His name was Randall, and he was the best friend that Little Bobby had ever had. It didn’t matter who he was or what he did, for when Little Bobby was singled out, when his parents were angry, when he got a bad grade, when the school bell rang, Randall was always there, silently waiting for him. Little Bobby’s memories of him were a kaleidoscope of images, not quite remembering anything he said, but different scenarios, where, in the sunset, he and Randall would laugh and play for hours on end in the playground, under the dark, towering school. And nothing would ever change; the images would repeat and repeat, all with the same amount of satisfaction as little details change and new things happened, time after time.
          “Those were the days,” Bobby said. It was true. His knees would melt whenever Randall approached him, his jaw would drop, and he would start to sweat, as if he were inches away from the flaming sun itself, as it tinted Randall’s silhouette into a flaming red color, and he realized that his best and only friend was truly beautiful. Randall had the features of an Aryan; light blonde hair, smooth white skin, blue eyes, and black, thin-rimmed glasses, which suggested a “Beauty and Brains” personality (Of course, this was not in the least bit true). He was the perfect physical specimen of the human being, whose very presence suggested that he was not a living organism, but an immortal quality, latching onto and letting go of the ideas and beliefs of men all through time, from Dr. Frankenstein to Adolf Hitler…
                                                        * * *
          … And there Bobby sat, at his desk, daydreaming. Though he was now 16, nothing had changed about him. His curly red hair was kept in form by about a quart of hair spray per day, his freckles swarmed over his body, and the bulge in between his legs got people talking for its considerable size. But he didn’t seem to notice, or even care. He phased through classes, not doing badly, but not doing well, dragging his backpack through the hallways and running his hand against the lockers, the friction making a sharp, plastic squeak of despair. But once again, this was nothing new. Since Kindergarten, Bobby was dismissed only as a moving entity, a blockade on the way to one’s next class. He was not a human being, nor an animal; he was an object, and now that he was in high school, like most students, he was a sex object.
          By the age of 15, Bobby’s old, rickety mattress had been established as a goal for all teenage girls to reach, a benchmark for sexual maturity. He remembered the first girl he had ever shared his bed with, Lucia. Her face belonged on album covers and photographs, not in the classroom, where he rosy cheeks and perfect smile slowly faded and her dark black hair was carelessly dumped in front of her face, one way or another. But it was that fateful day when Lucia made her move that Bobby had discovered a role to play in his school’s society.
          “Can I come over to your place?” she asked with the politeness of a Disney cartoon, “I need some help with the Social Studies homework.” Reluctantly, or literally without thought, Bobby accepted. There was no studying, no books taken out, just the rumpy-pumpy movements of two organic bodies, as the essence we call “love” was spontaneously produced, and that’s all Bobby remembered. But Lucia screamed and shook, yelling to infinity “Lovely”, “It hurts”, and “Fuck me!” Soon after that, Bobby’s name became a word in the student lingo, when Lucia ran to her friends and squealed:
          “I Bobbyed Bobby!”
          “I never came,” Bobby silently said to himself. He knew his peers had typecast him, but he played the part, making love to girl after girl, but he could never find a woman. He was bored; his affairs were like charging a spark plug, but there was never enough energy to get it running.
          Without reason, Bobby looked at the clock. It was 6:00. The bell had rung two hours ago.
          “Crap, not again.” Lacking both haste and speed, Bobby got his things together, books, folders and all, and left the empty classroom, the empty seats seeming to stare him down as he left. He walked out the door, and into the black-and-white checkered hallway, and suddenly, he realized that his high school was not very different from his elementary school, despite the fact that it was much larger and there was no playground. So much for there being any fun here, Bobby thought to himself. After all, the playground was where his friendship with Randall had started. Like most happy friendships, Bobby remembered, theirs began with a hint of misery. It was 1st Grade, the fateful year of truly entering childhood, and in the cold winter, when Sam, the brown-haired, green-eyed school sociopath, slammed Bobby’s face into the school wall.
          “You gay Goth!” Sam sneered just loud enough for most kids in the area to hear it, “How does it feel to get screwed by the wall?”
          “Do you mean that in a sexual sense or are you referring to your hand movements against my head?” Bobby asked.
          Sam didn’t have the time or the patience to answer Bobby’s query. He simply, slammed his foot into Bobby’s knee joints, knocking him over, and bestowed upon him a kick to the shin, with a footprint stamped upon his pant leg as a reminder. All eyes were on Bobby as Sam walked away, innocent and invisible. Bobby tried to get up, but it only took him the first time to realize that he had sprained his ankle. He whimpered silently, and a single hand, the only living thing that heard his cry, reached out to him, and picked him up. Seconds later, Bobby was standing directly in front of Randall, clean-pressed pants and a polo shirt.
          “Are you okay?” he asked, “It seems you got into a bit of a conflict with that boy over there.”
          “Yeah,” Bobby replied, “… dirtbag.”
          “Now, I really don’t think you can call him that. You don’t understand what he may be going thro-"
          “Shut up! He’s a jerk, and everyone knows it.”
          “Very well,” Randall said with utmost honesty, “he’s a jerk.” That was always like Randall, Bobby thought, he never disagreed with me, and never knew a thing. He was right, for every time under the sunset that Bobby asked Randall if he knew what something was, he would ask him, and overall, never seemed to have an opinion of his own, except for the one he took Bobby. He was the perfect person to talk to about his problems. To Bobby, their friendship was a confession, and Randall was the pope.
          And then, he disappeared. He was gone without a trace. After one last afternoon in 5th Grade, Bobby never saw him again. He didn’t know what drove them apart. Perhaps it was his anger towards Randall, tripping and falling, his mouth landing on his. Or maybe it was the fear of commitment. But no matter what it was, the next day, Randall had disappeared, and Bobby slowly began to fall back into his social pattern.    
                                                        * * *
          Bobby dragged his way down the hall. The bright orange sunlight bursted from the windows as it moved slowly behind the city buildings. He walked through the light, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the warmth of the intense radiation of the light. He absorbed it, his eyes shut, his mouth in a slight smile. And then he heard footsteps. They echoed throughout the hall, coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Bobby’s smile twisted into a nervous frown, and he began to actually walk, his feet no longer sliding against the floor. The footsteps became louder, and like that, Bobby began to jog, and then run.  Bobby didn’t know why this brought him spontaneously to life, but he didn’t care. His only goal was to get out of there. He ran at light speed, faster than anybody, even he, thought he could. He went through door after door, down stairway after stairway, but the footsteps were still there, as if the entity were right behind his head. But he pressed on, and after a final turn of the corner, there was the door, greeting him with a gleeful seductiveness. Bobby followed the aroma of freedom, and jump right at the door, slamming his body against the cold, hard steel, and bouncing back onto the floor. He was locked in the institution. The footsteps turned the corner. The only thing that Bobby could say was “Fuck.” The footsteps came closer. Closer. Closer still. And then… silence. Bobby got up, wiping the dust off his pants and the small amount of blood from his cheek, breathing silently, in and out. Another mouth began to accentuate his pattern, wheezing its way through the small puffs. The footsteps had ended, but that thing, whatever it was, was still there. Bobby could deny it no longer. With eyes wide open, he turned around.
          A hunching corpse stood in front of him; its skin crispy and pitch black, its eye sockets empty. It wore little bits of torn clothing that failed to cover the bare bones exposed around the torso, and the small, half-disintegrated feet barely filled the loafers they inhabited. Yet, the mouth was rhythmically breathing, and the breathing slowly began to get stronger. Bobby stared in awe and horror as fresh eyes began to swell up in the sockets, and the chipped skin fell back into place regaining its color. The clothes began to sew themselves together, making a clean, pampered suit. And soon, hair began to spring from the scalp, making a full human being, whose body glistened in the sunlight. The person reached into the suit pocket, pulled out a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, and put them on. The creature was…
          “Randall?” Bobby exclaimed. The figure didn’t give time to reply, but simply turned and ran away, deeper into the school. Bobby took off and followed without hesitation. The person was easily faster than Bobby, but, using all of his energy, he was just able to keep up, turning a corner when the person was about to turn the next one. Finally, the person smashed through the door of the central stairway, with Bobby far behind. Like a soldier, he rhythmically jumped from one step to the next, like a drummer, never losing time. Bobby began to sweat. His heart was on the verge of absolute implosion, about to shoot itself in the head, but the person kept going, reaching the top of the staircase, the 10th floor. Nowhere to run now, thought Bobby. But the person simply turned his hand on a knob, and disappeared through a door Bobby didn’t even know existed. Crawling up the final few steps, Bobby lunged through the door, and fell into the room. The door shut behind him. He got up, and saw that there was no color to the room, just six white walls, each radiating a small amount of light, enough that Bobby didn’t have a shadow. Neither did the suited figure standing right in front of him. Slowly, the person took a step forward, and crept closer and closer towards Bobby, leaning as far as he could against the door. The person grabbed him, and whispered in his ear:
          “Hello, Little Bobby.” It was Randall. A little older maybe, but he physical beauty kept intact, with the same aura of intelligence, and the same beautiful blonde hair. After not seeing him for five years, here Randall stood, in the flesh, with a smile suggesting that no time had passed it all.
          “So it is you.” Bobby’s knees, as always, began to melt. Even at his ripe age, no girl he had ever been with made him as eager or as nervous as Randall ever had. He backed up against the wall, with Randall smoothly flowing with his movements. Randall began to stroke his hair, smiling.
          “It’s been a while,” he said. Bobby couldn’t think of what to say.
          “Yes, it has,” he blurted. Randall stared deeply into his eyes as he said this, his fingers softly flowing through Bobby’s hair, which began to frizz.
          “Did you miss me?” he asked. A tear slowly dropped from Bobby’s eyelid. He wrapped his arms around his only friend, moving up and down across his chest. Slowly, he started to break down.
          “Yes! Yes! For fuck sake, yes!” Bobby screamed. He looked up at Randall’s face, his eyes full of childish tears. “Why did you leave!? Why did you leave me… i-in this… HELL!?!?” Randall solemnly smiled.
          “The only thing that matters, Little Bobby, is that I’m here now. I’m here to help you.”
          “Really? Thank you! Oh, thank you! You’re the best friend ever!”
          “I know.” And with that, Randall released his arm from Bobby’s grip, and delivered a harsh blow to Bobby’s face, knocking him on the floor, writing in pain. Turning up to face his attacker, Bobby’s face morphed into a twisted mask of fury.
          “What was that for?” he yelled.
          “To give you what you deserve.” He kicked him again. Bobby yelped in agony. “Don’t you remember, Little Bobby? All of those years spent in the playground, telling me about your life? You used me as a sponge, Little Bobby. That’s what you created me for, to get all of the poison and filth out of your system. But you never dealt with it, only passed it on to me to carry all of these years.”
          Bobby began to feel a paralyzing pain throughout his body. His face turned blue as he began to choke on seemingly nothing.
          “I’m still here because you kept all of this in me,” Randall continued. “I’m tired of being your mini-storage. You gave me your heart. Your feelings have become mine, and it makes me sick. Do you know what it feels like to be sick?” Bobby was no longer listening. He had almost run out of air. Randall rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
          He walked over to Bobby’s near-corpse, and got on his knees. Pressing his hands against his chest, he bent over and glued his open lips to Bobby’s, breathing in. For a second, Bobby’s eyes opened wide, but closed them once again, embracing Randall, turning his C.P.R. into a kiss. Bobby’s tongue injected itself into Randall’s jaw, licking every crevice of flesh. Randall, at once shocked, did the same. Bobby could deny it no longer. He loved his imaginary friend. Their lips parted, and their eyes met. Randall gave a wide smile.
          “That is what I’ve been waiting for all this time.” He laughed. “I knew you’d come around.” His hands moved their way up Bobby’s legs and into his shirt, sensually taking it off, revealing a lean, muscular chest. In the mean time, Bobby had gotten to work on Randall’s suit, tearing it apart, and leaving only the tie. Life shot into Bobby’s body, and like an animal, tore off his pants with seemingly superhuman strength. Randall could only stare at his manhood.
          “… I’m speechless.”
          “Most people are.” Bobby said with a smile, as he childishly jumped on Randall’s perfect body. They kissed again, their naked flesh, rubbing against each other, creating a beautiful friction. Randall reached down between Bobby’s legs, and began to move his closed fist back and forward. Bobby began to feel light-headed, as if he were floating in the stratosphere. And suddenly, he came down to earth as a wonderful feeling dominated his boyish body. The spark plug was charged, and he came.
          At the same time, a black liquid began to spew from Randall’s mouth. Intuitively, he began to lick Bobby’s neck, covering it in the thick, dark syrup. Suddenly, the liquid began to flow like a waterfall from Randall’s back, blowing apart the skin, and spraying all over the wall. As the two boys continued their ritual, the liquid began to fill up the tiny room, endlessly flowing from Randall, becoming a pool that the boys now floated in, their bodies never letting go.
          “This,” Randall said. “This is your heart. Take it."
          “But there’s so much I want to tell you.”
          “No.”
          Randall’s head plopped beneath the liquid, and Bobby soon began to feel a tugging at his warm feet. He was being dragged down into his very essence that he left in the care of his best and only friend. He took one last breath as his head went below the surface, and a few air bubbles were all that was left of Little Bobby.