There is a rooftop above my quarters that all the couples sit on, and it is as pretty as they say. Adorned with rows of crawling, crying sage ivy and illuminated by the golden light that shines from the mess. The perfect place to talk. The perfect place to kiss. It is right above my head and sometimes I can hear sobbing from up above. A breakup, perhaps, or a rejection. But I can never hear the after; I am left to assume the couple lapses into silence and enjoys the night side by side still because it is too pretty of a memory to not be melted with gold. I am studying one night (It’s finals week, so I’ve been hearing more prayers up there than love songs) when someone raps sharply on my window. I startle and look up, my earbuds dislodging and my face frozen in a stupid, study glower. There is a boy outside my window, and his eyes are filled with stars. I’m not one to entertain higher beings, so I huff quietly to myself and look down. I can feel his stare burning down my back. He is mouthing something at me. After a couple more moments of silence, I yell, “What? Can’t you see I’m working?” He shouldn’t be able to hear me through the window but he does, his moony eyes widening with a strange emotion and I wonder for a moment whether I should let him inside. He looks rather young, perhaps seventeen at the oldest. After a couple more beats of silence, I close my laptop with a snap and stand. He winces away from me as my hand moves for the latch. He shakes his head desperately. “You…don’t want me to open the door?” I ask slowly, trying not to be too obvious as I examine his pupils for any indication of influence. They look perfectly normal. Must be a school crazy I hadn’t had the displeasure of meeting yet. He nods and points at me once more. I blow out an exasperated sigh and lock the latch tight. His face screws up in concern and he bangs on the window once more. I entertain the idea of pulling the curtains tight and leaving it at that. A breeze whips through the wind and I could see him shiver. He’s wearing a thin schoolboy uniform, a collared shirt and navy lapeled vest with matching shorts and white stockings up to his knees. His feet were bare and practically adhered to the cracks inside the window. I’m a little more worried now. I press my hands against the window. He splays out his smaller palms against the reflection of mine and once again nods his head to me. I groan and draw back, heading for my phone. That’s when I hear it. “Ms. Anderson?” a soft voice calls. I freeze. “Yes?” I’d never heard of intercoms anywhere in the building, but that must have been the origin of the voice. I didn’t even know that they could speak personally to me. Well, the more you know. “Is there an issue occurring in your quarters?” I hesitate. The boy shakes his head frantically. I suck in a breath between my teeth. “Yes…some kid is playing wall-jockey up here. What should I do?” “I see,” the voice grows colder. “Ms. Anderson, please open the bottom left drawer of your desk.” “The bottom left?” I murmur to myself questioningly. From the moment I had arrived in this dorm, most of the drawers had been screwed shut. I fiddle with the handle a bit, but it still remains stubbornly locked. “How?” “Yank it open, Ms. Anderson.” She didn’t have to tell me twice. I pull with all my might, wedging my sock-covered feet against the back of the desk. My arms burn with strain. A pop, and finally, it comes flying off into my hands. I tumble backwards, my skirt flipping awkwardly over my shoulder. I brush it back down with a flush and look into the drawer. There, sitting meekly like a curled up cat, a shiny black revolver. My breath hitches in my throat and I scoot away from it. “Ms. Anderson.” The voice seems louder now. I shake my head desperately. “Why…why is there a gun here?” “That boy, outside,” the voice explains urgently. “He is not a boy. He is a monster and he has come to take you.” The “boy outside” glares at me. He doesn’t look much of a monster. I laugh hysterically, my voice thinning in fright. “You must be joking. This isn’t funny.” “Nobody is laughing, Ms. Anderson.” “He’s seventeen at most! You can’t really expect me to-” “Ms. Anderson. If you do not shoot him now, I will send a team to the back of your quarters and make sure the pain is much worse. Do you not have mercy?” “Shut up!” I shrill. “Are you seriously trying to gaslight me into killing a child?” “A monster,” the voice repeats. “Don’t you think it’s unnerving, how he is clung to the wall?” “How do you know he’s clung to the wall-” I bite my tongue for a moment, because I realize that he is. His feet are bare but still somehow stuck like glue to my windowpane. My breaths come faster and I curl up under my desk. The revolver waits by my feet, patient. “He’s not,” I say miserably. “I can’t do it. I can’t.” “You must,” the voice implores. “Don’t you wish to live?” I do wish to live. More than anything in the world. But this boy wishes to live too. I pick up the gun in my shaking hands. I point it at the window. “Good, Ms. Anderson. You’re doing so well. Now the safety.” I click the safety off. “Wonderful. Now aim.” I aim. “Fire.” I fire and the bullet whizzes through the window, an inch or so away from the boy’s arm. He blanches but doesn’t move. Alive. So very alive. The bullet zips into the night. “Good,” the voice comes over. “I did it,” I breathe, lowering the gun. Slowly, the boy crawls towards me and I flip open the latch. His face only drops in sorrow as he clambers in and curls underneath my desk. I motion for him to be quiet. “He’s…he’s dead.” “Marvelous.” I can almost hear a laugh over the intercom. “We’re dispatching a cleaning crew shortly. Thank you, Ms. Anderson.” “Thank you,” I echo back, and my room is suddenly quiet. When I am absolutely sure there is no one listening I bend down to the child hidden deep in the shadows of my mahogany desk. He blinks at me with those liquid black eyes and I realize for the first time that the stars weren’t from the reflection of the sky. They’re captured there, like a rippling tapestry of light. “Why did you open the window?” he asks me softly. What was I supposed to do? I try to say something, but my words halt in my mouth and I can’t force them out. I can feel heat prickling my cheeks but I can’t break down now, not until all this is over and I’m safe and studying and alone. He seems to understand and he reaches out a hand. I can see tendrils of the shadows I believed were from the night crawling up his arm, inky black vines. I flinch. “What…is that? On your arm?” I ask. My fingers are still wrapped around the gun. He clutches his palm. “Shadow.” “But…but…” Shadows don't work like that. Shadows don't move like that. My heart beats rapidly, painfully in my chest. “You’re a monster,” I finally whisper. His gaze is filled with sorrow. He reaches for me again, but I’ve already got the gun pointed at his temple. He hesitates before speaking again. “Then why don’t you shoot me?” His voice is planitive. “I’d understand.” I close my eyes for a moment. “Back against the wall. Hands where I can see them.” He complies. “Shoot me,” he repeats again. “No,” I reply weakly. “Tell me why you were outside my window. Why did you keep pointing at me?” He looked away. “I was scared. I live in the dorm west from here. They took me, Ms. Anderson. They took me and they made me like this. Then I ran and I found you and I saw it in your room and I thought…I thought I could help you.” “Who’s they? What is…it?’ “It doesn’t matter now,” his voice is barely audible. The surrounding darkness is dense. It wouldn’t be long before the shadows overtook him completely. I grit my teeth and pushed the gun into his hair. Like a start, the shadows retreated a little. To my surprise, he grins; small and cat-like and sharp. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he repeats. “Why?” “I wasn’t pointing at you.” “What?” “...I was pointing behind you.” That's when I see it; in the reflection of his cosmic eyes, a figure rising behind me. The voice. It hadn’t come from the intercom. It drawls softly. “Hello, Ms. Anderson.” I can’t even begin to scream before a towel is over my mouth and the cloying, sweet scent of chloroform is invading all of my senses, and it’s like I’m screaming but nobody can hear, like I’m dying but nobody’s looking. I try to thrash but my arms are locked tightly behind me and my head is spinning like on a carousel and I scream and scream and scream until my voice shrivels up in my throat and my nails are covered in blood. The boy is deep in the shadows. The gun in his pudgy hands. I reach out for it desperately. “Help me!” I croak. The last thing I see is his wide moony eyes blinking once at me before he disappears into the shadows. The last thing I hear is his voice, barely a whisper. “Sorry, Ms. Anderson.” Then I can feel no more.