Did I feel bad about stealing, back then? The fact that we'd run off with most of this student's electronics and her gun should've been enough to make me feel intensely guilty. If I was a better person back then, I would probably shamefully imagine with her returning to her ransacked home, her increased panic as she realised we'd taken everything, including her illegal possession. Which cleverly meant that she couldn't report the robbery, not if she wanted to risk going to prison herself.
In the moment, however, I studied the hair clip I had stolen, embedded with a diamonds. It would fetch a pretty price, for sure, but I intended to keep it. I flipped it over and over, watching it reflect and refract the light from the fire Ben had set up in a fire pit back in the garage of his house. The garage door remained open, allowing a flood of silver light from a street lamp to wash everyone's faces in a pale hue. In what looked like a battle between good and evil, the amber light of the fire infiltrated the silver and danced across our faces. Maybe that's what we were, half good half evil. Beneath the silver of every boy sitting around the fire, there was a dancing flame.
Ben sat on the bonnet of his father's expensive car, seemingly not bothered about doing it any damage. Tucked away in the shadows of the garage, his face was illuminated entirely orange. He was studying the gun with some fascination, flipping it around his fingers and carelessly on his injured hand like he had done with the shard, still tucked away in my pocket. Thankfully, we hadn't had to use either weapon; the student had a routine of going partying until dawn almost every night. In the orange spotlight, I wondered if Ben would've liked to use it. I wondered if he'd consider using it on one of us, for target practice. I wouldn't put it past the boy, who was inspecting the trigger like I inspected the diamonds.
There was a steady burble of chatter amongst the boys, significantly diminished in number after Ben had kicked several others out. According to him, they were liabilities. To him, we weren't humans: we were ordered from the best to the worst, like he was placing us on a mental number line. To him, we were measured by our criminal ability, our despicable nature and, possibly the most important, our capacity to inflict the worst if needed. Apparently, each and every one of us here would be all of these things: a criminal, despicable and a potential murderer.
I wondered if back then I was scared about the future, if I would end up like Ben, or worse, his father. Maybe I was as bad as Ben back then, with a broken moral compass and little direction in life. Maybe I was just desperate. In a highly competitive world, my academic talent was far inferior to the impossibly high standards. I had no motivation, no goals in life. Back then, I foolishly thought that crime was my only way out. Would I make the same decision now if things hadn't turned out the way they did? Probably. If I knew what was coming, would I change my ways last minute? Probably not.
I was always fated to have my trial by fire.
There was laughter behind me from the group of boys, showing off the things they'd stolen and daring each other to chug beers. I sat on the edge near the door, capturing the moonlight in the diamond hairpin and watching as it cast refractions of light on the floor.
"What are you, a cat?"
I jumped, not even realising that Ben had appeared behind me. Maybe he was the cat with footsteps that light. "A cat?"
Ben smirked a sharply curved hook of a smirk, apparently amused by my confusion. "Cats always play with those laser things on the floor, don't they. They're obsessed with them. You're easily entertained, just like a cat." Fascinating, the silver light almost looked like it retreated wherever he went. Instead of being illuminated by silver, he belonged to the shadow. He took a seat, uninvited, next to me at the edge of the garage. "You're a loner, too, like a cat." He sent me a side-glance, an examining x-ray type of glance. "Maybe I'll be tempted to watch out for you: cats are also disloyal."
"I have a cat called Mary. She's very loyal. They pretty much come to whoever feeds them." Sometimes I really hated my lack of filter when it came down to nerves.
Ben snickered. "You're a real softie aren't you? From this conversation, I would've guessed you wouldn't be cut out for this type of work. Your performance back there proved otherwise." He studied me curiously now before shrugging and returning his attention back to the gun, still wrapped around his fingers. "You've got potential."
I didn't know how to react. I didn't think Ben would be the type to dish out compliments. "Thanks," I decided on saying. It's always safe to say a quick 'thanks', to not overthink it and try to come out with a smart or snide remark. Unlike the cat-called-Mary-slip-of-speech, I internally congratulated my slightly functioning speech filter.
"What's your name, boy?"
It was curious that he called people barely younger than him 'boy', like a 50 year old would. Or even a grandad. I tried to remember if my grandad had ever called me 'boy', or my dad for that matter. No, my dad's favourite nickname for me was 'idiot'.
I supposed Ben didn't look 20. Maybe it was his scarred and gaunt face or maybe it was the experience and knowing in his dark eyes which the light didn't dare touch. I wonder what horrors he'd seen, what his father had exposed him to.
"Cato," I finally answered.
Ben raised his eyebrows, wondering if I was actually serious. "Cat-o?" He asked, amusement written all over his face.
"Pronounced Cay-toe," I corrected him.
"You're really serious aren't you," he said delightfully. "Your name is literally almost 'cat'."
I could almost see the hours of teasing ahead of me, all the nicknames I would receive. This annoyance called for another slip of speech. "And yours is similar to ben-evolent."
"Was that supposed to be an insult? I think you just called me kind."
I could've laughed at myself. "I thought 'malevolent' meant kind."
Ben laughed out loud. He pointed the gun at me, smiling wickedly. I hoped there weren't any bullets in it. "You're weird, aren't you."
Like a five year old, I wanted to retort that he was weirder but I kept my mouth shut. He probably already thought I was an idiot.
Ben let us fall into silence, allowing the background chatter of the other boys fill up the garage. One was telling a ghost story, saying gruesome things like 'and he was the one who killed her husband' and 'her head rolled off'. I wasn't one for watching horror movies. The over dramatic screaming, stupid life choices and villains that never were really that scary always prevented me. I wondered then what scared Ben, or if he was even scared of anything.
"I want to save everyone but I can't." Ben muttered so quietly it was almost inaudible.
Confused, I turned to him, surprised to see a tear roll down his cheek, illuminated silver in the streetlight and reflecting the world as it fell.
"What do you mean?"
"Cato..." This side of him scared me more than any horror movie. Suddenly, his face slipped back into that expressionless mask and soon after a wicked smile. It was as if the mask had never slipped. "Nothin'. I was just messing with you."