The next day was Saturday, and visitors weren’t allowed on weekends. Then there was work. Yuna couldn’t make it until Wednesday. There were only two weeks left, with too much to talk about from a boy who didn’t like to talk at all.
Still, Dr. Paine had known a good amount of psychiatry; not just the crazies that wandered the halls, but the normal people walking the street. She was right, if compassion failed Yuna at times, there was always curiosity, and damn humans for having so much, and being so weak to it.
"Seymour?" she asked, entering the room.
Things seemed to be getting better since she’d last seen him. He’d been given back his pants and he wore a hooded sweatshirt, with abnormally large and fancy knots at the ends of the cords. He was apparently still on suicide watch, though: his shoes had no laces. He had still given up hope, but apparently was not about to spend much energy on it. Or maybe the knots were there to give the security guards more time to stop him.
"Seymour, I wanted to ask you some questions," she said.
"I don’t want to go to court," he said, backing away form her as she sat on the bed.
"I can’t stop that," Yuna said.
"Please."
"I told you. I’m a social worker. I can’t do anything."
He was silent. Yuna hoped he wouldn’t be like that permanently.
"It’ll be okay. You’re innocent."
He shook his head. "I killed him."
"Why, though?"
"I can’t tell you."
"Seymour—" she said, reaching for him to comfort him.
"I can’t!" he said and curled up and started crying.
"Where’s your mom?" Yuna asked.
Seymour sniffled and looked at her from his ball. He blinked, wondering at her question and how quickly she had changed the subject. "She shot herself." He uncurled slightly, not facing her.
"When?"
"I was six… I think. It was snowing." He put his head on his knees and hugged himself. "It was… it was after the divorce. My mother and father had been yelling at each other and then my mother moved away. It took two years for my father to get custody of me… and I don’t even know what that is. One day my father was at work, and I was left at home. My mother came to the door and told me to keep quiet and put me in the car… When we got to her house she told me to keep away from the windows and to stay in the bedroom. I could hear sirens after that… they were loud… so loud… I heard people banging on the door. She grabbed me and went out the back door into the woods… and ran. I was so scared, but she told me not to cry. She told me not to cry, but I was too big… and heavy… the police were coming closer… from everywhere… she knelt down in the snow… and kissed me… She told me not to cry… and then she shot herself… and I couldn’t help it… I cried."
Again, he was crying. Yuna offered her hand, but he ignored it. She waited until he had finished crying to continue. "What did you do?"
"I told you… I cried. I couldn’t help it."
"I meant… What did your dad do? What did he say after the funeral? Did he talk to you about… your mother?"
"We never went to her funeral. I was scolded for crying. He told me it was stupid to have opened the door and that I knew better. My mother wasn’t allowed in the house."
"Did he have a restraining order against her?"
"What’s that?"
"Your dad was a cop, right?"
Seymour moved farther away from her, backing up into the wall and pillow. He nodded.
"How come you don’t know these things?"
"What things?"
Yuna sighed. She’d run out of questions for today save one… and she wasn’t ready for the answer. She’d have to start bringing a notepad here. "Tell me about Kinoc."
"He was a… a something. He knew my father. I met him several times; they were close friends. He was a bit large, and bald. He had retired and found himself some twenty-something-year-old. I can’t remember her name. He had a cat—"
"I meant… about… why did you kill him?"
"I thought he was after me. He came here after I was out of isolation. I think he was in for shooting raccoons or something. He scared me. I would try to avoid him, but he kept following me, he kept getting closer. I stole a screwdriver from the janitor when he wasn’t looking. I had it hidden for three days. He came into the cafeteria and I left. I was going to my room and he followed me. He grabbed my arm and I thought… He yelled at me, he called me… names and I was scared. I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want him to touch me, I didn’t want anyone to touch me."
"What did you think he was going to do?"
"I can’t tell you. Please, I can’t I can’t tell you, someone else will come after me."
"Who will?"
"I don’t know."
"What’d he say to you?"
"He… he called me a whore… and a faggot and… stuff."
"What’d you do?"
"I attacked him with a screwdriver. I just stabbed him in the shoulder with it but he fell down the stairs. He broke his neck."
"You don’t seem very… remorseful."
"Very what?"
"You don’t sound like you’re sorry about it."
"Not for him… I wasn’t going to let him touch me alive."