The house was skyward on a hill, it lay atop mounds of snow. To climb was to climb into hell, but no one realized, they thought hell would be down. Not in the house on the hill. Once inside, life began to become something else entirely. The person one strived to be, had worked so hard to retain, flew out the window and into the night. One could sit still outside that window and look upon their bodies, mindlessly existing. What had happened to that house, that it felt it must possess us in such a way? Evil, evil house of lies and obscenity. Evil, evil house of suffering. I place the blame on you. The lone, pale girl climbed the hill to that house one night. Inside were the crazy people, they were out of their minds. They drank to calm the voices, they inhaled to kill the pain. But she was not one of them, she just craved a night without pressure, a night without words. She feared to see another book, another formula. All she wanted was silence. She sensed only vacancy within her, a bare, blank sheet. And then there were times when there was too much, she could not feel it all at once. They came spilling off the sheet, they overlapped. She couldn't shut it off and there was no way out. She sat through it, until silence came once more, and she could return to her reading. And her life was more of the same. Thursday night was dedicated to forgetting. The little blue pills, crushed into near dust, would drown the sadness, the looming obliteration. So she entered that dark, stained house in complete ignorance, with no knowledge of what might happen. The following twelve hours would be hours in which no person could forget, especially she. She may very well live with those haunting hours until her body lay stiff and cold. Everyone sat around the low coffee table, beers in hand, cigarettes in mouths, joints in rotation. There was Lindsey, you could try to look away but your eyes would inevitably return to her face. Once beautiful, with long, dark hair, she was now honest in her brutishness. She had shaved that long hair and never thought to care what others saw. So selfish and angry she'd always been since the lone pale girl had known her. In all those 8 years, never once had they considered the idea of not knowing one another. Lindsey's girlfriend, Amanda, was obsessive compulsive. She had crooked teeth and ugly hair. So frightened of cruelty, she was consumed with cleaning her home so that no human being could ever scorn her. They rarely left that house, they had their drugs and beer delivered. It was not by their own decision to remain inside; they had been banned from nearly every establishment in town. Chris was seated across from the lesbians, frail and timid. He liked men, but when one was not available and his urge overtook his orientation, a girl was just as good. As the girl entered, he smiled and extended his arms towards her. She made her way forward only to be caught off guard by an extra body in the house. He was introduced as Will. She gasped as she realized who it was. The Cat Killer. She had heard the stories, had imagined the scenario in her head. The defenseless kitten being pitched into a bag, its limbs flailing in unholy directions. The sounds so horrifying, one must be heartless to take joy in that fear. The 3 mile hike to the lake, their feet were tired. His schizophrenic friend with no ears could not watch. The sack swam down into the black depths below. And here he was, as if nothing had ever happened, as if nobody knew. But they all knew, they knew too much. Their knowledge could write a bible. The girl said nothing, only sat and put flame to a cigarette. The music bounced off the walls; loud, rhythmic guitar chords with screams between every other drum beat. The pills were placed in front of her, sky blue with small R's in the center. She crushed them with a quarter, inhaled them through a 20. She sat back and the evening began. 'My mom has OCD, she's been on pills all her life,'� Amanda began, 'Paxil is the best, that's what I'm on.'� Their stories intrigued her, the talk was never mundane. It was dark caverns and incestuous freaks, it was life without polish or privilege. They were the ultimate wrong, nothing had ever gone right. God seemed to be absent in their lives, he missed their conception; he was blind to their pain. Being in their world was a high for the lone pale girl. Their life made hers seem a sun-streaked fairy tale. She could talk on and on with them about problems and successes, and never worry whether they thought less of her, whether they were better than her. She knew she was sick. She loved them, with their compulsions and obsessions, but at the same time she feared them. The conversations slowly grew tired, and the lesbians ascended the stairs to the bedroom. The girl became anxious, the high was wearing off. It was a rock thrown at her skull; it was two million pounds dragging her stomach from below. She scanned the room, but the beer was gone and the drugs were in their bloodstream. She smoked until she could no longer smoke, and then she smoked some more. Chris had fallen asleep on the floor and all that was left was the lone pale girl and the Cat Killer. Words had been exchanged throughout the night, and he seemed nothing like the psychopath she had imagined. He was kind and quiet, with dark eyes and soft skin. He had muscles, big and brooding, he looked as though he were on steroids. It wouldn't have surprised her. He took out protein bars, one after the other, offering her bites here and there. She refused. Suddenly she thought she might die in that house. She could see the end of the tunnel; she needed to veer off the bleak path. She rose and walked towards the cat killers chair, grabbed his shirt and kissed him. His tongue was frantic inside her mouth; it wanted it all too fast. She pulled back and looked him in the eye. 'That'd be a good way to kill time,'� he muttered as they moved over to the couch. He seemed confused, as if he'd never touched a girl before. His hands moved over her with a touch of knowing, but his mouth was in hysterics. She attempted to calm him down, but he seemed unreachable. They continued like this for some time, until she became restless and needed more. Once inside her, he was more confused than ever. He lay flat on top of her, his heavy shoulders smothering her face. She tried to push him up, but he was pinned to her body. He seemed so strong, but it was as though he could not hold his own weight with his arms. There was something wrong with his arms. He hardly moved, his breathing short and contained. Her mind was almost as confused as his body. She could not stop herself from wondering if he was wishing she was dead. After that, time sped up. The house began to breathe again and sleep was the inevitable fate. The Cat Killer and the lone pale girl sat side by side in silence. Occasionally they would kiss, but only when the sobriety felt most prevalent. She looked down at his arms; there were scars, deep and pink, from wrist to shoulder. There was so much to him, not just a killer. There was a history behind the psychosis; there were reasons, feelings, factors, but no straight answers. She had to know. * * * The girl slid down the hill. She didn't worry about slipping, sliding, crashing, colliding. It was life step by step, the moment, no thoughts. She had always been consumed by the fears, the future, the inevitable obliteration. This was completely new to her. The ultimate freedom from self. But even in that free time of movement, her head was not a clear blue sky. It was racing with words, yearning for pen and paper, the blackness seeping onto the page. Her feet hit the pavement and consciousness re-emerged. They piled into the jeep and drove toward the night. The rain was drowning the streets, cleaning the air, ushering spring into the New Year. They jumped out of the car and headed for the small rundown house. It was one among many, bound together by poverty. The door opened and they headed inside. There was his mother, sickly and pale. She resembled a witch, with her long pointed nose and crooked teeth. Her lips formed an awkward shape around her mouth, but her words were kind and welcoming, desperate for some kind of connection. Will walked down the stairs and our eyes met. He was no longer the Cat Killer to her. He had a name, a home, he had problems, he was a human being. They had gotten to know each other over the past three months. They were not in love, nor were they strangers. They had touched again and again, talked even when words were meaningless. But they never left the house together, they would never see each other again until the next trip up the hill. There had been phone calls, but nothing came of them. He would always agree to coffee, joints, but he would never show. At first it was hard for the lone pale girl, her self-esteem plummeted into non-existence. Her only thought was that she, a 21 year old university student, had been rejected by a 17 year old virgin cat killer. But then they would meet again at the house, drinking beer and listening to music with Lindsey and Amanda. The moment when the lesbians ascended the stairs for bed was the most anticipated moment of the night. There eyes would meet and their hormones would run rampant. For him it was sex, he was a kid, it was inconceivable. For her it was someone, she was not alone anymore. When he would kiss her she would feel safe again. It wouldn't hurt so much to sober up. He made her feel wanted and needed, good for something. She would take whatever she could get by that point. But it never went beyond that no matter how much she desired it to be. Lindsey, Amanda, Will and the girl walked down his basement steps. It was cold and damp, the floor was chipped concrete. There were boxes in piles all around, huge weight sets set up in the middle. He walked over to the dryer and took out the bottle of pills. The blue pills. They crushed up one each to keep them going until they got back to the house. The dust flew into their nostrils, traveled through nerves and into their brains. They sat and smoked. At 11:00pm, they paid for their beer and called a cab. They climbed the hill, made themselves comfortable, popped their beer and began crushing up more pills. They talked and played cards, spaced out and Lindsey threw up. Jalapeno peppers. More talking and smoking, time was running away, the clock was out of control. Finally Lindsey and Amanda went upstairs and her and Will were left alone. There was silence, he seemed awkward. All she wanted was for him to hold her. They had no ritz left and she felt like she was going to die. His eyes were shutting, every time they closed her anxiety mounted. Being left alone to sit in that house seemed a fate worse than death. She began contemplating death, that elusive dream. It seemed the only rational way out of this hell. Being alone with a kid she wanted like falling, and his eyes never even looked to her. The desperation rose and she didn't care about how this might ruin her. She asked him to come sit next to her, his eyes shifted. She knew he had no desire for her, all he wanted was sleep. But she didn't care, her life was at stake. 'I think if you fall asleep I'll stress out. I'm sorry,'� she pleaded to him, she thought she might cry. 'I'm going crazy'�. He came and sat next to her, but made no other motion of intimacy. The girl shook and looked about. She picked up books and dropped them back down again. She lit up cigarette after cigarette, her mouth was a desert in summer. Her mouth would open and spout random words, nonsense. She just couldn't let him fall asleep. 'I want to kill myself,'� she muttered, but he heard. He said nothing. Shifty eyes. She knew he had problems, he was depressed, he cut himself. She was like that too, she thought he could help her, or at least understand. After that first time with him, she began cutting again. One cut for every mistake she'd ever made, they got deeper and deeper. They climbed up her leg in red welts, they were deeper than any she'd done before. It was like morse code, SOS. Somebody save me. She loved the pain and the sight of blood. She got an idea. 'I know something you can do to me to make me feel better,'� she looked straight at him. 'Not sex'�. She ran up to the bathroom, took out a razor. She cracked it up and took out the blade. Back downstairs she was afraid. She sat down next to him but she couldn't quite say out loud what she needed from him. They stared and looked away, she was terrified. She took his hand in hers and slid the blade into his palm. 'No'� was all he said, shaking his head. She wanted to read his mind. Maybe it was her that was the crazy one all along, and not them. 'You can just go to sleep, like yeah, I don't care I'm fine,'� she gave up. He moved away and she was lost. She put the blade to her wrist herself and began cutting, the blood dancing down her wrist. It was beautiful. The tears bled down her cheeks silently, death was her only option. She grasped at thin air one last time. 'Will,'� she whispered, hoping he was still awake. He looked back at her. 'Can you come back over. I'm sorry, I just need to say something, just'�'� she trailed off. He sat next to her once again, she rested her head on his shoulder. Everything melted, death was the last thing she wanted with him beside her. He could save her. If only he really wanted to. 'I just freak out when I come down off anything, being alone scares me. I freak out. I'm sorry,'� she kept stammering, stopping, but she put everything out there, the truth. 'It's not you, like I'm not obsessed with you or anything, You could be anyone. I mean I just grab anyone when I feel like this, but I'm glad you're around when it happens. I want it to be you.'� He just lay there, no words broke the silence. She did the one thing she knew might work to elicit some emtion. She placed her hand by his hip, let it run down slowly. He reacted, he wanted more. She let the blade fall from her hand and then it happened again, it was madness. Their eyes locked in hunger and she forgot all about anything but his body. Their lips were on fire, their tongues, their hands. He tore at her clothes, she resisted. She wanted this to last forever, locked in time. Finally she gave in and he positioned her how he wanted. She was his slave, he could have eaten her insides. When he got up, there was blood. It was on his hands, dripping down his leg. There was a cut on his knee, ragged and torn. His knee had been on the razor blade the whole time he was moving inside of her. He came back from the bathroom looking shocked. 'I'm so sorry, I dropped it, I really didn't mean to do that,'� her voice was pathetic, but she didn't care. He lay back down and she lay her head on his chest. 'If you hadn't been so tired before, I mean we had sex,'� she stammered, she was scared how wrong this could go. 'I mean, if you weren't so tired, would you have wanted to'�cut me while we were having sex?'� she forced the words from her mouth. 'No,'� his eyes searched hers, she didn't believe him. 'Yeah, I wanted to,'� he caved in. She knew he wanted to drink her, just as much as she wanted him to dig that blade through her skin as hard as he could, she just may have bled forever. But it would have been ok. At that she stopped, she lay down on him and said nothing. Before she left she wrote down her phone number and told him she was never calling him again. If he wanted, he could call her. She told him she really liked him and that he confused her and distracted her. He did, he possessed her. She had not the vaguest idea how she gotten from there to here. From an outsider to perhaps the craziest one of them all. Everything was perfect and now her life hung in the balance, the future unknown. If he never called, she would be left alone again. She just might end her life. If he called, they would be together and destroy each other. They would cut every inch of their skins, lap up each other's blood until they were weak from the loss. There would be nothing left of her life, whichever path was taken. She was just going to stop fighting the inevitable.

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