Don't Let the Forest In

by C.G. Drews

Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him. Kill for him.

Andrew hated the way his brain did this. Destroyed beautiful things. It was like he couldn’t just hold a flower; he had to crush the petals in his fist until his hand was stained with murdered color.

A horribly delicious feeling flooded Andrew’s chest. He could taste pain in the air and for once it wasn’t his, and he loved that. The teacher stormed toward them. Thomas casually tossed his stick into the trees and didn’t look concerned. “He won’t touch you again,” he said. Andrew could hardly breathe. “You’ll be in trouble.” The light in Thomas’s eyes was bold and ferocious. “But he won’t touch you again.”

“They’re not even that good,” Andrew said. “Be disrespectful somewhere else. If I eat enough, I will turn Australian. I will be a bloke.”

“I think someday you’ll hate me.” Thomas’s voice stretched with a loneliness Andrew had never heard before. “You’ll cut me open and find a garden of rot where my heart should be.”

“When I cut you open,” Andrew finally said, “all I’ll find is that we match.”

It was strange, Andrew thought, how when something moved in the dark, everyone’s first instinct was to go inside and hide under the covers. As if monsters couldn’t open doors and crawl into bed with you.

Andrew, who was tipping toward a steep cliff overlooking an endless chasm. He had no wings. He’d fall and die and he’d do so in silence.

But no one who was innocent needed to be so violently defensive.

Thomas fell asleep in Andrew’s bed. Andrew thought about curling up beside him and seeing if their bodies fit together like they’d been carved from the same oak.

It was the power, Andrew knew. Some people could get drunk on it.