"Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears."
John Lennon.
The sun shines through my window and the quietness from outside soothes me. My parents converse in the living room as the finger-like, chestnut-brown branches tap against my window. Glancing outside, I see a rainbow emerge from the cluster of clouds, the rain puddles drying from the intense light.
Couples, families and friends walk the light, grey sidewalks, amusement clear in their facial expressions. They entertain themselves, grinning out of joy, crying after the outbreaks of laughter they experience. Kids conjure imaginary games, chasing each other, play fighting or simply enjoying themselves. I chuckle at their adorable habits.
The weekend finally came and as I sit here in my small room listening to music, I can't help but think of him. It appears that all I can do is list his qualities, dwelling on the little things that he does, little things that I myself am surprised to have noticed. His smile, his caring personality, his relentless behaviour, the way he tugs at his hair, the way his eyes appear to be made out of glass when they water or are filled with worry.
"Ewww," I think, "it's too soon to compliment him. I mean, you only met him last week, Val!"
Unfortunately, my train of thought can no longer leave him and without a doubt, I know that I can't focus if he's on my mind. Strange, how can Wyatt, a person who I only met last week, be such an impact on me? I can't erase him because my memory of him is permanent and I can't avoid him, since he has the reputation of showing up when I least expect him. So, I take the initiative to do some research.
Logging into Facebook, I type his full name into the search bar and at least twenty results pop up. Observing the profile pictures, I gather that result number fourteen is his account. Clicking onto it, I find that it is indeed Wyatt, smiling back at me on my computer screen.
"Is this stalking?" I think. "It can't be, right? I'm only collecting valuable information!"
Scrolling through, I find that the guy has more than a hundred and four photographs, most of them selfies whilst others are him with friends and family from his old school. It's the same grin, same tilt of the head and sometimes, I see a few of the same people. I'm assuming their close friends? Matter of fact, Wyatt never talks about his previous school life or his parents.
"Well guess what, I'm gonna find out!" I declare.
Staring at picture after picture, I find a photograph of Wyatt cuddling a red-headed girl with blue eyes. She's tall, slim, cleared-skin, has full lashes and an amazing set of teeth. Damn, I could never compete with that. Wyatt's off to the left, wrapping his arm around the girl's waist, smirking at the camera, his green eyes hooded by his ink-black hat. Just like on the first day we met, he's wearing all black and I can feel how happy his is, even though I'm not apart of the moment.
But then I notice something. Judging from the surroundings of where the photo was taken, I can infer that the place was quite hot. Yet for some reason, Wyatt is dressed in a black, long-sleeved shirt. I also realise, that in the rest of the photos, he's also wearing long-sleeves.
"It seems," I think, "that no matter the type of weather, hot or cold, he still wears a long-sleeve shirt and if he isn't dressed in that particular piece of clothing, he's dressed in something which helps cover his wrists."
Recalling my encounters with Wyatt, I then come to a similar conclusion: he always avoids showing his wrists. But why? It just doesn't add up and why is it in every photo? I need to do more investigating.
I then come across another photo, only this time Wyatt's sleeves are slightly rolled up. This would go unnoticed to any other eye or be overlooked by anyone who wasn't observing it with caution. From a small part of Wyatt's exposed skin which isn't covered by the sleeve, I can make out red lines. Deep, red lines that look as if they were done a couple of days ago.
Going back, I look at his recent photos and see that from the small parts of exposed skin, the lines are still there.
It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.
Wyatt Hunter slits his wrists.