The room is not lit. It grew dark outside quickly during the past hour. And he keeps standing looking outside, although I am sure that he can see nothing. He is just being stubborn, that is all.

He is not moving. I know that he knows I am here. He surely heard me coming in. I dare not to turn on the light.

His hand is pressed to the glass. His face is just a pale spot in the darkness.

Why won’t he talk to me? Why won’t he come out? What have I done? Nothing, as far as I remember. But he won’t talk to me. He would just stand near the window and ignore me. Like I don’t exist.

He slightly moves. I can hear his legs shifting, his body adjusting its position. A soft sigh. No, not just a puff of air, a word. He is talking. He is saying something to me. But what? I can barely hear him.

I step closer.

“Why?...” He swallows.

Now that I am closer, I can see how really pale he is. He is wearing a simple t-shirt; the shot sleeves half cover the bandages on his upper arms. He is leaning to the window frame, supporting himself with other hand on the windowsill. He is weak, and I can see it. He still has not recovered from the blood loss.

But he won’t accept any help. Even my help. Or maybe… especially my help?

Finally I find my own voice to speak and I ask quietly: “Why what?”

He shakes his head. It is pressed to the window glass now. He looks as if he is in fever or having a headache. He licks his lips.

“Yesterday… last night… I remember it clearly… you touched me…”

I momentarily freeze. The events of the previous night rise in my mind. I hold back the heavy sigh, that would admit my guilt. 

Is it a guilt or relief?

Since that accident when I found him injured and half-conscious near my door and brought him in, I am taking care of him. He won’t tell me what had really happened and why he was in such state or why would he come to me for help. I can only guess by some words that escaped his mouth, when he was delirious. When I try to question him, he won’t answer. The first thing that he told me when gained consciousness, and that was on the third day, after I brought him in my house, was “don’t touch me” and then he added “don’t call the police”. Not that I was going to anyway.

But this thing about not touching him left me curious. He is constantly shivering, edging away when I try to approach him, at such moment the look of his eyes becoming almost haunted. And angry.

Last night I came in to his room to check him and found him sleeping peacefully, the fever finally left him. I was standing near his bed, watching him sleep noiselessly. His features relaxed, he looked younger then his age. He looked fragile and vulnerable. Watching his tantalizingly pale skin, I felt the urge to touch him. Just simply to reach out my hand and touch his skin with my fingers. To feel it. To make sure that he was alive, that he was a human and not a mere ghost. That it wasn’t a dream.

And I did so. I did touch his face for a brief second. And I couldn’t have known that he wasn’t asleep.

 “I told you never to do it. Why did you do it?” – his eyes are flaming. His voice is rising, as if he is in panic.

“Why did you do it?”

What should I answer?  I keep silence. He seems to be getting more angry. I can see his fists clenching.

“How could you…”

His outburst is almost scaring. I never thought that there could be so much anger and fear in him. He always seemed to be so quiet and a bit shy.

“You touched me!”

His eyes are red. I can see unleashed tears in his dark orbs. Now I am starting to understand that the source of his anger lies in his hidden fear. But fear of what? I do not know and may not even ever know.

For a second I feel guilty for touching him, but then dismiss the thought quickly. I needed to make sure that he wasn’t a ghost, that he wasn’t one of my hallucinations. He proved to be a human, who had his own fears. I just wonder how bad they are…

I step back. It is useless to speak to him now. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to explain myself, to talk to him. Maybe if I tell him about my ghost, he will tell me about his fears. It will be fair. He doesn’t need to tell me everything. Just few bits. Because I can understand. I really do.

Tomorrow will be tomorrow. It will be morning and we will talk. He won’t be able to hide in the safe darkness of his room, alone and feeding his misery.

I will also answer his question. I will tell him the truth. I will look into his eyes and speak the words out. In the daylight he won’t be able to deny the truth.

As I exit the room, quietly shutting the door after myself, I whisper the answer, wishing and at the same fearing that he will hear.

“Because you asked me to,” – I say.

I can hear the sound of the shuttering glass…

July 10, 2003