I don’t belong here.

Outside the city where there is calm and tranquility, there is the Greenwood Oaks complex, or The Perfect Circle, as most call it. It was one of the first little areas of suburbia built back in the day when neighborhoods were becoming very structured, cultured, and popular. Today, it’s full of happy families and perfect lawns and an expansive cemetery at the end of one of the main roads. That’s its one imperfection, I guess. But I don’t belong here.

From my bedroom on the second floor, I can hear the earth coming alive every morning. Across the street, Mr. Anderson stands on his porch until the paper sails over his portal. He reads it with his customary cup of coffee before the wife and kids get up. Mrs. Relson’s sprinklers sound off next while she walks her dog. There’s more minor noise from the other houses, then my dad gets up. I hear him in the bathroom, shaving with my razor, no doubt, and showering for five minutes. Then he’s downstairs in the kitchen, scanning the refrigerator for anything, and finding nothing, he goes out to start his lawn work.

When he trims the hedges, each snap of the cutters makes me flinch. I wonder if plants can feel. If I could hear better, would I hear them screaming? I think I would. He leaves the green limbs on the ground for me to rake up later.

“Come on, Lucian, put your back into it! You need some sun anyway,” he laughs when I clean up his mess with no enthusiasm. And he wonders why I don’t like to spend time with him.

He mows the lawn next. He does it with such precision, it takes forever. So I get up.

The bathroom is still a mess, my razor on the edge of the sink. It’s not like I just use that to shave; if only he knew what else it was used for . . .

This particular morning there is no need to shave. My face is pallid in the mirror and there are huge circles under my eyes. Oh well. I don’t expect to see anyone, and no one would care much anyway. The days I do go to school, I’m invisible. I find nothing wrong with that.

I decide to go to school. Slinging my backpack on my shoulder, I make sure I at least have a notebook and a few pens to use. I stick a few pills in my pocket, just in case. Looking out the window, I see Mr. Anderson waving to some kids going by on bikes. They’re wearing blue polo’s and khaki pants. I look down at myself: all black. I really don’t belong here.

I have to squint hard when I go outside. The light is bright and the air is chilly. Dad waves at me from the lawn, holding the hose in his hands as he waters.

“ ’Morning, Lucian,” he says.

“Hi,” I mumble, digging into my bag for my gloves.

“Listen, will you pick up your sister when you get home today? Mom and I have a meeting we’ve got to go to, and you can use my car. She’ll be at Stacy’s after school.”

I don’t care about their meeting. Lauren could walk home from Stacy’s house easily; she’s a big girl. But if it’s an excuse to have the car, then it’s a deal.

“Okay,” I agree, slipping on my gloves. I cut the fingertips off a long time ago so I could paint easier in the winter. I used to sit on the roof and paint while it would snow, and the gloves with fingertips proved too hard to manage a brush. I like these anyway.

“Have a good day, son.”

I nod, looking down at the bag of freshly cut grass he’s standing next to. It smells acrid and green; grass blood.

I walk down the sidewalk past every other man who has cut his lawn. It smells like a massacre.