle's. Mostly because he found comfort in his teacher from juvenile hall. 

“Anything you’re planning to do today?” Michelle scratched her nails over Leland’s scalp. The book was already closed as he lay there, his eyes half-closed. Her hand stopped when he didn’t respond, and his eyes opened. “Maybe a walk; why? Are you coming with me?” He sat up and turned to Michelle, who just hummed. “Hmm, it would be nice to get some fresh air—but maybe tomorrow,” she said. It was the same phrase she always used when Leland asked her to come outside with him; it wasn’t a no, but it also wasn’t a yes.

Michelle hated making decisions, and Leland didn’t really mind.

Later, he stepped out of the library and bumped into a hard body, nearly sending both of them to the floor if it hadn’t been for the fact that the person he collided with managed to grab onto the wall behind them. “Do you not watch your step?” the other person asked as Leland stood up, heat rising to his face as he looked up at the person—it was Henry. His brows were furrowed, and he looked angry, his lips in a frown, but his voice was soft like he physically cannot shout or raise his voice. 

“I didn’t see you—sorry,” Leland said.

Henry just narrows his eyes at him; their heights are almost the same, and their builds as well. Though Henry looks lankier and skinnier, he’s also paler, making him appear gaunt. He almost resembles a lamp post from back home; if he didn’t breathe or speak, Leland might have mistaken him for one.

“It’s you… of course—the dog of the center. Thanks a lot, by the way.” Henry jabs as Leland stands there, squirming a bit under Henry’s intense gaze. It’s a new and uncomfortable experience for Leland to maintain eye contact with someone who returns his stare with equal intensity. Henry’s eyes are a deep blue, reflecting the darkness so well that they almost look brown—like the sadness he carries has altered their color. 

It’s deeply petrifying; Leland finds it hard to breathe when he sees his own reflection in Henry’s eyes.

“Do you know why they call me that?” Leland asks. “The pager on your shirt, of course. You do that to everyone—tattle on us. You’re their pet, aren’t you? Do you know how long I’ve been locked in my room because of you?” Henry replies, sounding not entirely angry—perhaps a bit, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes instead. 

“You hurt yourself… You can’t do that,” Leland says, eyeing Henry’s hair that hangs limply around his face like a wet curtain. “Hn.” Henry makes a disinterested noise under his breath as Leland frowns at him, unable to part his upper teeth over his lower lip. With his chin jutted out, he shuffles on his feet, and for the first time, Leland looks away from someone’s eyes.

He thinks he can’t look at Henry anymore because of the tightness in his chest that threatens to consume him. It’s the same feeling he experienced that led him to kill Ryan, the same feeling that rendered him unable to sleep for all those days, the same feeling that caused tears to escape his eyes—a feeling he had prided himself on having last experienced when his grandmother died.

“Why do it?” Leland asks, but Henry just lets out a scoff—almost amused, yet at the same time it’s as if he expects Leland to not understand him. He turns away, walking down the hall and then down the stairs, hands in his pockets. 

He doesn’t rush; he walks slowly as Leland watches him, unsure if he should follow or not. He feels more uncomfortable than ever, a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck as he stands there, a bit dumbfounded and off-kilter. The emotion feels similar to how he feels around everyone, and Leland thinks Ryan felt this way too; he knows that well.

Ryan felt extreme sadness because of how people perceived him—stupid, slow, dimwitted. There are two things people feel around him: either they laugh at him or they pity him. In a way, Leland feels almost the same. He’s a teen who can’t fit into his own skin and shoes. 

Everyone looks at him, and like Ryan, there are two things they feel about him: they fear what runs through his mind, or they think he’s so slow that there’s nothing at all running through it. When in reality, Leland has come to learn the skill of reading and interpreting their emotions just through a twitch of an eye, the speed of their blinks, the form of their lips, and more—how they stand, how their hands move.

Leland may be the most self-aware person in this whole place; he prides himself on that.

“Something the matter, Leland?” Melissa asks, as Leland pushes his mashed potatoes around his plate mindlessly. Jeremy is loud beside him, talking to Juan about playing basketball tomorrow with the others. Leland knows Jeremy will turn to him next to ask the same question.

Leland shrugs as he glances at Melissa, who stands beside him with her hands neatly folded in front of her; she’s already holding a cup full of pills. It’s not that serious—just supplements, vitamins, some junk, and a pill to help Leland sleep. He falls into the same category as the other patients here who are unable to sleep normally. 

“You have to eat; you’ve got pills to take,” Melissa reminds him. Leland nods again, methodically shoving food into his mouth, counting to ten as he chews before taking another bite and staring at the high ceiling, where the lights seem to buzz and hum.

As he eats, he wonders about the Pollard family—about Becky, Julie, Mr. and Mrs. Pollard. Leland knows well that the two older Pollards don’t like him much; well, “like” is a strong word. He just doesn’t have a good relationship with either of them, unlike Allen, who lives with them. Leland has met Julie and spoken to her a couple of times, but mostly about the day, the weather, and the news. He’s fine with half-hearted conversations; he’s always liked being included in things because no one ever includes him anywhere—not in conversations.

Allen is fine; Leland thinks he likes Allen. He’s like a big brother—like Pearl, maybe. He’s funny and says the most random things, but he’s also really smart. Unlike Julie or her parents, Allen makes an effort to speak to Leland, and he’s the same person who warned Leland about Becky’s problem as well. So yes, Leland likes Allen more than all of them; he thinks at some point he kind of wished he could be like Allen.

Eventually, Leland finishes his food, takes his medicine, and goes to his room to lie on his bed, waiting for the pill that helps him sleep to take effect. The lights are turned off, leaving the moonlight from the window to illuminate the ceiling and the door as Leland lays there, duvet kicked away. 

For some reason tonight, he feels warm—almost hot all over, which makes his skin feel uncomfortable, even when he presses his palm against it and feels nothing but cold.

His mind wanders to his mother and then to his father. After that, he thinks of Ryan, then Becky, and back to Ryan once more. He recalls the moment on the bike when Ryan sits, unaware that it will be the last day he’ll see the sun shining and the last day he’ll be riding his bike. 

Then Leland’s mind drifts to Henry’s bleeding hand, the lazy trickle of blood down his wrist and onto the grass below, the sharp thorns piercing his skin as Leland feels a chill wash over him.

He feels both hot and cold at the same time, and his stomach cramps in a way that makes him feel hungry yet too full. He turns to his side, biting his lower lip as he wraps his arms around himself, lying there, unable to shake the memory of blood. Blood from Ryan, blood from the self-inflicted wound on his hand, which has finally healed after months, and lastly, Henry’s bleeding hand because of the rose thorns.

That night, he dreams of bleeding roses and a crying woman, waking up in a sweat, his body drenched, terror deep in his skin and bones, and the roots of his hair feeling like they’re being tugged and pulled.

—

The computers here in the rehab center have their own limits. Leland knows that; in fact, the first time he was able to use the computer and search the internet, he tried looking for websites where he could watch porn, but no sites appeared. Every site was blocked or nonexistent, which meant that all the information he received here was controlled and not a hundred percent accurate. 

He doesn’t really mind—but at the same time, he can’t search for things he wants to know that he knows aren’t allowed to be questioned at random. If anything, he depends on Pearl for that. While Leland believes he’s the most self-aware person in this place, he doesn’t claim to be the smartest; he doesn’t possess all the knowledge in the world. 

“Why would someone hurt themselves?” Leland asks as he and Pearl sit on the grass, his hands mindlessly picking at the blades beneath him as he rubs them between his fingers before smelling them. 

“Now, why is this the first question you’re asking me today?” Pearl jokes, and Leland just shrugs, unsure how to explain where the question came from. He can’t seem to get Henry and Ryan out of his mind; sometimes he sees Ryan holding the rose and not Henry, and he imagines Henry laying on the grass, eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face with blood over his chest. 

It sends Leland into a cold, painful sweat, causing him to feel sick all over.

“Can’t you just answer the question, Pearl?” Leland asks, feeling strangely desperate. 

“Answer me first,” Pearl challenges. Leland juts his lip out at Pearl, forming a pout as Pearl looks at him with raised brows. “So?” he asks. Leland looks down at his lap, pulling more grass, this time with much more force. “A few weeks ago, Henry hurt himself in front of me,” he admits. 

“Jesus.” Pearl clicks his tongue like a disappointed mother as Leland sneaks a look at him. Pearl presses a hand to his forehead, looking strangely tense. “This is another patient, right? The one you told me about who got himself hurt on the thorns of a rose? He did it in front of you?” he asks. Leland nods. 

“Christ. Do you want me to talk to the headmaster about this? Are you alright? Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Pearl asks, his voice rising in pitch, a telltale sign of his anxiety. Leland shrugs. “I didn’t think it was important. It didn’t matter,” he says. 

“So now it does?” Pearl asks. Leland shrugs again, unsure how to explain the visions and dreams he’s been having about Henry. “I don’t know; I just want to know the answer to my question,” Leland admits.

Pearl looks at him before pressing a palm over his face and dragging it down, breathing in sharply. “Okay. Alright—alright. Well, there are a few people who use pain to forget about their suffering, just like this Henry guy,” he says. 

“Oh… But that feels kind of redundant, don’t you think? Trying to distract yourself from your pain with another pain?” Leland asks, tilting his head. Pearl draws in another sharp breath. “Well, this one—this one is different. In fact, a lot of people might be doing this unconsciously. It doesn’t always have to be physical, you see. Like Henry, he uses physical pain to distract himself. Others might drink themselves to the point of passing out, or use drugs. Do you understand where I’m going with this?” Pearl explains softly.

Leland flinches at this new information and blinks quickly before looking up at the sky, trying to breathe. He looks back down at his lap, then gives up and looks away. “Oh,” he says. “It’s pain, yes, but a different kind of pain that numbs them, distracts them. A better pain that they can control.” Pearl explains. 

“Not like the sadness that’s inherently there,” Leland says slowly. 

“Sadness is not inherent,” Pearl counters softly, but Leland just shakes his head. “It is. You might not think you’re happy, but sadness is always there, always creeping up behind you. Most people just push it away; they don’t pay attention to it at all,” Leland tries to say, swallowing a heavy weight in his throat as Pearl falls silent.

“Even in the happiest moments, you’re still sad,” Leland whispers. He startles when he feels Pearl’s hand land gently on his back, rubbing it. “You’re crying, Leland,” Pearl observes softly. Leland flinches again, pressing a palm over his eyes and feeling the liquid. Suddenly, his face burns with shame, and he wipes his sleeve over his face to dry his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Leland starts. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me; something’s…something’s changed around here,” he adds.

“Crying is fine, Leland. It’s alright to cry; come here.” Pearl offers his arm, and Leland leans in to hug the older man, unable to stop the tears flowing down his face as he holds onto Pearl, who just hushes him, rubbing his back. “Are you hurting yourself, Leland?” Pearl asks, and Leland shakes his head. “No—that would be stupid,” he replies, his voice muffled against Pearl’s shirt. Pearl huffs, a bit humorously. 

“It’s redundant to beat pain with more pain.” Leland lies—even though there are many moments when he tortures himself with memories of Ryan, the absence of his father in his life, the blank stare his mother often gives him when she thinks he isn’t looking, and the way Becky’s foot is already one step out the front door even when Leland has told her he loves her many times. Even if he can’t control the future, he’d be her guardian angel.

“It’s alright, Leland. You’ll feel better when you get this all out. Crying is good; don’t just keep it in,” he says, stopping when Leland snorts.

“I'll keep it out,” Leland answers. “Well… usually you say to keep it in, but it's the same thing—the action, I mean.” Pearl chuckles softly.

Later, Leland sits alone in the yard, staring at the clouds, not really thinking, just… staring at them as they form into various shapes. He closes one eye and switches to the other repeatedly; sometimes the cloud forms a different shape when one eye is open. He tilts his head and sees Henry walking along the stone path, a large man, a nurse following a few steps behind as Henry kicks a few decorative stones toward the grass with a small blank look on his face. 

Leland sits there, watching him.

Henry is not like Ryan, but when Leland blurs his eyes, he sees Ryan in him, and his chest aches. The word "sorry" forms on his lips as he stands up and slowly walks over. Henry must have heard him because he turns his head to meet Leland’s gaze, and Leland slows to a stop, staring as Henry looks back at him, showing no sliver of discomfort at Leland’s stare. “What do you want?” Henry asks, a genuine question, not something harsh, causing Leland to startle.

He looks at Henry dumbly for a moment. “Is your hand okay?” he asks, noticing the same hand that held the thorned rose. He doesn’t see any bandage, unlike the one that was wrapped around his own hand back then. “Oh... Hm—I’m fine,” Henry shrugs, raising his left hand to show him his pale skin, turning it around to display his palm, revealing a scar where the thorns had hurt him.

Leland moves closer, examining his skin—it’s healed nicely. “So are you just going to stare at it forever?” Henry asks as Leland leans back, shrugging. “It healed,” he replies. “That’s usually what happens if you get wounds,” Henry responds, and Leland gives him an unsure look—the dead whose wounds don’t heal. Leland wants to say that, but he doesn’t. “Is that all?” Henry asks. “You just want to see my hand? What do you want now?”

Leland shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he wants from Henry; he just can’t seem to get Henry out of his head at all. “Look, the big guy over there is getting annoyed following me, and I can’t say I feel the same way, but I do.” Henry motions his head toward his nurse, who is watching them from a few steps away with his arms crossed over his chest. Leland looks. “Oh,” he says. “So if you don’t need anything, I have to continue my… recreational walks. They need me to move so they know I’m not planning to kill myself by rotting in bed,” he says as he turns away from Leland and walks off.

Leland gapes and follows the older man, falling in step beside him. “Why do you want to do that?” he asks. “What?” Henry replies as he eyes Leland, who is trying to catch a glimpse of emotion on his face. 

“Do that—hurt yourself. You said rotting in bed to death; why not find the easy way?” Leland asks. Henry stares at him for a moment, then snorts, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

“Are you serious? Is that a serious question? You do know why I'm sent here, right? Because of that reason. I didn’t die, so now I’m here to make sure I don’t do it again. They’ll stop me,” Henry explains, and Leland lets out a small, soft “oh” under his breath as Henry shakes his head at him, disappointed, before pocketing his hands and walking faster than Leland. “Do you want to do it?” Leland asks as he rushes to catch up to Henry again. “To die?” he adds.

Henry stops, and Leland almost overshoots his walk as he steps back to look at Henry. “Hey.” Henry's eyes squint, narrowing as he gives Leland a strange smile. “What’s your deal, kid? What’s going on with that head of yours? Want to see me die? Is that it? Are you here because you killed someone too? Is that story real? That you killed someone that’s why you’re here?” he asks, and Leland freezes, blood turning cold as Henry stares at him. 

Strangely, it feels like Henry is looking down at him, even though their heights are the same; if anything, Leland is an inch taller and a few inches more because of his hair.

“You’re one of us too, huh? A murderer? Alright—I see you; we’re just the same,” Henry says. His voice isn’t mocking, but it feels like poison as Leland stands there, silenced, looking away first and down to his feet as he shuffles, unsure of what to say.

Henry snorts when Leland doesn’t respond and walks past him. Leland remains rooted in place as Henry’s nurse passes by, looking apologetic but not enough to stop and ask if Leland is okay. He returns to the white house, feeling strangely insulted; at the same time, Henry isn’t wrong. He is a murderer, having killed Ryan simply because he believed he was setting him free.

But his mind lingers on Henry’s words: “too.” Henry had hurt someone as well, just like Leland.

Nathan is one of the patients who knows everyone. Leland recognizes him as the person who is aware of every gossip and all the dirt on both the patients and the nurses in this place. He’s the one who showed Leland and Jeremy two of the nurses caught in a compromising position in the broom closet and the patient who tried to escape by pretending to be dead. There are a few more embarrassing stories that Nathan has shared with Leland.

But most importantly, Nathan knows everyone's reasons for being here—Leland's included. More than anyone, Nathan understands that Leland killed someone who can't even think for himself properly. 

“Henry Letham. Ah, the resident grinch. What about him? Did he do something to you? Want me to send Harold over to show him who's the boss?” Nathan asks, and Leland simply shakes his head. “No—just want to ask why Henry’s here, that’s all. Nothing too serious. I can offer my lunch and my dinner as payment.” Leland says, prompting a grin from Nathan. “Alright, deal—let’s see.”

Nathan is special—not in the same way as Leland, but special in terms of his ability to remember a lot of things and not forget them easily. That’s why he can gather information about everyone so quickly. “Henry Letham was brought here because he tried to take his own life,” Nathan explains. “Okay. What else? Why would he do that?” Leland asks. “Well, he accidentally killed his family—his father, mother, and girlfriend—in a car crash,” Nathan replies. Leland leans back, a bit put off and strangely disappointed to learn that Henry isn’t what he expected. Of course, Henry is a kind man, unlike Leland.

Nathan shrugs. “Breakfast the next day as another form of payment, and I can give you an explanation of why Henry’s like this.” Leland nods, intrigued like a fish caught on the line. “Deal.”

“Henry’s family died because of a blown tire. The accident was gruesome; his girlfriend’s face was mangled by the windshield, and his mother’s body was hardly recognizable. His father’s neck snapped from the force of the car flipping. Henry was the only one who survived. They call it survivor’s guilt. He couldn’t bear being the last one alive, especially since he had no other family that cared for him, so he developed some destructive coping mechanisms—hurting himself, burning himself. He’s attempted suicide five times now, the most recent being the fifth. His last psychiatrist gave up on him and sent him here to prevent him from doing any of those things. He’s not dangerous, but he tends to have outbursts with anyone who gets close to him, mostly his nurses. He’s located on the fifth floor, in the mental ward,” Nathan finishes, as Leland bites his thumb nail and nods. “Thanks,” he responds.

“So what’s this for? Planning to keep an eye on him so you can press that pager of yours? You know I can give you more information if you’d share that with me.” Nathan eyes the pager on Leland’s shirt, but Leland shakes his head, stepping back. “No, thank you,” he says, though Nathan just smiles at him—the same sleazy smile that makes Leland want to grimace. He maintains his poker face.

Later at lunch, Leland sneaks his food onto Nathan’s plate, pretending he has eaten it all, and shows it to Melissa before heading to the yard again to think deeply. It’s a strange feeling to be disappointed to learn someone is not a murderer. It feels wrong to have expected Henry to be like him. But Henry is just a simple man who has lost the people he cares about—nothing as severe as Leland’s situation, where everyone believes he killed Ryan in cold blood. In reality, he felt tightness in his chest until that moment, just because he had never felt so sorry for someone as he did for Ryan. 

He just wanted to set Ryan free from this pain. 

He sees Henry again, walking down the stone path, staring into space while his nurse follows behind him. Leland stands and follows after them, hunched over in hopes that Henry wouldn’t notice him. His nurse, however, does—glancing back repeatedly and giving Leland a strange look. Eventually, Henry spots him. It’s usually easy for Henry to identify Leland from afar, with his loose limbs shuffling from one foot to another, wearing white in a place full of green and stone.

“What now?” Henry says blandly—sounding as if he’s tired of seeing Leland’s face. It’s not really a question as they both continue walking down the path. For a moment, they walk in silence—Henry doesn’t speak, and neither does Leland. 

Leland is struck by a sense of familiarity, as if he’s on a stone path leading home, with the sound of a bike chain in the distance. He sneaks a glance at Henry, whose eyes are focused ahead, the wind blowing his hair back.

His face is gaunt, with darkness under his eyes. His lips are chapped, and he breathes through his nose; it is the face of a sad man. “You’re staring at me. You need something, don’t you? Got any more of your questions?” Henry asks as Leland startles, blinking before shrugging. His questions have been answered after all; he has no need to ask Henry anymore.

Still, he can’t help but feel distant from the other man, as Henry reminds Leland so much of Ryan. Maybe this time, this version of Ryan would be given a chance to be happy, unlike the real Ryan whom Leland killed simply because he couldn’t bear the sorrow anymore, couldn’t endure the choking feeling in his throat that took all of his breath away.

Henry scoffs as he eyes the nurse behind him, curled over himself, looking annoyed and tense at the presence of an additional person. “Do you want to lose him?” Leland asks as Henry turns to him, intrigued. “How?” Henry asks, and Leland motions for him to walk faster. The nurse behind them isn’t matching their pace, walking slowly and not really expecting them to run away. He’s calm—and Leland knows that’s his mistake. He takes Henry's elbow and pulls him aside towards the yard and then towards the court before changing direction and making his way towards the garden. 

They stop and hold their breath, listening to the familiar crunching of shoes on the grass, but they hear nothing. All they can hear is the sound of the ball bouncing and the laughter and conversations of the patients playing on the court.

Leland's pager beeps; he assumes it’s the nurse trying to contact him, and he quickly turns it off as Henry eyes it and then him. “Why are you helping me?” he asks. Leland shrugs. “I don’t know… Let’s walk in the garden,” he says, pointing as Henry stands there. “I can’t go here,” he replies. Leland scratches his chin. “Then don’t touch the roses,” he jokes, and Henry gives him an interested look before shrugging lazily. “Alright,” he says, and they both move to walk down the grassy pathway, eyeing the flowers around them, enjoying the breeze and the overwhelming mixture of scents, but Leland feels at home.

“There is a swing here,” Leland says, showing Henry the large couch swing with a cushion, held by two apple trees just outside the garden. This area is usually used for exercising or nature yoga by some older patients; the large trees provide shade, while the swing adds some flourish to the place. Leland sits down, and the swing sways as he pats the space beside him. Henry eyes it, then looks at Leland again before shaking his head and sighing as he moves closer to sit down.

The swing sways, and Leland pushes his feet against the grass to make it move a little more. He leans back, enjoying the gentle motion as he gazes at the leaves on the trees, watching the sunlight filtering through the gaps. 

It isn’t full shade, but Leland loves how the sun seems to seep in between the leaves. At the same time, he can’t help but think that the sun is like sadness, while the leaves represent happiness. Even when you try your hardest to be happy, sadness can still seep through the spaces you leave open. Leland doesn’t understand why Pearl refuses to agree with him that sadness is inherent.

But it’s true; sadness is everywhere. It’s present in everything you look at, every turn you take, and in everything you do. Sadness is just one step behind you, waiting for a large enough hole to swallow you whole, until you can’t sleep, eat, drink, breathe, or do all the things you once loved. 

Leland finally sneaks a glance at the other man, noticing him leaning back as well, head thrown back, the swing continuing to sway lazily, his arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Leland shifts slightly to get a better look at the other man, his eyes trailing over the dark shadows beneath his eyes, catching a glimpse of his slightly parted mouth where the front of his tooth peeks out.

Then Leland’s eyes trailed lower—down to Henry’s hand, blinking as he noticed the sleeve rolled up. There was a scar, different from the one he had received from the thorns of a rose. This time, it appeared to be a burn, with circular rings scattered around the sliver of skin that Leland could see. The sleeve had been pushed up slightly, but not enough for Leland to determine if there was more. He looked on in interest, unsure of what to feel.

This looks self-inflicted, Leland thought as he closed his right eye, studying the scars. After closing his left eye, he switched views, observing with his right. He saw the fabric of Henry’s sleeve, the scar hidden from that perspective. 

He repeated the process again and again, switching between his two eyes before reaching over to touch it.

Leland flinched hard when Henry grabbed his wrist, nails digging into his skin. He let out a soft, pained noise and tried to pull away, looking up at Henry, who had finally sat up, brows furrowed in mild annoyance as he tightened his grip on Leland’s wrist. 

“Did your mother ever tell you not to touch things that aren’t yours?” he asked, his tone a bit hard. Leland couldn’t help but flinch and meet Henry’s gaze. 

“Sorry,” Leland muttered as Henry released his wrist. Leland moved back, rubbing his wrist as he pulled his sleeve down to reveal a red handprint on it. He eyed Henry, who was rubbing his own arm beneath the sleeve, looking a bit lost, his eyes glazed. Suddenly, he snapped back to reality and glared at Leland. “Don’t touch me,” he said, standing up and walking away, leaving Leland sitting alone on the swing.

—

Leland likes puppies and kittens. One thing he enjoys about Fridays is that the center allows them to pet the puppies and kittens that are brought in. It’s primarily to help some of the patients who need extra doses of serotonin, and what could be stronger than medicine? Puppies and kittens, of course. Leland always participates in this activity because, as a child, he was never allowed to have a puppy or a kitten. His mother believed he couldn’t care for them, and she didn’t want to take on that responsibility either.

Instead, he had an aquarium full of fish. It’s not that he minded; he likes fish. He enjoys sitting at the foot of his bed, watching them swim around in circles, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they’re in such a small space. It’s as if they never get tired of swimming within the same four walls—in a way, they’re just like humans. Actually, if Leland thinks about it, the center is much like an aquarium, a really large one.

“You like Bert here? He’s a black lab, just a few months old. Look at his big paws—too big for his little frame,” Jessica says beside Leland as she holds Polo, Bert’s brother, while Leland pets Bert, scratching the back of his ears as Bert happily pants. Polo climbs all over Jessica’s chest as she laughs. Leland smiles and says, “If I could, I would take Bert to my room and take care of him.” “Me too! Polo’s a very good boy. Right, Polo? Aww, you little bushy boy!” Jessica coos at the labrador as Polo lets out a squeaky bark, almost falling back from the force of it, and Leland can’t help but laugh. Bert is the quiet one between them, while Polo is quite rowdy. Then their sisters, Nia and Mia, are loud but not very playful—just very loud.

Leland feels a connection with Bert, sensing that they are kindred spirits, and he can't help but be drawn closer to him. “Do you think we can get them when we get out of here?” Leland asks, prompting Jessica to laugh. “Oh well, I sure hope so. But—the center owns them, and they’ll leave soon. We’ll get new litters,” Jessica explains, causing Leland to frown as he looks down at Bert. “Oh,” he replies. “Am I going to find another one like Bert then?” he asks, trying not to sound disappointed. It’s not like anything in life is permanent after all; he should have seen that coming. It was quite obvious that Bert would not be here forever.

“Well… let’s just see. I did hear that the next litters will be a bunch of Siamese kittens and Dalmatian puppies. Do you think you’ll find another Bert among them?” Jessica asks, tilting her head as Leland shrugs. Would he? Every animal is different, just like humans. He won’t see another Bert like this one.

Leland pauses, his hand resting on the back of Bert’s furry tail. Suddenly, he’s reminded of how similar Henry is to Ryan, and how Ryan is so much like Henry; it’s like they came from the same pod or seed. It’s strange. It’s new. There are no other Ryans, but somehow he sees Ryan in Henry. 

“Yeah. I think I’ll find another Bert,” Leland says after a moment of thought, and he sees Jessica smile, looking relieved. There are always a few patients who get upset when their favorite puppy or kitten doesn’t return. Leland isn’t one of them; he’s accepted that everything he wants and loves will leave and disappear sooner or later.

Later, Leland finds himself by the two apple trees, watching Henry lying on the couch swing, holding a cup of yogurt as he tries to gather the courage to approach the older man. Leland bites his lip as he slowly walks over to the swing, and he sees Henry’s eyes snap open and tilt toward him. Their eyes meet as Leland stands there. For a moment, they stare at each other. “Do you like yogurt?” Leland asks as Henry sits up, giving him space to sit beside him. Leland offers the yogurt. “I don’t like strawberry,” Henry replies, and Leland frowns, lowering his hand—just before Henry takes it from him. Startled, Leland turns to see Henry lazily open the yogurt and start eating it.

“You said you don’t like strawberries,” Leland points out. “Didn’t say I didn’t want it. Different things, kid,” Henry replies. Leland gives him a look before leaning back, allowing Henry to enjoy the yogurt. “So,” Henry begins. Leland turns to him again. “People around here have divided opinions about you. Some call you a dog, barking when things go wrong. Some like you—perhaps a bit too much—but they still see you as a dog to play with.” He says this as Leland frowns. “I’m not a dog,” he asserts, feeling insulted while Henry snorts, clearly amused.

“What about that old woman who basically lives in the library? I often see you there; you’ll lay on her lap like a lap dog and let her pet your head. You fuck her?” Henry asks, and Leland curls his nose at Henry’s words. Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t it be innocent? “Am I right? Or am I wrong?” Henry presses, and strangely, Leland feels like he’s being forced into a game he doesn’t want to play, so he keeps his lips pressed into a straight line and refuses to respond.

This feels oddly familiar; it's how some people interact with Leland. They try to provoke a reaction from him. They don’t like it when he gives them a low-pitched tone, calm and cool, or sometimes just giggles and smiles. He doesn’t get angry or shout. Occasionally, people say stupid things just to test whether he can show more than those emotions. It’s pointless. And now Henry is doing the same.

“Why aren’t you talking now?” Henry asks as he finishes off his yogurt. Leland shoots him what he hopes is an unamused look, and Henry grins—a grin too toothy to be genuine, more like a wolfish grin that makes Leland feel as though danger is sitting beside him.

“Do you do it because you feel better? Or do you do it to forget the pain inside?” Leland asks. Two can play this game after all. He’s not one to poke back; he’s always learned to be kind, even to those who laugh or talk down to him. 

He’s always learned to keep the bad things out, to let the words go in one ear and out the other. Henry pauses, his face falling as his brows furrow—there it is, anger, madness. Leland can’t help but let out a snort as Henry glares at him. 

“So you think you know everything now, do you? Just because you saw my scars?” Henry starts.

Leland shakes his head, shrugging. “I don’t… It’s a question for a reason,” he replies.

“So you’re a smartass too? Okay, well, thank you for informing me.” Henry responds. Leland just smiles at him, which makes Henry scoff, shaking his head as he looks away. “Why do you want to know? Interested in doing the same?” Henry asks. Leland looks into his eyes, then averts his gaze before shaking his head—though he’s mostly unsure. “Not really,” Leland replies.

Henry doesn’t respond.

“Get me a cigarette, and I’ll tell you how it makes me feel,” Henry says as he stands up with his empty yogurt cup. He walks away but stops, turning to Leland, who’s leaned on his elbow, looking at him. “You can do that, right? Get me a cigarette?” Henry asks, his eyes lighting up. Leland looks at him. “Where did you hear that from?” he asks. Henry smirks. “Just around the other patients; they said they could ask you for something, and you’d give it to them, whether it be a cigarette or a knife,” he says.

Leland’s brows furrow at that. “I don’t let anyone hold a knife,” he says.

“But a cigarette, yes?” Henry asks.

Leland bites his inner cheek before nodding slowly. “Good, get me one, a lighter too. I’ll show you something along with it,” Henry says. He then walks away, whistling a small tune under his breath, while Leland frowns, feeling like he’s completely lost the game.

“White lilies are often said to symbolize purity and rebirth—they’re famously used for both weddings and funerals. The reason white lilies are used for weddings is because of their symbolic meaning of commitment. And the reason they're used for funerals is rebirth,” Leland softly says to himself as he carefully brushes the canvas, his legs curled on the stool he’s sitting on.

The art room is empty now; the other patients have left their canvases to eat dinner. But Leland isn’t really hungry; well, in a way, his dinner is his payment to Nathan for the single stick of cigarette and a lighter. The cigarette and lighter are in his pocket right now, but he wants to finish the painting first before he leaves to give it to Henry.

“Pink lilies are mostly known for being given to loved ones. Romantic or not, they symbolize femininity and admiration—a very beautiful meaning,” Leland whispers to himself as he focuses on the pink lily beside the white, breathing softly. “Did the voice tell you that? Told you to kill the kid?” Leland startles as he turns to see Henry by the door, leaning on the doorframe, head tilted, his hair covering a bit of his eyes. Leland slowly lowers his paintbrush and blinks.

“Sorry?” Leland asks.

Henry just looks at him with a tilt of his head. “You’re talking to yourself,” he points a finger. “Sorry—” Leland says, this time, out of instinct. 

“Did you say that too when you killed the kid?” Henry enters the room as he walks around the circle of canvas, looking at the art made by the other patients and making faces at each one of them. 

“What?” Leland asks, gripping his brush tightly. “Sorry, did you say sorry to him when you killed him?” Henry explains. Leland licks his dried lips as he looks back at his canvas and continues to paint, ignoring Henry. Henry lets out a small chuckle when Leland refuses to answer. “What’s wrong? I thought we were here to get to know each other. You’re asking me about my scars, and I’m doing the same thing. Apparently, I can’t—don’t you think it’s a bit unfair?” 

Henry stops beside him, and Leland freezes, biting his lower lip as he ducks his head, staring at the easel in his other hand, one leg rocking. Henry looms over him, looking at his canvas—his painting, his work. “Flowers… You like flowers,” Henry sighs as he stands beside Leland, arms crossed over his chest, while Leland lowers the hand holding the brush. 

“You know, no one here knows why you killed that kid,” Henry says. Leland just shrugs. “Why did you hurt yourself?” he asks as he lowers the easel and the brush on the table beside him, pulling out a single cigarette and lighter. Henry raises his brows as the younger man hands it to him. 

“Hm.” Henry smiles as he takes it from Leland’s hand. Leland spins on his seat, looking up at Henry. “Will you answer me?” Leland asks again. He watches Henry walk over to the door, looking left and right before shutting it and locking it. He closes the lights, leaving the yellow light at the center of the room on, as he lights his cigarette, smoke escaping between his lips. 

He takes one of the stools, moves it in front of Leland, and sits down. Leland’s nose curls at the smoke as he holds in a cough, watching Henry close his eyes for a moment, looking up at the ceiling as he tries to breathe. “It smells,” Leland can’t help but comment, eyeing the smoke drifting above their heads. 

Henry sighs as he looks back at Leland, the moment ruined. He pulls his sleeve up, showing the round burn scars on his wrist. “You asked why I do this… Do you want to know why?” Henry asks. Leland nods. 

Henry leans over, placing the cigarette between his lips and blowing smoke right into Leland’s face, causing Leland to cough, eyes tearing up from it. “It’s to prepare myself for hell,” Henry whispers. “I know well I’ll be burning in hell, and I’ve prepared myself for it. I’ve prepared my mind, my body, and my soul.” He says as he pulls his other sleeve up to show more burn marks. Leland looks, feeling the cold spread in his chest as he examines them. “Why?” Leland asks again. 

Henry snorts. “Why do you ask? Well, I’m sure you already know why I’m here. I tried to kill myself. I’m a murderer too, just like you. I killed my family, my fiancée. It’s not hard to understand that the devil would want me down there,” Henry says, breathing in more smoke from his cigarette. Leland looks at the crackling fire on the end before Henry pulls it away from his lips and moves to stub it on his wrist. 

The cigarette sizzles, the sound louder than Leland expects— 

Leland slaps his hand away, preventing the cigarette from meeting Henry’s skin. Henry yelps in surprise as the cigarette falls to the floor. Leland stands up and steps on it, digging his heel into it as he looks over at Henry, who is watching him with an unsure look. “Don’t…” Leland fidgets with his hands as he sits back down, feeling regretful for even giving Henry a cigarette. He holds out his palm, asking for the lighter from Henry, who hands it back to him. Leland stuffs it inside his pocket.

“You’re not a murderer. It was an accident,” Leland says as he avoids looking into Henry’s eyes. He knows well that if he does, his chest would feel tight, and he’d see so much sadness that Leland would be tempted to throw his own body out the window just to escape it. “Is that how you see it?” Henry asks, and Leland nods. “You’re not a murderer,” he says again, this time sounding confident.

Henry eyes him—his eyes dark. Leland can’t read Henry’s emotions, and it makes him unnerved and afraid to look back at him. “You think saying that will make me feel better?” Henry asks, and Leland bites his lip, looking down and ducking his head as if embarrassed.

But the answer is no—he doesn’t expect Henry to feel any better after he’s said those words. In fact, Leland can sense that it might have made things worse, but he simply couldn’t stop himself; his mouth spoke before his mind could catch up. “It’s not... I—I believe it was never your fault…” Leland stumbles over his words. “It’s not—” he tries again, just as Henry abruptly stands up. The stool crashes to the floor with a loud bang, and Leland flinches.

“And what about you? Was it an accident too—killing that boy?” Henry asks, stepping closer. Leland instinctively takes a small step back, nerves fraying, shoulders hunched. With each step Henry takes forward, Leland retreats further, trying to avoid his gaze, his breathing turning shallow. His chest tightens—not just from the pressure of Henry’s presence or the way he crowds Leland against the wall, but from something deeper and harder to name. Leland turns his head away.

He is afraid, his stomach knotted with anxiety as Henry presses him firmly against the wall. “Since you decided mine isn’t murder, what about yours? Didn’t I tell you? I want to get to know you better.” Henry’s voice is jeering, and Leland shakes his head, wrists pinned by Henry, pushed further into the corner. The lanky man’s breath is hot on his face, and when Leland finally looks into Henry’s eyes, he sees only utter sadness—a sadness that makes him feel sick.

The sickness and dizziness wash over him, and Leland feels like his whole body is freezing. Suddenly, he is seeing Ryan again—seeing him look back one last time as his life fades away, and remembering the strange gratitude he felt after the act: that Ryan wouldn’t have to live this kind of life anymore.

“No—I—please, stop,” Leland finally whispers, sinking to the floor and curling up, tucking his head beneath his arms, desperate for Henry to stop staring at him with that painful world in his eyes. Henry does stop, at least for a moment. Leland crouches there, shaking like a leaf, until he hears Henry scoff. 

Slowly, he lifts his head to meet Henry’s gaze—this time, more fearfully than ever before.

His breath shortens when he sees tears falling from Henry’s eyes as he stands there in front of Leland, hands clenched like he wants to punch something. Leland sits on the floor, hugging his own torso, while Henry’s eyes remain locked on the blue paint stain on the floor, breathing heavily. 

“So you do have emotions after all, huh? Leland P. Fitzgerald?” he says, his voice sounding nasal as tears continue to pour down, staining Leland’s pants. Leland breathes slowly, relieved that Henry wouldn’t try to hurt him or anything.

For a moment, they stay there. Leland doesn’t stand up and Henry doesn’t move, before Henry slowly wipes his tears with his palm, breathing softly as he stares back down at Leland, who watches him with his chin lowered on his knees, tucked into the corner like a kicked puppy. Henry sighs. “Get up.” He steps back and motions for Leland to rise. But Leland just tilts his head. “Get up, I said.” Henry insists again, and Leland nods, standing up slowly, swinging his arms for a moment as he reaches his full height, looking into Henry’s eyes.

Strangely, Henry’s eyes, which Leland has grown accustomed to seeing filled with sadness, show less of it now, as if he has finally decided to let it out. “Are you fine now?” Leland asks, watching Henry walk over to the window and lean on it heavily. 

“Is that really all you’ll say after I did all of that?” Henry deadpans as Leland approaches him. Leland shrugs lightly, unsure of how to navigate this situation. He’s not like Pearl, who knows how to help people like Henry, or Allen, who is always so thoughtful about others.

“Sorry about that,” Henry finally says, his voice lowered as he spares Leland a glance. “What?” Leland asks, dumbfounded. Henry gives him a light, tired glare at his confused expression, almost tempted to hit Leland across the face before deciding against it. “I—whatever,” Henry sighs, regretting ever apologizing as he steps away from the window and walks toward the door.

“Are you leaving now?” Leland asks, frowning. Henry doesn’t respond as Leland watches him open the door and step out.

Leland stands there, alone.

—

Things between Henry and Leland changed soon after that, or at least Leland likes to think so. Maybe they’ve become friends now; Henry doesn’t antagonize him as much, and he’s calmed down. Perhaps his way of antagonizing is some kind of shield he uses to protect himself from more sadness. In a way, Leland can understand Henry. Henry is not a bad person, nor is he a murderer. He’s just like many other people in this world—a sad man with no one to lean on.

The important people around Henry have died: his mother, father, and fiancée. Leland can’t imagine losing people who are important to him; he doesn’t know what could happen to him. He can’t imagine losing his mother or father, and even though Becky broke up with him, he wouldn’t know what would happen if he lost any one of them. Pearl, Allen… that would be horrible. Henry is indeed a strong man.

Henry is a nice friend; Leland has never really had a friend until he met Becky, and along with her, Ryan and Allen. Now, there’s Pearl, and now there’s Henry. Leland knows he can count his friends on one hand, but he’s nonetheless happy to have Henry as an addition. 

He knows they’re friends. Henry told him so when they were riding the golf cart to the lake one day, and ever since then, Leland didn’t have to try so hard to keep the sadness at bay. Henry reminds him so much of Ryan, but Henry is his own person as well, and his personality is quite different from Ryan's.

“Henry?” Leland asks, his notebook on his lap, the page opened to a sketch of a red spider lily. “Do you like snow?” he asks. He’s seated on the grass, the air cold today, and both of them are wearing at least three layers and boots, mostly because the weather is preparing for cold temperatures once more. Henry is by the lake, walking, pacing slowly, taking in the scenery, white puffs of coldness escaping between his lips as he breathes. 

“Why?” Henry asks, not sparing him a glance. “I don’t know… Snow is coming. Are you going to stay inside? I usually do, mostly because I’m too lazy to wear so many layers.” Leland shrugs as he continues to sketch on his paper, humming softly under his breath while Henry scoffs and snorts in exasperation.

“What about you?” Leland asks. Henry just shrugs. “Depends. I’ve been hating the cold for so long; there’s no one to enjoy the snow with. I guess I used to when I was younger. My mom would often make me hot chocolate with marshmallows just because I liked sweet things.” Henry shrugs and stops beside Leland, sitting down as he grabs Leland’s notebook, which Leland lets him pull away.

“Hm.” Henry hums. “Did you ever decide what you’ll take for college?” he asks.

Leland shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s depressing—think now,” Henry insists, and he passes the notebook back to Leland, who starts scribbling random lines on the next page. “Uh, I still don’t know,” Leland says, not giving it a shot. Henry snorts. 

“That’s because you’re not thinking hard about it,” he says. “What about you? What did you take for college?” Leland asks. “Art,” Henry shrugs as Leland turns to him, raising his brows. “You draw?” he asks. “I do art,” Henry corrects, and Leland blinks, then flips back to the page with the spider lily. “Is it bad?” Leland can’t help but ask.

“The real art in here is the mistakes of the person making it,” Henry says.

“So it’s bad?” Leland asks.

“It’s alright. You’ve got a future in it if you ever think about pursuing art,” Henry shrugs as Leland juts his chin out and bites his lower lip, pouting at Henry and then at his work, slumping. 

That move makes Henry snort again, and Leland can see him roll his eyes. “I never see you join us in the art room. Why don’t you come to paint with us?” Leland can’t help but ask. Henry just shrugs lazily, scratching his cheek. “Too much work for nothing, It’s pointless if it matters to nothing.” he admits.

“Does it have to be something to be able to paint?” Leland asks as Henry pauses. A moment of silence passes between them before Henry snorts again, chuckling to himself as if he’s thought of a joke in his head. “What?” Leland can’t help but ask. With Henry, it's sometimes hard to understand what he’s thinking; just looking at his face isn’t enough to grasp it anymore. 

He’s an enigma. It feels off-putting, but at some point, Leland has gotten used to it.

“Nothing,” Henry waves him away, curling his knees to his chest as he leans against them, looking over the lake with a crooked grin on his lips. Leland just pouts again, glancing down at his drawing before continuing. They lapse into another comfortable silence. 

“Do you know what spider lilies mean?” Leland asks. 

“No, what is it?” Henry replies. 

“In Japanese and Chinese cultures, they symbolize death and goodbyes. They’re mostly used for funerals, but you can also give them to someone you’re saying goodbye to forever. It’s like a final farewell. The funny thing about this flower is that it has a really unique blooming cycle. Basically, when the flowers bloom, they die, and then the leaves appear. They also connect spider lilies to reincarnation... I like to think Mr. and Mrs. Letham and Athena are out there somewhere, in another life.” Leland continues to draw more spider lilies across the page, making sure they look good this time.

He peels the page off and hands it to Henry, whose eyes widen as he slowly accepts the paper, looking down at the three large spider lilies drawn. The lines are shaky, but it’s beautiful in a way that the mess transforms into the shape of a flower shaded in pencil lead. 

“Do you believe that too?” Leland asks, tilting his head to get a glimpse of Henry’s face. With his head lowered, his long hair curtains his face like blinds on a window. 

Henry is quiet, not responding to Leland’s question as he thumbs the paper softly. Then he nods slowly, a small smile appearing on his face. “Yeah... Yeah, that sounds nice—you made it sound nice.” He raises his head to meet Leland’s eyes. 

“You ever thought of writing as well?” he asks, and Leland just shrugs. His father’s a writer, and Leland can’t imagine being like him or being better at it. 

“Albert T. Fitzgerald, right? That’s your dad?” Henry asks, and Leland nods. 

“I read his books,” Henry says, folding the paper slowly, careful to smooth it down between his fingers. He pockets it right over his chest and pats it once, twice, and thrice for good measure. Leland can’t help but feel warm at the gesture. 

“What do you think?” Leland asks. 

“Bullshit, really. Your father writes like he’s experiencing it, when in reality he’s just cataloging it. Everything he writes, he doesn’t really know how it feels. He’s writing based on assumptions. It’s not good writing, you see.” Henry shrugs, looking at his nails absentmindedly. 

“Why?” Leland asks. 

“What do you mean, why?” Henry turns to him, dropping his hand as he raises a brow at the younger boy. 

Leland shrugs. 

Henry gives him a bland look, and Leland does nothing but shrug—what can he do? He doesn’t really know what to say, so he shrugs again. “His writing is nice; I like it,” Leland states. 

“His writing isn’t truthful, really. He doesn’t know what he’s writing, I promise you that,” Henry replies. 

“And you do?” Leland asks. 

“Well, I’m a self-aware individual, so yes,” Henry responds. Leland gives him a thoughtful hum at that. 

“You should try writing and art,” Henry suggests again. 

“You should paint again—try art again. I want to see you paint… can I?” Leland asks, and Henry falls quiet at that. 

“It’s been a while,” Henry murmurs softly, pinching the fabric of his pants between his fingers. 

“It’s okay; you said mistakes are what make art,” Leland reassures him, and Henry just snorts at that. 

“Let’s see,” Henry finally says.

Recently, there had been fights occurring in the cafeteria between this patient, Jumbo—a really big man from Florida with a kind heart and soft voice—but when you mess with him, he knows how to handle it. The other fighter was Philip, who had come here along with Henry and Samantha. 

They would argue and sometimes escalate to punching each other, ruining everyone’s time in the cafeteria—whether it be breakfast, lunch, or dinner. As a result, Leland found himself back in his own room early, his shirt stained with pie, mustard, and red juice, simply because he was sitting behind Jumbo's table, and his and Philip’s scuffle had earned Leland a face full of food until he was pulled out of the way, along with a couple of other patients, while Jumbo and Philip were separated and sent to detention once more due to their fight.

“You’d think they’d stop after the first time they got locked in a room,” Henry commented the next day. He was at the same table as Philip, along with other patients his age and gender, mindlessly eating his apple when it all happened. He had front-row seats to see Leland get a pie thrown at his face, looking shocked beyond belief, while Henry spent his time laughing instead of helping until he, too, was pulled out of the cafeteria along with other patients.

“What are they fighting about?” Leland asked as they watched the catfish drift around the large pond, throwing fish food into the water as if sprinkling salt on potatoes. The water was nearly filled with fish food due to Leland’s absent-minded tossing. Thankfully, Henry stopped him, so now they were just watching as the food was eaten. 

“Getting out, of course. They don’t like it here like you do, kiddo,” Henry replied as he finally sat down, crouching as it hurt his glutes—he had never been a well-fitted guy.

“Oh,” Leland said. “They want to leave?”

“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “Do you want to leave, too?” Leland asked.

“I do.” Henry said, but he shrugged. Leland could see that Henry did want to leave this place, and he felt a bit fearful that he might be leaving to continue his job or maybe to finally start anew, like a spider lily flower. 

“Oh… Why can’t they just wait?” Leland asked again, tilting his head. He was focused on the pond, dipping his hand in before giggling when multiple catfish nibbled on his fingers lightly. It felt like having a baby with gummy teeth biting you—not that Leland had experienced that, but he thought it was almost the same.

“Some people don't like waiting, Leland. I think the other guy—” Henry started. 

“Which guy?” Leland asked.

“The one with the mean frown,” Henry explained.

“Philip,” Leland said, nodding.

“Right, Philip—he’s trying to ask the big guy—” Henry was cut off again by Leland.

“His name is Jumbo.”

“Right. Jumbo. Philip asked Jumbo to help him get out, but Jumbo told him off and said to just wait. I guess Philip got angry at that, and that started the fight between them. It’s like a bunch of kids; this place is meant to care for children—absolutely disappointing.” Henry shook his head.

“There are some younger people here,” Leland pointed out, raising his head to meet Henry’s eyes.

“Not my point, but okay,” Henry replied as Leland cracked a grin. “You know, I have a feeling they’re going to start their own groups here. I saw Philip last week talking to a bunch of people in my area about getting out of here. And then I heard Jumbo is forming a defense team to prevent people from leaving and getting detention and dragging innocent people along with ‘em,” Henry continued. 

“It would be impossible to get out of here. The gates are hundreds of yards away; you’d have to ride the golf cart to get there, and even then, there are multiple machine-powered gates,” Leland explained to Henry with a frown, placing his hands back on his lap, crisscrossed as he sat in front of Henry.

“How do you know that?” Henry asked, raising a single brow.

Leland shrugged. “The nurses sometimes don’t notice me around, just because I’m really quiet—both my feet and my mouth, sometimes. They talk about stuff outside the center. Also, almost everyone here knows about it,” he said.

“Hm… That’s a lot for a rehab center. This is that serious, huh?” Henry ran his fingers through his hair, swirling it around as Leland nodded.

“It is,” he replied.

“Hm.” Henry hummed again. “Did Philip ask you to join?” Leland asked.

“He did, but I didn’t give him a proper response; I told him I’d think about it.” Henry shrugged.

Leland fell silent at that, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Are you going to say yes?”

“I did say I was going to think about it,” Henry says as Leland frowns, slumping onto his knees, his elbows resting on them as he stares at Henry with an unamused look. “Are you going to tattle?” Henry asks, a small grin playing at his lips as Leland shrugs. “Is it going to be dangerous? I don’t like it,” Leland replies. As always, he’s an honest person; he doesn’t skirt around the topic. 

“Well—probably,” Henry admits. “Then I should tell the nurses,” Leland says, making a move to get up, but Henry grabs his elbow, pulling him back down with a strength Leland never knew he had. “Sit down, Leland. Let’s not,” Henry says, and even though Leland frowns, he stays seated.

“Just let it happen, you know? And besides, I have no idea if I’ll join anyway; it’s too much work,” Henry says lazily, pushing his hair back. Leland pulls his lip into a thin line as he looks up at the sky, watching the clouds move. He squints as the sun shines behind one of the clouds, staring at it for a moment. “Henry?” he calls. He hears Henry hum and sees him lying on his side on the wooden patio, dipping his hand into the pond and flicking the catfish on their faces. They scatter, startled, before returning to his hand, nipping and biting at his fingers.

“Should we always just let things happen?” Leland asks. “Yeah, probably. It’s life,” Henry shrugs.

Leland looks down at his lap, fiddling with a loose thread on his pants. “If you could change what happened, would you still have let it happen because it’s life?” Leland asks.

He notices Henry pause from the corner of his eye, his hand stilled, still half-dipped in the pond water. “Sorry,” Leland says, feeling extremely guilty as he turns away from Henry, shifting his whole body to the side and pulling his knees up to his chest, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. He hears Henry sigh. “Whatever, I deserve that anyway,” he says as he sits up.

They both fall silent after that, neither of them speaking, just enjoying the sound of the water. Eventually, they go back to the white house, sitting at a table and playing chess. Though Leland’s mind isn’t focused on the game, having been put in checkmate so many times by Henry. All he can think about is the day one of them might leave, and they may not be friends anymore.

Not that Leland doubts Henry, but Henry is skilled at telling Leland what he wants to hear. Maybe he’s already joined Philip and his cause; he wants to get out, just as impatient as they are. Leland wishes Henry would just tell him to his face that he wants to leave. It’s not like Leland would stop him—he might even support it—though he knows that escaping from here is pretty much impossible. A good friend should support their friends.

He thinks of the flower lily of the valley, which symbolizes the return of happiness, and he considers a painting he can make for Henry as a sort of gift. While Henry isn’t completely happy and the sadness still lingers in his eyes, Leland can only hope that the painting can work its magic and bring back his happiness.

“Leland? Visitor,” Melissa calls for him, snapping Leland from his thoughts as he realizes Henry has taken his king with his queen. “I’ll be back,” Leland tells Henry, who waves him off. Leland stands up, letting Melissa lead him to a room—it’s not Pearl this time. When Pearl visits, it is always outside the white house. 

“Becky?” Leland says, his voice faint as he sees a girl sitting at the table, her arms folded atop it. Her long brown hair, held up by a claw clip, is messy yet beautiful. And she still looks as lovely as ever.

Becky perks up when she sees him, and Leland bites his lip, nervously fidgeting with his hands as he walks up to her, sitting in front of her. “Hi,” Becky smiles at him, a bit unsure, but it’s a smile. “Hi,” Leland whispers, shuffling his seat closer as she does the same, their legs touching lightly. She’s wearing a nice, soft, knitted brown sweater, a thick fur jacket draped over the back of her chair, thick pants, and beat-up brown boots. 

It’s a long way home, but Leland doesn’t voice that.

“I came here with Allen and Julie,” Becky says softly, tilting her head as she pushes a stray hair behind her ear. “They’re here?” Leland asks, and Becky nods. “Just outside. I wanted to come here alone... Uhm—how are you? It’s been a while, don’t you think? The nurses here said you can write a letter that can be sent; you don’t write,” she remarks. Leland fidgets, a blush creeping to his ears. “I don’t think your family would appreciate that,” he replies softly.

“It’s not your fault, Leland.” Becky leans close, grabbing his hand—a bit hesitant—but Leland just nods, and she wraps both her hands around his. He holds back, enjoying the warmth coming from her hands; she’s warm now. Not cold anymore like she used to be, she isn’t so pale now, either. Her skin has darkened a bit, and her eyes aren’t so sunken and tired anymore. 

“Are you okay now?” Leland asks. Becky nods. 

“I went to rehab.” She smiles, looking proud, and Leland can’t help but grin. 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Leland says. 

“It is. It’s really good,” Becky replies softly as she nods, her hair bobbing adorably. Leland wants to grab her and hold her in his arms, but he feels slightly afraid to.

Leland falls silent, just staring at their hands, trailing a finger on the back of her hand, then her trimmed nails, and her wrist. He can see the blue veins a bit—back then, he could see them very clearly. Now her skin really has darkened into a healthy color; her eyes are bright, with a hint of sadness in them, but it does not consume her like it did the last time they spoke. There’s no haze behind her eyes, either—she’s here, she’s really here. 

“Does your father come to visit you?” Becky asks, and Leland shakes his head. 

“Not really.” 

Becky frowns at that. “Your mother?” she asks. 

“A few months ago, she was here,” Leland nods. 

“How many months ago?” Becky asks slowly, a small frown forming on her lips. 

“Maybe nine,” Leland counts in his head silently.

“Oh… When will she be back?” Becky lowers her gaze a bit, focusing on their touching hands, trailing a thumb on Leland’s hand. 

“Uhm—no idea, really. Pearl comes by every month, though, so it isn’t too bad,” he says as Becky studies him. 

“Who’s Pearl?” she asks. 

“He taught me when I was still in juvie. He’s a really good teacher and a good writer, too.” Leland perks up at that, grinning as he says it. 

“Oh, he writes? What does he write?” Becky tilts her head. 

“Nothing yet, but he’s getting there.” Leland shrugs, a little amused. Pearl talks about his books a lot, mostly because he can’t seem to settle on one idea and keeps jumping to another. 

“What about you? Enough about me—how are you and your family these days?” Leland clears his throat unsurely as Becky looks at him. 

“Decent. Mom and Dad… They’re off states, took a break from everything. I think, with Ryan’s—uhm—death, they finally realized that they’ve never really focused on anything aside from their own personal interests. Me and Julie don’t mind that they left; that means we get to have the house to ourselves.” Becky shrugs, smiling lazily. Leland just nods, unsure of what to say. 

“Allen and Julie have been having issues with their relationship.” Becky clears her throat. 

“Oh,” Leland says. “What happened?” he asks. 

Becky shrugs. “Ryan…” She trails off, looking away for a moment as Leland nibbles his lower lip. He looks down again, focusing on the wood of the table as he feels Becky’s hand tighten a bit. 

“But they’re together now,” Leland says. 

“Just for me, really. I need someone to come with me to visit you… you know we aren’t angry at you, right? I was… I was shocked and surprised at what happened. I knew you’d never do such things; you can’t even hurt a fly or a roach,” she murmurs softly as Leland shrugs. He’s killed a fly and roaches; he doesn’t really understand her point. 

“You can’t really speak for everyone, Becky.” Leland says, and Becky falls silent at that. 

“Do Mr. and Mrs. Pollard know that you’re here?” he finally asks. 

Becky’s silence is his answer. 

Later, when she leaves, she kisses his cheek and holds him tight. Leland curls his chin over her neck and holds her tight, arms wrapped around her waist as they stand there for a few minutes, just holding each other. He can still smell her shampoo and her favorite cologne.

“When you get out, we can go and find a place, live together,” Becky whispers. 

“What about school?” Leland leans back as Becky looks into his eyes. 

“What about it?” she asks. 

“College—don’t you want to get a degree?” he asks. 

Becky shrugs, shaking her head. “Does it even matter these days?” she asks. 

Leland worries his lower lip again, remembering Henry’s words. He nods. “It does—I think for me, it’s very important. What do you want to do, Becky?” he asks as Becky licks her lower lip, looking a little nervous. 

“I have no idea yet. I’ve done nothing but take care of Ryan; I haven’t really thought about my future,” she says.

“Mhm.” Leland hums while they continue holding onto each other's arms. “You should think about it. I want to go to art school,” he says. “Also, I want to write, but I’m still deciding which one to pursue.” He admits, feeling a bit shy all of a sudden as Becky meets his gaze, her eyes sparkling with interest. 

“You planned it out?” she asks. Leland nods, his lips pulling into a small, meek smile. “Yeah. You should too,” he replies.

Becky grins at that. “I’ll try. Bye. I’ll see you next time, okay? Be here. I’ll miss you.” She whispers, cupping his face and bringing his head down as he ducks, allowing her to press a kiss on his forehead. He closes his eyes, savoring the warmth of her lips on his skin before she falls back onto her flat feet, smiling up at him. “See you,” she says.

“See you,” Leland whispers.

“So who is it this time? Still Pearl?” Henry asks as he walks back to their table. By the looks of it, Henry is now just entertaining himself with blocks of Jenga, lazily leaning on his chair as Leland takes the opposite seat in front of him. “Took you long enough, so it must be someone else,” Henry adds as he stacks the blocks carefully, making sure they’re all aligned.

“My ex-girlfriend,” Leland replies, helping Henry stack the blocks as Henry pauses. “Your ex-girlfriend visited you? That’s interesting,” he says. “Why?” Leland looks up, spinning a single block on the table. But Henry just shrugs, giving him a raised, neutral look. “What did you two talk about?” he asks. Leland shrugs. “College, future… that’s mostly it.” He fidgets a bit in his seat. “Cool,” Henry nods, and that’s that.

They spend most of their day playing Jenga before being taken to dinner. They spend their night, along with other patients, in the screen room, watching a few movies before they’re all sent back to their rooms to rest.

By the next day, Leland is eating breakfast when he sees Henry talking to Philip, and he tries his best not to feel disappointed as he watches a few patients, including Henry and Philip, stand up, trying to look casual while walking out of the cafeteria. “You think they’re going to get out of here?” Jeremy asks beside him. 

“Maybe,” Leland shrugs. “Wanna play ball? It’s been a while since we played.” Jeremy changes the topic. Leland shrugs again. “We can use the indoor court if it’s too cold,” Jeremy adds.

Leland eyes the door where Henry and the other patients left. It’ll probably be a while before he can search for Henry if he’s with them. So he nods. “Okay.” He turns back to Jeremy, who grins. “I’ll go easy on you, I promise that, white boy,” Jeremy jokes, offering him a fist bump, which Leland reciprocates, though with much less enthusiasm.

The game is fun, even if Leland’s heart isn't fully in it. Jeremy teaches him how to dribble the ball between his legs, even though his hands refuse to cooperate, so it’s more like he’s passing and slapping the ball around. He’s good at defense, though—he has the height, and he can jump pretty high when he wants to.

“You know, have you ever thought about trying volleyball?” Jeremy wipes his face with his towel as Leland does the same, shrugging. “I don’t know how to play that,” he admits. “It’s just like basketball, but this time, you can’t let the ball touch the floor, and you can’t hold it either,” Jeremy explains. “Basically, you use your body to hit the ball up in the air, spike it over the net. The other team tries to keep it off the floor on their side and pass it back to your team.” He continues, patting his arms as Leland nods.

“You think you can try volleyball?” Jeremy asks.

“I think so,” Leland shrugs.

Eventually, Leland and Jeremy leave the court to take a quick shower before heading to lunch. He sees Henry again, already eating. As Leland eats his’—sausages, eggs, and a few slices of apple—he pockets the yogurt cup in his pants and heads to Henry, who is just leaving the area. “Where did you go with the other patients?” Leland asks as he aligns himself with Henry.

“Just a meeting, nothing too interesting really,” he shrugs.

“About getting out?” Leland asks.

“Yeah… No—actually, I do think it’s practically impossible for us to leave this place, but I won’t ruin their hopes and dreams, you know?” Henry shrugs, snickering as Leland just eyes him. “You don’t have any problem with that,” he says, causing Henry to snort again. “Why anyways?” He tilts his head, turning to look at Leland.

“Want to come to the next meeting?” Henry asks again when Leland doesn’t reply. At those words, Leland raises his head to look at Henry, brows raised. “I can?” he asks, tilting his head in interest. “No idea, but we can try,” Henry says as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. 

And so they do try. The meeting takes place in the screen room, where most of the members of Philip’s group congregate on the left side of the theater, talking amongst themselves. Henry is just behind, a seat up, listening, while Leland sits beside him.

It turns out they’ve been bribing a few nurses here and there to get access to a golf cart and an ID to get through the gate. As much as Leland is impressed by all this hard work, he wonders if the main gate, while machine-powered, still has people watching over it. Machines aren’t 100% dependable. 

“So what do you think?” Henry asks, mindlessly spinning a pen between his fingers as Leland sketches some flowers in his notebook. The screen room is dark, but the large television screen provides enough light for him to see his work.

“I don’t know,” Leland mumbles, his voice muffled, chin on his chest as he slumps there, just drawing. Philip and the others are still discussing their plan and how they got Gerry, another nurse, to work with them. “It’s stupid, it might not work,” Leland whispers lowly to Henry, who snorts. 

“Well, I’ve always known this team is pretty much full of losers. Brownies?” Henry pulls out a brownie, still in its plastic wrap, as Leland lowers his pencil to take it from his hand. “Thank you,” Leland says, trying to open it quietly. But he earns a glare from a woman at the front who is trying to speak softly, though the plastic crinkles loudly.

Leland nibbles on the brownie slowly. “Are you still going with them? It’s dangerous,” he says again, and Henry shrugs. “It is something to do around here; being here bores me,” he replies, and Leland frowns at him. “There are a lot of things to do here,” he argues. 

Henry shakes his head, amused, a small lopsided half-grin on his face, hidden by his hair. “You don’t understand yet, kid, but there’s a lot of stuff in here that isn’t allowed. I can’t smoke, I can’t drink, I can’t go to nightclubs; my art here is choked, don’t you get it?” He clenches his fist, and Leland can’t help but crack a small smile.

“I don’t understand how being in a nightclub is going to help your artistic view,” Leland trails off. Henry snorts, “Come on, let’s get out of here; no one watches a movie in the middle of the afternoon anyway.” He stands up, and Leland follows him as they leave the screening room, walking down the stairs. “Life isn’t always about flowers, Leland,” he says, his shoes making a tap-tap-tap noise as he skips down the stairs much quicker than Leland can.

“I know that,” Leland replies, the spiral stairs making him a bit dizzy; Henry tends to go up and down the stairs faster than normal. “You don’t,” Henry gives him a look, and Leland tries not to bristle. “How can you say that I don’t?” Leland asks. “Hm,” Henry responds as they finally reach the bottom of the stairs and walk toward the door and into the yard. Leland shivers at the cold, eyeing Henry, who doesn’t seem to mind it, still cool as a cucumber.

“You and your ex—what was her name again? Becky? Have you two ever had sex yet?” Henry asks, and Leland shakes his head, shrugging. He’s never really been interested in it, and he doubts that Becky has been either. They sometimes lay on her bed or his, staring at the ceiling. Becky would drift into her own world, and Leland would make sure to watch over her like the guardian angel he promised to be. 

“You’ve not seen the whole world yet, but you’ve seen the interior of a human mind. You’re an interesting kid, Leland. You know that, right? But even that isn’t enough to understand what goes on in the world. It’s not only about human forces sometimes; most of the time, it’s beyond that. Ever thought about why sadness is inherent? Ever read a book about society that isn’t written by your father?” Henry asks, his voice low.

“I don’t know… maybe. Sometimes I just read to see the words, not to understand them,” Leland admits, and Henry snorts at that, shaking his head. “Okay… well, that’s fine. Sometimes it’s better to perform and show than to actually live in the moment,” Henry says.

Leland frowns, feeling a bit uncomfortable. “What do you think about the world, Leland?” Henry asks. Leland feels a cold bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck as he gives Henry a small look. “I don’t know,” he whispers, frowning. Henry stops at that, breathing in, then halts his walking. 

“I—look, sorry. I didn’t mean to sound pushy again, but you’re so…” Henry pauses, trying to think of a word as Leland looks at him, hands clenched. “You haven’t seen the whole world yet, and it makes me think about how you can be a murderer. You look and act like a child who’s been forced into four walls with no windows. You don’t understand everything, Leland. But how can you kill?” Henry asks.

“Oh,” Leland says. He looks away and then down at the grass. He remembers his talk with Pearl, about the other man wanting a “why” and a “reason” for something he’s done. Leland doesn’t really know “why” he killed Ryan; at least, he knows part of how it led up to that moment, but the reason why he couldn’t just stop it feels lost on him. Leland knows he’s different from other people. 

He’s too self-aware, and it pains him so much that it makes him sick in the head. He can’t breathe because he knows too much, and Henry admitting there is more knowledge beyond the human mind makes him feel sick and uncomfortable in his stomach.

Because he doesn’t want to know all about that junk, or else he’ll feel even more sick at the thought of it.  

“Sorry,” Henry sighs. “Don’t answer that, I’m sorry again.” He shakes his head as he presses a palm over his mouth, breathing out sharply.  

“Why do you think you’re a murderer?” Leland asks, and Henry turns to face him. “What?” he responds. “Back then… you believed it was your fault that your family died. There are multiple times you fall into this moment of being broken between asking for forgiveness and punishing yourself,” Leland explains, swallowing a bit as he scratches his head. “You still do it now; when things get quiet and no one talks, I see you look over, and your eyes fill with a little more sadness. I don’t know how to help you.”  

“You don’t need to help me,” Henry sighs.  

“I want to,” Leland says, taking a step closer.  

“You’re a kid, Leland. A sixteen-year-old kid who knows nothing about the world beyond the walls of this place. Have you even been to a city?” Henry asks. Leland swallows and nods, “To New York… I’ve been around on my own when I visit my dad.”  

“And where’s your dad?” Henry asks.  

“He’s busy,” Leland replies.  

“Of course he’s busy,” Henry sighs. “Do you want to leave? Here? This place?”  

Leland falls silent.  

“Do you have anyone to come back home to?” Henry asks one more time.  

Leland remains silent, refusing to meet Henry’s eyes.  

“Do you even want to leave? That’s the question,” Henry asks again, as Leland shrugs. “This place is perfect for me. I don’t—I have plans outside the center if–if I get out though.” Leland’s words stumble as he tries to fix his phrasing, sounding confused about what he wants. His words contradict themselves. “Have you ever heard of the Allegory of the Cave?” Henry asks.  

Leland finally looks into Henry’s eyes, biting his lip as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “I thought we were past this, Henry.” He can’t help but admit, feeling a tightness in his chest that slowly begins to choke him as Henry stops and meets his gaze.  

“You said sorry two times, but you still continue. I don’t want to talk about it.” Leland rocks on his feet uneasily, looking down and crossing his arms over his chest as he hunches his shoulders.  

“Sorry,” Henry whispers, his face pale and drawn, lips pursed. “Sometimes I just can’t help it; all the people close to me leave sooner or later. If I don’t leave, they just get into some mess they’re not supposed to be in.”  

“I don’t get that,” Leland mutters, feeling a hint of anger rise within him.  

“I don’t either. It’s either I leave, or I make you leave if I can’t leave,” Henry admits with surprising clarity.  

“So you’re trying to push me away?” Leland asks.  

“Something like that,” Henry shrugs, looking up at the sky, his lashes fluttering and his eyes glistening.  

“Okay,” Leland whispers.  

“You’re leaving now then?” Henry sounds surprised, a bit put off—mostly hurt. It colors his face and voice as he turns to Leland. Leland shakes his head.  

“No, I won’t. You said it’s whether you leave or I leave. I won’t leave, but… at the same time, I won’t stop you from leaving either,” Leland replies.  

Henry eyes him, then looks at the clouds. “Alright.”

—

“Ya think you’re real slick, huh? Letham? Bringing that kid over here—ya do know that kid’s a tattle, right? You know we’re screwed, right? Someone tipped us off!” Philip blows off steam as Henry leans against the wall, his eyes lifeless, staring straight into Philip’s. The other members circle around them, blocking anyone’s view of the fight brewing in the crowded cafeteria. 

Other nurses are too busy attending to the other patients moving about. “You did this! You jerk!” Philip pushes Henry, who finally stands up properly, looming over Philip. “Hey man, trust me on this, I’ve got nothing to do with any of this crap. It’s been weeks since I last joined your ridiculous meetings. Don’t forget, you’ve got nurses on your team too—who’s to say they aren’t the ones tattling?” Henry points a finger into Philip’s face, mildly annoyed.

Leland looks at the crowd, confused. What’s going on? He recognizes most of the people in the crowd as Philip’s members and pushes toward them, only to see Henry and Philip in the middle. Philip's face is red, huffing and puffing like a cartoon villain; at one point, Leland can almost see steam coming out of his ears. 

“You don’t get to put this on me. Look, man, I just want to leave this godforsaken place. The people around here aren’t right; we don’t belong here. Okay? You—you definitely fit in, you self-harming prick, slashing your wrists like you think you’re better than us,” Philip says.

Henry’s eyes harden at that. “What did you just say to me? Say that again, you balding jerk. Just so you know, you and every single one of you in this circle deserve to be here; there’s something wrong with all your heads.” He points at everyone around, visibly furious. Philip scoffs, shaking his head.

“And you think you’re all going to get out of here? No way, numbnuts; no one’s getting out of here,” Henry says. “Okay, that’s it. This suicidal jerk is going to get it.” A man with a booming voice interjects—his long, greasy hair is tangled, and he looks like a mess. He pushes by Leland and the others as Leland steps back, getting shoved by the crowd until he almost falls. Suddenly, he hears a fist meeting flesh and people screaming and cheering—nurses turning their heads at the ruckus as he quickly navigates through the crowd, grunting as he uses all his strength.

He sees Henry on the floor, blood dripping from his nose like a faucet, his lip busted as he rubs his jaw.

“What’s going on here?!” a nurse yells, but the man kneels down to grab the front of Henry’s shirt as Henry snorts. “What? You want to punch me again? Come on!” he challenges. “Jesus Christ,” Philip says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He turns when he hears nurses closing in. “Just do what you need to do, Jaden.” He waves a hand at the person now straddling Henry’s waist, holding him down, arm raised to punch him again as Henry simply glares.

Leland grits his teeth, not hesitating to push into the circle as he tackles Jaden—who’s about to hurt Henry. A few screams arise from the crowd as they both tumble into a heap of bodies, rolling like a bunch of loose eggs from the carton. Leland feels the painful impact in his shoulder as Jaden mutters a curse. “You bastard,” he curses, and Leland feels a hand grab the back of his shirt, yanking him around like a doll. 

Leland lets out a surprised breath as he’s slammed against the wall, his back aching and his breath knocked out momentarily. He struggles to shake the hand off while trying to kick Jaden. Jaden then pulls him away from the wall and slams him back again, Leland’s head hitting the wall painfully. For a second, his vision turns black, but before he can dwell on it, he hears Henry’s voice, and he’s back in his body again.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” he hears Henry shout, and suddenly Leland is dropped to the floor, while Henry punches Jaden. “Break it up! Break it up! Everyone! Back the hell up! Move! Move out of the way, everyone who doesn’t move gets detention!” a nurse yells, pushing through the crowd as Leland jumps to his feet. 

It’s chaos. Everyone’s egging Henry on, who’s now on the floor, Jaden on top of him, throwing punches while Henry shields his face with his arms. “You think you’re so tough?” Jaden taunts. “You’ve been pissing me off since the day you joined us, you bastard.”

“Yeah? Why are your hits so weak then? You punch like a little girl! Bitch!” Henry retorts, landing a hit on Jaden’s nose. Jaden yowls, blood spilling from his nostrils as he clamps his hands around Henry’s neck, squeezing.

“Stop!” Leland can’t help but say shakily as he stands up, about to jump the guy, his blood boiling at the sight. But in that moment, the crowd breaks apart, and someone grabs his arm painfully, dragging him back. 

He sees multiple nurses pulling Jaden away from Henry, holding his arms back before a syringe is plunged deep into his shoulder, prompting him to scream. Henry sits up, defeated, his hair limp over his face and his nose still bleeding. He has a hand over his lip as he offers his arm to the nurse who helped him sit up, and he too receives a syringe in the arm. 

“I didn’t start this, man; they were just messing around.” Leland turns to see Philip talking to a nurse, raising both arms as if he wasn’t the one who instigated the whole fight. It doesn’t take long for both Henry and Jaden to lose consciousness, being dragged out of the cafeteria while Leland stands there, unable to stop shaking in anger. He looks at Philip, who is just grinning and shrugging, before turning to Leland and glaring at him.

Leland’s fists clench. “Leland, come with me. Did you have any part in that fight?” Melissa grabs him and takes him away. Leland just shakes his head, gritting his teeth as Melissa brings him to his room, checking him for any wounds or bruises. “Does your body hurt? Tell me,” Melissa asks. But Leland shakes his head again, crossing his arms over his chest as he sits on his bed, staring at the floor beneath him. 

“Let me check on you. Tell me if it hurts, okay? I’ll touch some part of your body,” Melissa says, pressing a hand on his back. He feels a tinge of pain but doesn’t speak, just shaking his head.

Leland hadn’t really seen Henry for a week, mostly because he knew the other was locked in his room as punishment for starting a fight. But it wasn’t even Henry who started the fight; worse, he wasn’t even the one who joined it—he had just gotten someone from his group to attack Henry. 

It’s not fair—Leland hates it. Why would someone be like this? It’s completely stupid and idiotic. It makes Leland angry; it makes him hot with rage. For a few days, he couldn’t sleep, sweating through his shirt while thinking about how hurt and alone Henry must have felt in his room.

He hates Philip for that, as well as Jaden for hurting his friend. He just doesn’t understand the purpose of any of this. Maybe this is what Henry is trying to tell him. It’s not that Leland didn’t believe him; he does. He really does. It’s just… no. Maybe Henry is right.

Leland wants to believe the things that he wants to believe, and refuses to let other things be introduced to him. It’s willful ignorance. 

It’ll be a few more days before Henry gets out, so Leland does what he’s best at—following Philip. He trails after him everywhere he goes, watching him, studying him, trying to understand him. Leland desperately wants to grasp why Philip would go to such lengths to get out; what is the external force driving him to do this?

“So, ever thought that stalking is a fucking weird thing to do?” Leland startles as he rounds a corner, seeing Philip leaning against the wall, glowering at him. Leland steps back, clasping his hands together and drawing his shoulders in as he swallows nervously. “So?” Philip steps closer, and Leland lowers his gaze. He can’t lie and claim he wasn’t following Philip; he’s caught in the act after all. 

“So, is this about Letham? Came here to get revenge for him, is that it?” Philip drops a heavy hand on Leland’s shoulder, but Leland just shakes his head. “No,” he says, clearing his throat as he meets Philip’s eyes, noting the desperation mixed with sadness dancing behind them before looking away.

“Just a question,” Leland says as he glances at him again. Philip’s brows are drawn, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He takes a step back, examining Leland from head to toe, as if he’s trying to determine whether Leland has enough skin and flesh on him to actually land a hit.

Leland has never been a fighter; he doesn’t even know how to throw a punch. The most he can do is look intimidating because of his height and emotionless face. “Alright, shoot,” Philip finally says after a minute or two. 

“Why do you want to get out so much?” Leland asks. 

Philip raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Is that really your question?” 

Leland nods. 

“Ridiculous,” Philip scoffs, shaking his head and pressing a hand against his forehead as he exhales sharply. “You know, be glad you’re young; I wasn’t proud of what Jaden did to you, you know that, right?” 

Leland shrugs. “Not really. It looked like you meant it. So…” 

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Philip retorts, and Leland just shrugs again. “Are you going to answer my question soon?”

Philip snorts, eyeing him. “Like the other guys and gals with me, they’ve got someone back home. But me? I’ve got a kid, you see. My wife left when she had her, just shat her out and handed her to me and left. Right now, I have no close family, so that means she’s been thrown into foster care. I gotta get back to her, you see?” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back as Leland watches, shifting his gaze from how Philip’s lips move, to his brows, to his eyes.

“What did you do to end up here?” Leland asks. 

Philip lets out a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he looks away. “I’m not really a good dad to my kid; life’s hard for both of us, but I try my best, I really do. I’ve lost too many jobs, and my kid gets sick more often than I can count. I lost it—I really did…” Philip breathes out shakily, pressing the back of his hand over his lips and looking down. He appears sick, his face drawn and pale. 

“What happened?” Leland asks, furrowing his brows. 

“Tried to kill myself and my kid—thought that… if life is hitting us hard like this, it would be better if both of us died, so we wouldn’t have to suffer. I drowned my kid and slit my wrist—and for a while, she was dead—then she got up and called for help while I was bleeding out, and—shit… fuck, I don’t know honestly,” Philip laughs, his shoulders shaking. He sounds manic. “I don’t even know if I can still meet my kid if I get out.”

Leland frowns as he watches Philip wipe the tears from his eyes, pressing the heel of his palms against his face, standing there with hunched shoulders as he breathes heavily.

“You think I’m a bad father?” Philip asks. Leland shakes his head. “Even when you’re wrong, you were thinking of your daughter’s best interests,” he replies. Philip laughs, “Of course a murderer like you would say that, huh?” Leland simply makes a face and turns away from Philip. 

“I think it’s better if… —You need to get better first, Philip,” Leland clears his throat. Philip scoffs, “Get better? In this place? Are you kidding me?” Leland shifts awkwardly, shuffling his feet. “It will work, Philip.”

“You really think I’ll get better here? Come on, kiddo,” Philip retorts, and Leland nods. “For your daughter,” he says. In that moment, he wins the conversation, and like a puppet with cut strings, Philip blinks at him, then falls silent, breathing softly through his nose. “You’re telling me to stop all this bullshit, aren’t you? You don’t think we can get out of here?” he asks.

Leland nods.

“You aren’t the dog of the center if you didn’t know that, huh?” Philip taunts.

Leland frowns, “I’m not a dog.”

Philip grins. “You better take a look in the mirror, kiddo; it’s not just me who needs some ‘getting better’ when you don’t even know what you want. You eat scraps for a living after all… But thanks for the parted wisdom.” He places a hand on Leland’s shoulder again. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to get out of here.” He walks past Leland and starts whistling a tune that’s faintly familiar as Leland stands there, pocketing his hands in his pants and looking at his shoes with mild interest.

Later, he sits alone in the art room again, furiously painting a bleeding rose, remembering the blood dripping from Henry’s hand and down the grass. He sits there, gripping the handle of the brush so tightly that it splinters slightly under his hold. He breathes through his nose and grits his teeth, closing his eyes and trying to remember the color.

Leland’s mind goes back to Ryan, lying on the grass, eyes closed and peaceful.

He sees Henry too.

Then he sees himself, laying there with his eyes peacefully closed along with the grass beneath him. He doesn’t see Ryan or Henry; he only sees himself, and he doesn’t know why.

Leland opens his eyes. Does he want that? He looks at his canvas, realizing he has been moving his hand while trying to imagine the blood. The rose is completely overshadowed by the red paint; it doesn’t even look like art anymore. It’s as if Leland has painted red all over the canvas with no care. The hand holding the brush trembles as he stares at his creation.

He lowers his brush and breathes heavily, biting his lower lip until it draws blood, the copper filling his mouth as he sits there alone, wishing Henry were here to talk about nonsense.

Sometimes, life isn't so black and white. There's gray in between. Leland doesn’t really know what to make of it. He hopes Henry gets out of detention soon.

—

For days, even after Henry’s release, Leland would lie in his bed once more, struck by a need to understand his vision of himself dying and to grasp why he felt at peace with that idea. He would lie there, even after drinking his sleeping pill from dinner; he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He’d feel the sleep tugging at his eyes, but he’d remain there, deep in thought, his chest aching and breath hitching, wishing his mom or Pearl would visit so he could get a hug from them. Maybe even Becky.

He didn’t know why, but he thought a hug would mean a lot right now.

“You know, sometimes I worry that things get a bit too bland, and something bad will happen,” Henry commented beside him as they sat by the lake. Leland’s notebook lay open on his lap, a blank page staring back at him, with the pencil loosely held between his fingers as he gazed at the water, imagining how Philip must have drowned his daughter and how afraid she must have been.

Was Ryan ever afraid as he bled to death? Leland couldn’t truly remember—he recalled the aftermath. He knew Ryan hadn’t died right away; he still bled out after all. Leland had no idea which part of the body is best to strike for instantaneous death.

“Why?” Leland asked.

Henry turned to him. “Because you’re quiet. And if you’re quiet, you’re thinking about something. Mind telling me what it is?” Leland noted the fading yellow bruise under Henry’s eyes, then glanced at his hair, which had been cut short, now just reaching under his earlobes. He looked clean, with his fringe trimmed to keep it from falling into his face.

“Oh... I’m not...” Leland began slowly, averting his gaze from Henry, feeling extremely exposed as Henry leaned in a little to see his face. “Hm,” he said. “You’re not drawing anything? No flowers in mind today?” He pointed at the blank page, and Leland looked down at his notebook, letting the pencil slip from his grasp and onto the grass. Henry picked it up for him and handed it back. Leland took it, sighing softly.

“How did it feel? To die many times?” he asked.

Henry, who had been lightly toying with the grass, paused. “Why do you ask?” he regarded Leland suspiciously. Leland shrugged. “I don’t know.” He admitted the truth. He really didn’t know, but many nights now, he thought about his death. Is there a heaven? Will Leland see light, or will he see darkness?

Suddenly, Leland recalled Henry’s burn scars, his own preparation for hell, and wondered what had crossed Henry’s mind to begin doing that. His stomach clenched, and Leland shifted on the grass, gripping his pencil tightly. “Are you thinking about it?” Henry asked. Leland shrugged. 

“Thinking about doing it?” Henry pressed again. Leland shrugged once more, looking lost. “Why?” Henry moved closer, his brows furrowed and shoulders hunched.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

Henry fell silent, watching him. “Tell me,” he insisted, and Leland lowered his head, fidgeting with his pencil. “Can you tell me how it felt to die?” Leland turned to him, a frown on his lips. Henry looked at him, his lips turning down and his eyes lowering, lashes fluttering. “After death, you get seven minutes of your memories to be played, and sometimes, you can also create a world in there too, but eventually, you come back and die. And it’s darkness,” Henry said softly.

Leland swallowed, now thinking about Ryan. Did he get those seven minutes too?

“Were you scared when it happened to you multiple times?” Leland asked.

Henry exhaled. “The third time it happened, I think I almost felt numb, I guess. It felt like I was just going to bed, you know? It wasn’t a big deal anymore.”

Leland watched as Henry picked a few blades of grass, rubbing them between his fingers in thought. “Didn’t it feel freeing?” Leland probed. “No, I suppose it lost its charm after the second time.” Henry chuckled darkly at his own joke, while Leland sat there, raising his head, squinting at the dull sky. “How long have you been here, Leland?” Henry asked.

Leland shrugged. “A while now.”

“You feeling any better?” Henry nudged him lightly with his knee.

“That’s the problem; I don’t really know. I spoke to Philip, and he’s said some things that I can’t help but think about. You’re right, you know? That I’m willingly ignorant of this world; I think I’ve always known that the world outside my life is horrible. I live in a pretty small town; we all know each other and such, so I guess the outside world didn’t matter much. The most of the world I could taste was Becky’s; she loved drugs more than she loved me,” Leland says, glancing at Henry, who is watching him, leaning back on his palms. 

“Does the world outside scare you? Does it scare you to know that everyone in society is just really sad? That there really is nothing you can do to help some of them, because it’s just part of their lives at this point?”  Henry blinks at him as Leland averts his gaze, feeling a strange pounding headache behind his eyes and the tightness in his chest that makes him want to die. 

“I know… I think—maybe,” Leland admits weakly. 

“It’s not on you if you were sheltered all your life, Leland,” Henry says. “Your mother barely visits, and your father doesn’t visit at all. A teacher from your juvenile prison is the one who visits you often; it’s almost laughable, Leland. Don’t you think that’s pretty messed up? That your own parents can’t even spare you a single day to talk to you, to hold you? Aren’t you mad at them?” 

Leland shakes at that, trembling as he looks down. He feels a painful headache and heat behind his eyes as he presses the back of his hand against them. 

“I don’t know…” His voice shakes; it’s almost embarrassing as he sits there. 

“Do they even help you around here?” Henry asks. “You’re like a wallflower; you’re just there. You’re not being rehabilitated here; you’re just living here. And that’s just wrong.” 

“I don’t think they know what’s wrong with me,” Leland admits, finally looking at Henry with red-rimmed eyes, running his hand through his hair, the curls now tangled and messy. 

“Then what’s wrong with you?” Henry asks. 

Leland shakes his head. “I don’t know, Henry. I really don’t know. I just feel sad seeing other people’s sadness. Sometimes it even makes me sick to look you in the eyes because I know, deep down, you still blame yourself for your family’s death, and your sorrow is so profound that I can’t breathe around you. Everyone here is sad, and it makes me so sad too; my chest feels tight, and I can’t sleep at night. I remember the thorny rose that you held, and I remember Ryan. I see your face in Ryan’s, and it was by my hand that I killed you, just so you could be saved from the sadness. I want to take it on myself to free you from whatever is pulling you down,” Leland sobs shakily, dropping his pencil and notebook onto the grass, breathing heavily as he presses a hand to his chest. 

Henry sits up, brows furrowed, as he reaches a hand to Leland’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly, just to ease him. “Breathe, Leland,” he says, looking uneasy. Leland has never had any outburst like the others here; he’s always been so calm and cool, never letting anyone affect him, even Henry’s words. 

“Sometimes I see my face too, and I think about ending my sadness with my own hands. I feel a strange need to do it, and I don’t know if it’s like yours because I don’t really want to hurt myself, but I want to disappear now so I don’t have to feel the tightness in my chest that always lives there.” Leland swallows shakily, pressing a hand over his mouth as he ducks down and shakes hard like a leaf, not before his shoulders are pulled into an embrace.

“Alright, calm down, kiddo,” Henry hushes him, placing a warm hand on the back of Leland’s neck. “I’m sorry—it feels so stupid,” Leland whispers, wrapping an arm around Henry’s torso and leaning on him like he does with Pearl. Henry simply wraps his other arm around Leland’s shoulder and holds him there. “It’s not, Leland. It’s really not,” Henry says. 

“Back then you asked why I killed Ryan—I think I killed him because I felt the sadness behind his eyes. It was so large, so immense. He’s not like any of us; he’s special. He’s a very special boy, but that also means he has special needs and requires special care. And I know he hates it because his life isn’t normal like the others. He’s sad because that’s all his life is going to be—stuck in that room, facing a screen where the words given to him are carefully picked and chosen. He doesn’t get to kiss a girl he likes, drink, or smoke. And he’s sad about that. It makes me sick to my stomach to let him live that kind of life—” Leland’s breath hitches.

“I didn’t want to do it; I’m so sorry. I think I hated myself for it so much that I don’t even know if I hate myself or just my life. I couldn’t even remember how I killed Ryan; I don’t remember how it happened. I just know Ryan looked peaceful lying there on the grass, like I’d set him free. Am I a horrible person, Henry?” Leland whispers, sobbing pitifully as Henry buries his hand in his hair and cards it carefully. “You did it out of good intentions, Leland,” Henry says. He doesn’t say yes or no, and Leland feels a bit thankful that he didn’t say either.

For a while, Henry just holds Leland, his hand in Leland’s hair, carding through it like Leland’s mother used to do when he was younger, before she stopped because he grew too tall and too old for her to baby him like this. 

He misses those moments a lot, being grabbed and held tightly by his mother when he felt down. Now he just sits in his room, hugging himself and imagining that he’s being held by someone. Maybe he never thought anything wrong of it—maybe not until now.

“Do Mr. and Mrs. Letham give good hugs?” Leland asks, his voice a bit hoarse, and he hears Henry snort. “She does,” he replies. “Why?”

“It’s because you give good hugs. They feel nice and warm; my hands don’t feel cold anymore,” Leland says softly. Henry pauses for a moment, his hands stopping on top of Leland’s head, before he resumes, this time slower. “Did you and Athena plan to have children?” Leland asks again.

“I did plan to marry her—and have children too. She’s always been family-centered. Her mother’s a drug addict, and her father left her life early. She wants to start a family with me just so she can be the mother she’s always wanted to be,” he says softly, with so much adoration that it tugs at Leland’s chest a bit.

“Do you think she would have been a good mother?” Leland can’t help but ask.

“She would be perfect,” Henry sighs, dropping his forehead on top of Leland’s head, defeated.

“Leland, you have a visitor.” Melissa knocks on the door of the art room. Inside, Henry is sitting on his stool, painting a room—a baby room of some sort, complete with a crib and a window letting in light. Beside him, Leland—also sitting on a stool, painting a flower, specifically a lily of the valley—stops and lowers his hand as he turns to Melissa. 

“Oh,” he says, glancing at Henry, who is focused on his work. “I’ll be back.” 

“Alright,” Henry replies absentmindedly, still concentrating on his painting as Leland places his easel and brush on the table beside him and stands. 

“Is it Pearl?” Leland asks. Melissa shakes her head. “Someone else,” she replies. Leland's eyes light up as he sees Allen and Julie. He can’t help but beam at the sight of Allen, the taller man standing up from the table with a smile. 

“Allen, Julie! You’re both here. Where’s Becky?” Leland quickly sits down, folding his hands on the table, excited. The visitors' room is empty aside from them, mostly because it’s Tuesday, and many visitors have jobs on weekdays. 

“Becky’s sick; she has a stomach flu and has been out all week after eating tacos with us last Friday," Julie explains. Leland nods, noticing her eyes scanning the room. Her blonde hair is pulled up with a plastic hair stick, appearing messy, similar to Becky’s. 

She looks nice, but her eyes appear dark and a bit sunken, as if she hasn’t slept in days… maybe months. 

“How are you, Leland? It’s been a while. The last time we visited, we didn’t get to join Becky. She wanted to do it on her own, and we didn’t want to intrude,” Allen says with a smile, leaning on the table. Leland shrugs in response. 

“It’s nice here; they take good care of their patients,” he assures them. Julie’s hands clench over the table, and she avoids meeting Leland’s gaze. Concerned, he looks back at Allen. 

“That’s great—terrific even! We were worried they might be mistreating you,” Allen says with a forced smile. 

“It’s okay here. What about you two?” Leland inquires, tilting his head in question. Allen shrugs. 

“College is a bit of a pain, but that’s life,” he responds, prompting a small smile from Leland. 

“Are you having fun in college?” 

Allen snorts and mimics Leland’s grin. “We are! New people, new friends—it’s normal. It’s hard to adjust at first, but you get the hang of it eventually. I have Julie with me anyway.” He says softly, and Julie nods, turning to him as he places his hand over hers, holding it tightly. Leland watches them with a small smile but can't help but notice Julie’s tired appearance once again. 

“Are you okay, Julie? Are you also sick?” he asks, concern evident in his voice. Julie meets his gaze for a moment before looking down, tracing a finger on the table. 

“Just fine—a bit tired. Home’s pretty far from here, you know,” she replies, forcing a smile that seems shaky—almost fake—but Leland pays it no mind. 

He and Julie have never had a close relationship, not like the one he shares with Allen. “Oh… Maybe you both should go home to rest early,” Leland suggests. 

“It’s fine,” Julie insists, wiping her hand over her face and exhaling sharply. 

“Are you sure?” Leland asks, searching Allen’s face for support. Allen merely nods, waving Leland’s concerns away. 

“We want to talk to you a bit more; we didn’t just come here for nothing. Come on, Leland,” Allen encourages, shrugging one shoulder. Leland bites his lip, glancing at Julie again, who meets his gaze with a serious look, her hands clenched. Worry blooms in his chest, like a volcano ready to erupt. 

“Okay,” he replies meekly, lowering his head as he averts his gaze from Julie to Allen’s smiling face. 

“Come on, tell us more about this place. I did some research. Apparently, this place is big enough for a small city! Can you believe that?” Allen asks, and Leland nods. 

“There’s a lake here; it’s really nice. Sometimes they give boat rides, but since it’s getting colder, some outdoor activities have been reduced to prevent anyone from getting sick or hurt,” Leland explains. 

“I saw the garden on the way here. What’s in there? Do you think they would let us go?” Allen asks. Leland nods again. 

“They usually allow you to go outside with visitors. We can go there now; there are a lot of flowers,” he says. He observes Allen and Julie glance at each other for a moment before standing up and following Leland as he slips on his coat. 

“Melissa, can we go outside?” Leland asks the older woman, who hums in response and nods. 

“You certainly can. Do you need privacy? I don’t have to come if you don’t want me to. I trust you very much to behave. No pager?” she says quietly, just so that Allen and Julie can’t hear her from behind.

Leland peers over his shoulder, watching as Allen helps Julie put on her jacket. “It’s alright; I don’t need it anyway. They just want to see the flowers, and I hate the beeping it does every hour. Thank you, Melissa. I’ll be back very soon,” he says, flashing her a smile as she pats his head. 

“Alright, off you go. You’re going to make Henry wait in the art room; he runs his mouth more these days,” she jokes, and Leland can’t help but grin at that as he nods.

“Follow me.” Leland turns to Allen and Julie, leading them out of the room, through the main doors, and into the yard. “The grass here is so beautiful,” Allen comments as they step outside. Leland leads them to the stone path, nodding in agreement. “They take care of the yard really well. Sometimes they have workers around here waking up at 3 in the morning just to maintain everything,” he explains, falling into step beside Allen, who nods. “It’s nice; they really put great care into this place,” he says.

Leland nods again. “They do—here’s the path to the garden; it’s not too far now,” he says.

“Do people come to the garden often?” Julie finally asks. Leland shrugs. “It depends. We usually stay indoors if we can; there are a lot of indoor activities to do. They have an indoor court for basketball, but there’s also an outdoor one,” Leland explains. He doesn’t notice Julie’s movement: one hand grabbing the hairpin from her hair, she pulls it out, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulder and neck, then carefully hands it to Allen, who is walking beside Leland. 

Finally, he stops by the entrance of the garden, smiling excitedly.

“Since it’s getting cold now, some of the flowers I really like aren’t here. But most of them are still here, and I want to show you guys some of them. Do you know about flower languages?” Leland asks. Allen shakes his head, and Julie starts coughing. 

“I think I’ll stay here, Leland. It’s cold, and walking tires me out. Maybe I did get sick as well, stomach hurts a bit,” she sighs, and Leland furrows his brows. “Oh no—should we go back?” he asks.

“No need. Come on, you wanted to show me the garden and the flowers, right? How about I go with you and you show me around? Julie can wait here outside, hm?” Allen suggests as Leland looks at Julie, concerned, his hands clasped together and fidgeting as he nods. 

“Are you sure she doesn’t need to rest back in the white house? Melissa has a lot of supplies she can use to help Julie; there’s even a hospital here, just three minutes away in that direction,” Leland points to the far right, but Allen just lowers his arm.

“It’s alright, Leland,” he reassures him, leaning in. “You know Julie; she hates making a big deal out of things. She doesn’t like attention, and she wanted to see you, which is why she wanted to come so badly,” he murmurs under his breath, causing Leland to flush and nod. “Alright… Thank you—uhm, do you want to see the cyclamen?” Leland asks as Allen nods, allowing Leland to lead him into the garden while sparing one last glance at Julie, who looks pale and drawn, hugging herself. Guilt fills her face as their eyes meet before she looks away.

Allen bites his lip and follows Leland, who is now crouched over a bunch of cyclamens. “Look, here,” he points. 

“Oh, those flowers are connected to the Virgin Mary,” Allen comments. 

“Yeah,” Leland replies excitedly. “Do you know what they mean?” he asks next.

Allen shakes his head. “Not particularly; I don’t read flower books much,” he admits.

“It’s fine. Cyclamen usually mean sincere affection, lasting feelings, and tender love. We could try asking for some so you can give some to Julie. They look really nice and pink, don’t they?” Leland grins, smiling eagerly up at Allen, who lets out a shaky breath and nods.

"It's beautiful, Leland. What else? Julie doesn’t prefer much pink anyway; I’ve only given her a rose before,” he says.

“Oh! Roses are nice. I hope you got the thorns out—wait, what about this? It does look a bit pink, but it’s more of a magenta purple than pink. They call this winter heather.” Leland grabs Allen’s wrist and pulls him to another flower. It looks like little bells drooping down.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Allen crouches down to look at it, and Leland does the same, grinning excitedly. “Right? It has more colors, but I think the center really likes pink things—and I don’t mind. It changes things around since it’s always so white, walls, rooms—everything really, but white isn’t so bad either; it just means purity, you know?” Leland says, and Allen nods.

“What else? Show me everything you have, Leland. I don’t mind walking around this large palace,” Allen says, and Leland nods.

It was a full-blown experience, almost an hour spent walking around the place, with Leland showing Allen everything he knows, sharing fun facts about each flower, and even going as far as stealing a single bloom and pressing it into Allen’s breast pocket for him to take home to Becky. “It’ll die by then,” Allen said, and Leland shrugged, smiling. “Everything dies eventually,” he replied.

For a moment, Allen’s face looked drawn—maybe broken or guilty—as he fell silent, leaving Leland standing there, shuffling his feet and looking at him eagerly. “

I think we covered most of the flowers here, Allen,” Leland said. “We can go back to Julie now. I’m sure she’d love all the things I told you,” he added.

Allen exhaled sharply and nodded. Leland smiled and started to walk past him, but Allen gently grabbed his elbow and pulled him back. “Hey—hold on, let’s… let’s talk for a moment,” he said shakily, swallowing hard. Leland stopped and stepped back in front of Allen. “What’s wrong?” he asked, watching as Allen pressed a hand to his pocket, shoving it in and leaving it there as he leaned back. “You’re doing alright here, right?” Allen asked, his voice trembling. Leland nodded, surprised that Allen was asking this question again.

“Yeah,” Leland replied. “Have you met any friends?” Allen asked, his voice lowering.

Leland hummed pensively. Henry is a friend, and the others are friends too, but not like Henry. “Yeah, but I have a best friend,” Leland said, and Allen raised his brows. “Yeah?” he asked as he walked closer to Leland. Leland remained in place, nodding. “Yeah,” he affirmed. “What’s their name?” Allen asked. “His name is Henry Letham,” Leland replied.

“Letham… that’s an interesting name. Sounds kind of familiar,” Allen said.

“Really?” Leland tilted his head. “Henry said he used to paint and displayed his work in exhibitions around the country. Do you think you’ve seen one of his pieces?” he asked. “A painter? That could be, Mr. and Mrs. Pollard sometimes like to go to those events, you know? They enjoy looking at artwork,” he said.

Leland beamed at that. “You must have seen Henry’s work then. That’s nice. I want to see Henry’s art too. He’s just recently started painting again; I think his love for it is slowly coming back,” he admitted softly. “A lot of artistic individuals tend to experience these kinds of struggles, don’t you think?” Allen said, and Leland shrugged. “I think it’s different with Henry. He lost his family in an accident,” he said.

Allen fell silent. “Poor guy,” he said.

Leland nodded. “Don’t pity him; he’s doing great,” he insisted, and Allen gave him a small smile. “He must be really important to you. Maybe next time…” He choked up slightly, as if he wanted to cry. “Next time, we can meet this friend of yours, you know?” he said. Leland perked up at that. “He’s also a college student, but he’s older than you by a year, I think. He said he’s in his first year,” Leland explained.

Allen nodded. “Alright—that sounds great. Leland? Leland, come here for a second. Can I look at you?” he said, motioning for Leland to come closer. Leland stepped in, and Allen placed a hand on his shoulder. “Leland,” Allen said.

“Yeah?” Leland replied softly.

“You know we don’t blame you, right? Sometimes, something just happens that’s out of our control,” Allen said gently as Leland looked up at him, eyes wide, before looking down and blinking furiously. 

“Uhm—sorry—” Leland murmured, but Allen placed a hand on the back of his neck, carding his large fingers through Leland’s hair and messing it up—Leland faintly remembered Melissa brushing his hair earlier that morning, ending with him tearing up because she wouldn’t let him leave his room with it a mess.

“Ryan wouldn’t have blamed you, Leland. He loves you very much,” Allen said. “I know you love him too; you’ve always been there for him.” His breath hitched as Leland looked at his face, seeing the red-rimmed eyes, almost bloodshot, while Allen’s hand on his shoulder gripped him tightly, as if he didn’t want to let Leland go. 

“Do you want a hug?” Leland asked, noticing Allen’s breath shudder. “I—Jesus, Leland—I was—alright,” he said shakily, and Leland wasted no time wrapping his arms around Allen’s torso, leaning his cheek on Allen’s shoulder and hugging him tightly.

One hand of Allen’s is on his back, and slowly, the other hand that was in his pocket brings out the hairpin, sharpened at the end enough to pierce skin with pressure. “It’s okay, Allen—uhm, are you back to playing baseball now?” Leland asks, changing the topic as he continues to hold Allen, who is frozen, breathing heavily.

“Baseball? I quit, remember?” Allen replies.

Leland frowns as he leans back a little. “You said when you get to college maybe you’ll play again—” Suddenly, he feels a sharp, blinding pain in his lower abdomen—like a hot iron being seared into his skin. 

The edges of his vision turn black and white for a few seconds, and he lets out a choked noise, like an animal being stepped on the neck, stepping back and placing a hand on his lower abdomen, looking down to see blood—

“Allen?” Leland says weakly, glancing over at him. Allen’s face is sweaty and pale, one hand bloody from stabbing the hairpin into Leland’s side. As Leland holds onto it, he watches blood creep out, staining his white shirt and spreading—strangely, it almost looks like paint. Leland remembers the last time one of the patients there accidentally tripped and fell, and some red paint had stained his pants, spreading evenly until it finally stopped.

But unlike the paint, the blood continues to spread, staining his pants beneath, reaching his knees and feet, even his white shoes and the grass underneath. He breathes noisily through his mouth; his tongue feels heavy and it hurts—it hurts—there is a noise that Leland can hear…

“Leland—I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” Allen whispers, now back close to him, holding his shoulders as Leland stands there, eyes hazy. His body feels cold all of a sudden, and he can feel sweat on his forehead and nose, which is strange since it’s supposed to be cold, and he feels really cold. 

He weakly grasps the stick buried in his skin, blood making his hand slippery.

“Why?” Leland asks, looking at Allen, whose face hardens a bit.

“We had to, Leland—we can’t let a murderer live, you know that. That’s how the world works. Everything’s going to be okay, Leland. I swear—I hit the right spot; you’ll die sooner or later from blood loss. You won’t feel it, I promise.” He whispers, looking hardened, but at the same time, like a child unsure of what he’s doing—like he isn’t ready for this. 

It almost makes Leland want to cry—but the tightness in his chest is spreading, and he looks down at his wound again, seeing the same hairpin that was in Julie’s hair earlier. He breathes out shakily, stumbling on his feet as he can feel liquid inside his shirt, dripping and spreading across his skin. “Okay,” Leland squeaks out as he pushes past Allen, stumbling, vision turning and spinning. 

“Where are you going? Leland—” Allen says, following after him and grabbing his elbow. But Leland just pushes him away, walking out of the garden.

He sees Julie, who flinches at the blood all over his front, his hand still on the stick in his side, buried so deeply that he feels a little sick. With every step, he can feel it move, and with every step, he can feel more blood—slick, not lazily leaving like Henry’s, but spurting out like a water faucet set on high. 

Not just on low—it's coming out of him fast, and it makes him a bit dizzy.

Or maybe it’s the blood loss. “Leland—” Julie presses a hand over her lips, shocked—Leland knows well she was involved too. Yet she acts surprised—it should make him angry, but he can’t be angry right now when he can barely see her face. 

“It’s okay,” Leland replies as he walks past her, her pale and guilty face reflecting the fact that she and Allen chose to do this.

Leland hears Allen’s voice shouting for him as he walks down the stone path, trying to focus on using both of his legs. He needs to go back—get the stick out maybe. He attempts to use his jacket to stop the bleeding, but it only pushes the stick inside further, and he can’t help but let out a choked whimper, stopping as he stands there, shaking, head lowered, saliva pooling in his mouth uncontrollably, and his vision is whitening out.

It hurts.  

It hurts so much.  

Leland feels sick now—  

He feels sick.  

Allen lied; Leland feels it all—the blood, the pain, the suffering. Is this what Ryan felt? Then why did he look so peaceful? Why does Leland’s pain feel so much worse?  

Leland closes his eyes for a moment and sees Ryan’s closed eyes and the small smile on his face, lying on the grass, the lack of blood around him, except on his chest. When Leland opens his eyes and removes his jacket, he sees that blood has now stained his entire front—his shirt, pants, shoes, and both his hands trying to keep it in. 

He walks again, this time slower.

This feels different from the pain in his hand that he inflicted on himself back then; this feels like the end. Back then, the wound on his hand felt like the start. 

Leland doesn’t understand his thoughts anymore.  

He remembers the blood from Henry’s hand because of the thorns on the rose.  

Leland’s lower lip trembles as he feels tears pour from his eyes and down his chin, continuing to walk as blood drips on the stone path. He should have brought the pager—  

He should have…  

Leland wants Henry…  

He needs…  

“Leland?” He stops when he sees someone in front of him—Henry. “Henry.” Leland gasps as he quickly but shakily stumbles towards Henry, who runs to him. “Oh Jesus Christ—fuck—who did this to you? Leland? Oh fuck—okay, okay. Shit.” Henry’s voice shakes as Leland almost falls on him, but Henry helps him to his feet as he sees the buried plastic stick on Leland’s side, blood coming out in a dribble—he knows well it wasn’t self-inflicted. 

“Allen…Julie—they wanted to…” Leland trails off, sniffling weakly. Henry hears footsteps, and he raises his head to see a tall, lanky man beside a blonde woman. “Motherfucker,” Henry whispers before turning to Leland, whose eyes are half-lidded, in pain, teeth clenched. “Shit. It’s okay—it’s okay. I’ll get you to help. Come on, come on, work with me. Leland, you need to move your legs so we can go back to the white house.” 

Henry pulls Leland with him, grabbing his arm and placing it over his neck as he hauls him. Leland tries to follow, but his legs are dragging, and his vision is turning white. He can’t feel much anymore aside from the coldness inside his skin.  

“Can’t, Henry. I’m so tired—why do I feel so tired?” Leland weakly says, his face so pale that he’s almost the color of Henry’s white shirt, while Leland’s is so red—fuck. “Fuck it.” Henry stops, holding Leland up as he reaches down to haul his arm underneath the back of his knees and then his back before carrying him bridal style. Leland pants in pain and exhaustion, hair plastered down with sweat and his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out pain sob, his head lolled weakly. 

Henry can already feel the blood and stickiness on Leland’s back, staining his hand and his sleeve.

And he runs.  

He runs like hell.  

He runs as if hell is taking him down with it.  

Leland’s eyes close.

Henry sits beside the white bed, Leland’s notebook in his hands. He flips through it, seeing multiple lazy sketches of flowers with their names beside them. Sometimes, some pages include words. One page features forget-me-nots, accompanied by a small note for Becky Pollard: "One day we’ll have a future together in a place far away." It was written in neat cursive. 

As Henry flips more pages, he glances at Leland, who is asleep on the bed, his hair limp and matted. He’s not moving, and the faint beeping of the machine beside him irritates Henry. He feels sick at the thought of being placed on a white bed surrounded by machines again.

But Leland is different—this was an attempted murder, committed by people he most likely trusts to accompany him safely. Henry’s gaze shifts to the bedside stand, where a collection of get-well balloons and flowers has been left by some patients from the White House. 

There are a few apples, yogurt cups (Henry tries not to chuckle at the thought of Leland who hates yogurt), and chocolates from the nursing staff. Melissa has been taking care of the flowers, and there are many vases around.

Henry closes Leland’s notebook, letting out a breath as he turns to stare at Leland’s face—still pale. The door cracks open, and Melissa enters, her expression grim. She quickly notices Henry. “Oh, Henry,” she greets. He gives her a small smile before looking back at Leland. “How is he? Any changes? Movements? Hand? Eyes?” she murmurs softly as she takes out a flashlight and gently pries Leland’s eyes open. His blue eyes roll back, and Melissa sighs, closing her flashlight and pocketing it.

“It’s been a few weeks now,” Henry says. Melissa shrugs, tucking her hands into her shirt pockets and sighing heavily. “He was injured very badly Henry. He was bleeding for so long; it’s not something one just gets up from easily.” She breathes out. “There are a lot of reports asking about him outside the center. It’s… hard. It’s probably best that he’s asleep through all of this,” she adds softly.

Henry clasps his hands together. “He’s got a broken rib. Did he… die on the way to the hospital?” he asks. “That happens, right? CPR? Rib breaks when you do that.” He explains, and Melissa gives him a tight-lipped look. “Why did you let him go with them alone?” Henry presses. Melissa shakes her head. 

“Leland’s a good, trustworthy boy. I didn’t know the danger wouldn’t be him, but the people around him,” she says shakily, standing there while Henry glares at her.

He sighs, the glare disappearing as tiredness takes over. “Is he going to wake up soon?” he asks. “That’s for Leland to decide,” she replies. Henry bites his lower lip and rocks in his chair, shaking his head. “What about that couple that tried to kill him?” he asks. “They’re in prison, probably being dragged to court. It’s horrible for them to try to kill a kid. They were the same family from where Leland killed the boy,” Melissa explains.

“And you let them visit?” Henry asks, his brows furrowing. He never knew this; Leland never really told him, and Henry never really asked, but still—

“A visitor is a visitor. It was up to Leland if he wanted to meet them or not. So far, they had been checked, and they had nothing on them when they came in The weapon was a hairpin from Ms. Julie Pollard that she kept in her hair the whole time, before they led him to the garden and stabbed him,” Melissa says.

“Fuckers,” Henry whispers to himself, dropping his face into his palms and exhaling sharply.

“He’ll wake up, Henry, he will. Right now, he’s just… resting,” Melissa reassures him. Henry lowers his head and nods. After a while, Melissa leaves, leaving Henry and Leland alone. The machine continues to beep and pulse as Henry sits at the side, leaning back to look at Leland’s face. He returns to Leland’s notebook, now resting on his lap, flipping it open to the most recent page.

It features lily of the valley, drawn much more gently than the other careless sketches. There’s a letter: “To Henry Letham, I hope you find your happiness soon.” Henry trails a finger over the cursive, his chest tightening as he breathes out shakily. He leans his head back, tilting it up toward the white ceiling, blinking away tears. He looks back down at the page again. There’s more text beneath the flowers: “To Mr. and Mrs. Letham and Athena. Please take care of Henry and forever stay as his guardian angel.” Henry sniffs, placing the back of his hand over his mouth, sitting there as his shoulders shake. He closes his eyes, ducking his head down, trying to breathe.

He had always seen Leland as strange, starting from the first time he met the kid. Trying to talk to him, then worse, trying to touch his scars without any boundaries. Henry didn’t like the kid—he looked too normal, too bland; he stood there as if expected to do nothing else. He got along with everyone like a stray dog being passed around, fed scraps, and returning for more, but not asking outright—just standing there, waiting.

Henry didn’t like him—he hated him at first. He saw nothing remarkable about the kid, the lack of emotion on his face, and the squeaky voice that grated on Henry’s ears every time he spoke. He tried everything—scaring Leland, trying to make him angry; he did everything he could to elicit a response from him.

Nothing.

And Henry hated the lack of response, hated the blankness that Leland projected. It was like he was an unfinished painting, just drifting by, with no idea what the hell he was doing here. 

He was just there, as if he weren’t expecting anything else.

Then he barged into Henry’s life, proclaiming how he wanted to help, like he was Henry’s goddamn psychiatrist who did nothing but sit in her plush chair as she let Henry pace back and forth, talking about nothing but wanting a drink and some smoke.

Now, he looked at Leland and saw the vision of a future with Athena. A two-story house, a room for their baby, shopping carts as they shopped for groceries, a well-lived space, and a kitchen filled with baking tools. Music in the air, him holding a baby. Athena once mentioned that if they ever had a child, they’d name her Alexandria if it was a girl, and Leander if it was a boy. Athena had always liked Greek mythology, and Henry appreciated the names she picked out.

Henry sighed again and pressed a hand over his face, slowly dragging it down. He turned to Leland—his eyes still closed.

He blinked.

Leland’s eyes were open, bleary in fact, staring at the ceiling, then the far-off wall before groaning. Henry’s heart leapt as he stood up, dropping the notebook. He cursed, picking it up and nearly falling on his face as Leland turned his head to look at him. 

“What happened?” Leland asked as Henry moved beside his bed, placing a hand on Leland’s arm. “What do you think? Got yourself turned into a kebab; how do you feel?” Henry asked, unable to suppress the relief filling his bones as Leland looked up at him with squinty eyes. “Uhm… sore—my chest hurts, everything hurts,” he groaned, trying to move and push himself up, but Henry placed a hand on his shoulder and kept him down.

“You’ve got a broken rib. It’s healing; your heart stopped, and they had to do CPR to bring you back. Water?” Henry asked.

Leland looked at him, nodding and licking his lips. “Please,” he said weakly, and Henry couldn’t help but smile. He pressed the nurse button above Leland’s head before getting him some cold water.

“Did I really get stabbed?” Leland asked, his bed now adjusted so he could finally sit up. He folded his hands in his lap, his lips turned into a frown as Henry handed him his notebook, but Leland didn’t take it. “You did,” Henry said as he sat down. Leland was silent. “Should I not have moved? Should I have stayed there?” he asked softly.

“What?” Henry replied, brows furrowed. Leland shrugged. “You were right about dying, about the seven minutes. It’s nice that I thought it should be—” he said weakly, looking at Henry. “But I felt like I didn’t deserve those things,” he added, breathing in softly as Henry sighed.

They fell silent.

“Want ice cream? Melissa said she’s willing to get you some,” Henry suggested.

Leland nodded, looking over at the window, a strange accepting look on his face as he stared at the clouds.

“Okay,” he murmured softly.

Henry stood up, walking over to the door. He paused to turn and see Leland still looking out the window. “Hey,” he called. Leland looked over. “When we both get out, think about living with me for a while? I’ve been planning on looking for scenery to paint,” he said. Leland’s eyes brightened at that as he nodded, his lips curling upwards a bit. “Okay.”

“Great,” Henry smiled and opened the door, walking out.