Shit.

That's all I can think.

Shit.

Fucking... Shit!

I get out of the car and look around. Yes, I look around. Did anyone see me?

Shit!

I take a deep breath and walk up in front of the car. In the suddenly so quiet night, he's still trapped in the headlights, only he's dead.

Oh my God.

I've killed him. I've killed someone. Oh my God.

I don't know why I do it, but I reach for the inside pocket of his jacket, looking for his wallet, looking for some sort of identification.

A driving license.

Julian Adams. Born in... 1988. November. November 3, 1988. He's not even turned 18, and I've killed him.

Shit.

What do I do now?

No one saw me; technically I could just drive off and pretend it never happened.

But I will never be able to shake the image of 17-and-a-half-year-old Julian Adams dead in front of my car.

I put the wallet back in his pocket.

I will have to phone for an ambulance. Obviously.

But if I do, I mean, what happens if you kill someone whilst driving under the influence? Prison?

I sit down on my knees next to the dead body.

Not even 18.

I wonder what he would've done for his 18th birthday.

I put my hand on his chest.

He coughs.

He fucking coughs!

He coughs!

"Oh my god! You're alive!" I shout, jumping up.

He doesn't open his eyes. He looks dead again.

"Julian! Julian! You're alive!"

He doesn't move.

"Julian! Can you hear me?"

He opens his mouth a little. Or maybe it falls open.

"What happened," he whispers.

"I killed you!"

"Am I dead?"

"No, you're alive, Julian!"

"Great."

He sounds sarcastic, but I guess he's just tired. Or injured. Duh.

"You need to... I mean... Can you... You know... Move?"

He tries to get up, but he only manages to turn to his side.

"Shit. Hold on. Don't move. I'll get you an ambulance."

My conscience has finally caught up with me, and I reach for my mobile in my pocket.

"No!"

Julian makes a sudden movement, obviously to try and stop me from phoning the ambulance, but the pain stops him in the middle of it, and he falls back on the ground, his face a frightening mask of suffering.

"Why not?"

He's closed his eyes again.

"Just don't. Please."

"You can't stay here. You need help. You'll die if you don't get to a hospital."

"Good. You can leave me here."

I'm still in shock.

"I can't leave you here, are you stupid?!?"

"Ok, give me a lift to the bridge then."

"What bridge?"

"The one across the railroad."

"I can't move you."

"Of course you can."

Shit.

I'm in such a state of shock, I can't even think. I kneel by him and try various ways to lift him up. I can tell by the sudden intakes of breath how much pain I'm causing him, but every time I try to stop it, he tells me to try again. I don't know how many minutes or hours later that I manage to get him up, carrying him over my left shoulder. He doesn't weigh much, but enough that I almost lose balance as I try to open the door to the backseat.

I put him down, gently folding his legs so that I can close the door. This is crazy.

"You alright?" I ask as I get behind the wheel again.

"Just spiffing."

He's half dead and still so sarcastic.

I drive him to the old railroad bridge and pull over.

"Help me out now."

"Right." I get out of the car and open the door to try and lift him up again.

I look at the clock on the car stereo. 3.45 am. No wonder no one saw me.

I manage to lift Julian up again, carrying him in my arms as you would carry a baby. I must admit it feels pretty weird. If nothing else, I'm sure it looks weird.

"Now what?"

"Carry me to the railing."

I do as he tells me.

"Ok. And now?"

"Help me over."

I look down at the boy in my arms.

"I'm sorry what now?"

"Help me over the railing."

Suddenly I understand what we're doing here. Bloody hell.

"I'm not helping you kill yourself!" I almost shout.

I don't know what shocked me more - this or the thump as his body hit my car.

"Come on. You've nearly killed me already, it's just a matter of finishing the job."

"No way. Just... No way."

I carry him back to the car. I don't know what I'll do once I get him in there, but I'm not going to throw him off a bridge, that's for sure.

When we're back in the car, I just sit there, my head against the wheel. Of all the things I thought would happen tonight, this certainly wasn't one of them.

"Ok, we're going home."

"You don't know where I live," Julian moans, clearly very unhappy that I screwed up his plans to kill himself tonight. Ironically by nearly killing him.

"Not your place. Mine."

"Oh."

"And tomorrow I'll find out where you live, and I will phone your parents."

"And tell them what? That you almost killed their only son driving back from the pub?"

What the fuck?

"Yeah, you stink of beer, mate," he replies to my unasked question.

It's half past four in the morning when I park my car in the street outside my terraced. I look around nervously before I lift up Julian and carry him inside.

As I carry him upstairs I'm thanking God for that gym card I got for Christmas and the New Years resolution to use it.

"Uh... Do you need to...you know...use the bathroom?" I ask.

"No."

"Uh... Ok. Uhm... Going to bed then."

"I'm not sleeping with you!"

"Fuck sake. I've got a guest bedroom, you know. God, I'm beginning to regret not throwing you off that bridge after all."

"It's not too late to change your mind, you know."

I've never met anyone with such a death wish. It's making me a bit uncomfortable.

"Look, it's probably better you sleep in your own clothes and I'll find something else for you to wear tomorrow. We're going to have to wash those anyway, there's blood everywhere."

"Whatever."

My last thought before I fall asleep is that this has definitely been the worst night of my life.

I wake up by ten. It takes me a couple of moments to wake up enough to remember the boy in my guest bedroom. I get up and walk across the hall and carefully open the door. He's on his back, in the exact same position as I left him in last night. What if he's died during the night?

"Julian?"

I sit down next to him and put two fingers gently to his neck to feel his pulse. If there is in fact a pulse. The light hammering against the tips of my fingers is a relief. I go to open the window, let some sunshine and air into the room. When I get back to the bed, he's opened his eyes. In the light of the day I can see the damage I've done to him. He's got a wound on the side of his head, and the blood I didn't think to wash off yesterday has dried in a morbid river down the left side of his face. He's bruised and his clothes are bloody and the sight of him makes me want to cry. If I didn't understand why I shouldn't drink and drive before this morning, I will never forget now.

"How are you?" I ask and sit down next to him again.

"Not that great."

"We're going to have to clean you up. You think you can stand a bath?"

"I don't know."

"Well, we'll try. I'll help you. Obviously."

I put some water in the bath. Not too much; I don't want to drown him. I get a tracksuit for him, boxer shorts, a t-shirt, socks.

"Right, Julian. I think I'll have to undress you in here and then carry you to the bathroom, is that alright?"

"Do what you have to do."

He couldn't care less, I guess. He's only alive because I didn't kill him like he wanted to. I start by trying to remove his jacket and shirt. It's a slow process and I can tell he's in a lot of pain. When I finally get the garments off him, I can see why. His torso is bruised, there's a nasty-looking wound on his left side, dried blood all over him; one of his ribs looks fractured, but how do you tell these things?

"Alright?" I ask him.

"Fine."

I unbutton his jeans and carefully pull them down, along with a pair of bloody boxer shorts. Thankfully his legs look all right. There's a fair bit of bruising, but as far as I can tell they don't look fractured.

"You ready?"

"Sure."

I lift him up; it's a lot easier now that he's on a bed and not on the ground half underneath my car.

I kneel in front of the bath, trying to get him in as gently as I can. How on earth am I going to get him up? Shit.

He winces as the water embraces him.

"It stings like fuck you know," he says, frowning.

"I can image."

Only I can't. I really can't.

I grab the flannel and start washing the blood off his face. He's closing his eyes. I wash the blood off his body. He's got the body of a long-distance runner, that sort of sinewy build.

"Do you run?" I ask him, just to talk about something other than his wounds and bruises.

"Yeah. I used to run for the school team, but I've stopped all that now. I still run though. For my own sake. It's fun."

"Are you any good?"

"I'm alright, yeah."

It doesn't take long before the water is red. I must've opened up some of the wounds. I decide to empty the bath, whilst he's still in it, and then wrap a towel around him and try to lift him up like that.

Back in the spare bedroom I put a towel on the bed so the sheets wont get wet. I feel slightly embarrassed when I dry him, but I guess it's the least I can do. It feels like I owe him. I put some plasters and bandages on the worst of the wounds and I try to be careful when I dress him in my tracksuit. It's way too big for him.

I put him to bed. He's quite a sorry sight like that, all wrapped up and well... His face is kind of black and blue.

I make him soup for breakfast, which he drinks through a straw. His lips are too swollen for him to be able to eat anything solid.

"Ok, so tell me where you live, Julian."

"No."

"I know your name, I can find out."

"You won't though."

"Yes, I will."

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Bloody hell..."

Having a conversation with him is like a having a conversation with a two-year-old.

I leave the room and go downstairs for a fag. I've made it a point not to smoke upstairs. It makes my clothes stink. More than they do now when I only smoke downstairs. I'm just about to put it out when I hear Julian calling from upstairs.

"Hallo! Halloooo!"

"What!?!"

"What's your name?"

"Oh. Sorry. It's Jacob. Jake."

"Right. Eh... I need to take a piss."

"Ok... Should I carry you to the bathroom or what?"

"What else would you do?"

"I don't know? You could piss in a bottle?"

"Yeah, I think not."

I carry him to the bathroom and help him pull his trousers down and sit down. When he's done he calls me and I start the bitch of a procedure to get him back to bed.

"Look, Julian... I work. I work full-time. I need to get you back to your parents, because come Monday, I'll be gone between seven and five."

This was a Saturday morning.

"I'm not going back to my parents."

I sigh.

"What the fuck are you going to do then?"

"Either you help me to kill myself, or you let me stay here until I get well enough to do it on my own."

"Why do you have to kill yourself anyway?"

"Because."

I leave him and go downstairs for another fag. This is going to be a long weekend.

I don't get any answers from Julian, and by sunset on Saturday I've stopped asking. I make him soups and smoothies to survive, and he drinks them with surprising enthusiasm.

"Ok, I'm going to ask you one more time where your parents are, because I'm sure they're worried sick about you."

"No, they're not. I'm not telling you."

"I really want to feel sorry for you, but you're a bit of a bastard, you know that?"

"Whatever."

"Good night."

"Good night."

He doesn't even get angry. Whatever I say, he accepts it. He really acts like someone who's decided that they just don't want to be part of life anymore. It's making me want to tie him down and force him to stay, just to stop him from throwing himself of a bridge. But his attitude... At the same time I just want to suffocate him with a pillow.

In the morning he starts shouting at roughly ten past eight.

"Jake...! Jaaaaake...!"

He's sounding pathetic.

"What!"

"I need to go to the bathroom."

"I'll get you a bottle one of these days."

"No, no, it's... I think I'm going to be sick."

"Fuck."

I run into my own room, grab the paper bin and empty it on the floor, and run back to Julian. He turns his head slightly towards the paper bin that I'm still holding, and throws up. I've always had a phobia for vomiting, so I really don't appreciate the situation, but what can I do. As soon as he's finished, I'm going to IKEA for a new paper bin, that's for sure.

"Thanks," he says when he's done and turns his head away from the vomit in the paper bin.

"My pleasure."

I go and empty it in the toilet and rinse it as good as I can, then I put it back in Julian's room (well, I guess I've surrendered my guest bedroom to him).

I pick up the clothes that he was wearing when I ran over him. They look like road-kill.

"Uhm... I thought I'd wash these."

"Whatever."

"Right."

I bring them downstairs and only think to check his pockets right before I put them in the washing machine. Good thing I did. His wallet is still in his jacket pocket for one thing. His mobile, although probably beyond repair, in the pocket of his jeans. And a photo that has been folded so many times I can hardly see what it's of, on the back of which is written "Fuck you David". I put the folded photo in his wallet.

I bring Julian his things. He looks strangely embarrassed as I hand him his wallet and his mobile.

"Is it working?" He asks.

"The phone?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, no. I wouldn't have thought so."

"Good. You can throw it away. Please."

"Sure. Uhm... So anyway, how are you feeling?"

"A bit worse actually. It hurts more."

"Can I have a look?"

"Whatever."

I mainly want to check his legs and ribs for any change. I don't really know what I'm looking for, but at least by checking I'll notice if there are any changes, anything turning black or so.

He doesn't make a sound as I pull his trouser legs up. His left ankle looks really swollen, but I guess I should've expected that. His legs are pretty bruised, but there are definitely no bones poking out or anything. When I pull his t-shirt up, he winces but I can tell that he's trying to control himself. Most of his torso is black and blue, and I'm sure at least one of his ribs is broken. I touch it as carefully as I can.

"That hurt?"

"Hurts like hell."

"Sorry."

"No worries."

"You think you're going to be sick again?"

"I don't feel sick."

"Ok, good. Well, I'll leave you then. You just try and get some rest, ok?"

"Whatever."

He only calls me once again during the Sunday, in the afternoon when he needs to use the bathroom again. I check on him a few times throughout the day, and it seems like he's sleeping most of the time.

On Monday morning I wake him up at six.

"How are you today, Julian?"

"I'm fine."

"I need to leave for work in half an hour, so I'm going to have to help you eat now. You hungry?"

"Not really."

"Well, it's a smoothie, I can just leave it here and you can have it later?"

"Whatever."

"I've prepared a few bottles of water and stuff for you, it's right here on the bedside table. The bin is here if you're going to be sick again, and I'll just put an empty bottle here if you need to, you know..."

"Piss?"

"Uh, yeah. The phone is here, I put the number for my work on speed dial, so just press this button here if there are any problems, alright?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, see you by five then."

"Bye."

I feel a bit nervous about leaving him. Even if he wants to die, I'd rather he didn't die in my house.

As I drive to the office I'm worrying that he will try and kill himself whilst I'm at work.

I'm not really getting anything done, because all I can think of is Julian and the state he is in, and the fact that I caused it. It dawns on me that he's really my responsibility. I must try and do my best to nurture him back to health. And hopefully he'll change his mind about killing himself.

By lunchtime I phone home, hoping that he'll answer, but he doesn't. I don't know why I thought he would.

When I get home, I quickly run upstairs, I want to make sure he's all right.

I find him asleep in the exact same position I left him in. Most of the soups are left, but most of the water is gone, which I think is a good sign. I pick up the bottle he's been using for answering nature's calls and empty it in the toilet. If someone would've asked me four days ago if I'd ever pick up a bottle full of piss, I would've laughed. Now it just seems kind of natural. Julian has brought out my inner nurse, I guess.

I go downstairs and make dinner for myself.

I wonder if I should mention Julian's existence to anyone? But I'm not sure who I'd trust with that information. It's probably for the best to just leave it. Until the police come knocking on my door and I'll get locked up for kidnapping.

I eat my dinner in front of the telly. I don't know if it was the smell of bacon or the noise of the Simpson's that woke him, but two seconds after I've swallowed the last bit of my dinner, Julian calls me from upstairs.

"What's up?"

"Uh, just wanted to say hi and stuff. And I was thinking... Do you think you could carry me downstairs so I can watch telly or something?"

This is really the first thing he's said to me that doesn't communicate a death wish or serious apathy, so I go along with it. I hold him like a baby, carrying him carefully down the stairs. I put him in the sofa, his legs stretched out across it. I put a few cushions behind his back, propping him up like I used to do with my grandmother when I was visiting her in the home.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" I ask and sit down in my chair.

"Uh, no, not at all. Can I have one?"

"You sure you should? I mean..."

"A cigarette won't kill me." He makes a half snort, half laugh kind of noise and adds; "and if it does, then so much the better."

I hand him a cigarette and a lighter. It's strangely beautiful the way his mannerisms seem to fall into place as he lights the cigarette. You can always tell whether or not someone is a regular smoker by the way they light the cigarette. Someone who only smokes every now and then make it look ungraceful, whereas someone who's been smoking for a while, like myself, or like Julian, obviously, just looks completely relaxed. Holding the cigarette like his hands were made to do nothing but just that. It's a kind of ultra familiarity.

"So what's your regular brand?" I ask him.

"Benson's."

"You and me both then."

"Yeah."

We spend the rest of the evening in silence. He smokes about twice as many cigarettes as me, so I decide I'll get him his own. He's disrupting my smoking system.

During the week this becomes our little routine. I'll get back from work, carry him downstairs, we'll smoke and watch telly and talk about music, books, films, that sort of impersonal stuff. The swelling and bruising on his face is beginning to disappear and he's slowly looking more and more normal. His ankle is a lot better, but he's still having problems doing things, like dressing, washing, anything that involves lifting his arms.

On the Thursday evening before going to bed, I decide to try and show him the full extent of his injuries. I help him strip to his boxers (that I've bought for him as I wasn't happy about the idea of lending him my underwear), and then carry him to my bedroom so that he'll be able to see for himself in my oversized mirror. I help him stand up in front of the mirror, and he's actually looking truly shocked as he sees himself.

"Fucking hell. I didn't realise the bruising was that bad" he says and slowly touches a blue-yellow-ish bruise on his side.

"You should have seen it a few days ago. It's actually better now, you know."

"Shit."

"Yeah..."

"Help me to bed," he says in a suddenly hard voice.

I'm getting used to his unreliable mood, so I just comply, but as I put him down on his bed, I can see tears on his face.

"You alright, Julian?"

"I'm fine. I need to sleep. See you tomorrow."

"Right... Good night then."

In the morning I don't even wake him up, I just leave him a few bottles of water, a few bananas, and some aspirins.

By lunch I try to phone him, but he doesn't answer.

Thanks to flexible working hours and the fact that I've done a lot of overtime earlier in the year, I can get off by two. I want to get a bit of shopping done before everyone else gets off work to do the same.

When I get back home again, I sit down with a cup of tea and a fag before checking on Julian. He doesn't expect me back for another two hours anyway.

The door to Julian's room is half open, and as I get closer I can hear his laboured breath. I'm panicking, thinking his fallen out of bed, hurt himself, whatever. I push the door open.

"Julian! Are you--"

I was going to say "ok", but as I take in the scene I go quiet.

"Jesus!" he shouts, quickly grabbing the blanket to cover himself.

"Oh my god! I mean... God! Are you even well enough to be doing...you know...that?!?"

"Obviously."

And then I notice the magazine on the floor, my magazine. My gay porn mag, to be specific.

"Where the fuck did you get that from?" I ask, gesturing towards the glossy paper on the floor.

"Your room."

"How the fuck did you manage to get to my room?"

"I sort of like, used my right leg, and leaned my back towards the wall, you know, sort of slowly wriggling, like."

"So you wriggled your way to my room to snoop around?"

I'm not sure whether to feel pissed off that he's been going through my stuff or pleased that he can move about.

"I wasn't snooping, mate. I saw your little stash under your bed when we were in there yesterday enjoying the freak show."

"But..."

"But what, Jake?"

"God, I don't know. Sorry I interrupted you. I'll be downstairs."

I make sure to close the door as I leave.

For an hour it's quiet upstairs. If he decided to finish what he was doing or what, I don't know. I don't want to know.

I'm just about to start cooking dinner when he starts shouting. Admittedly I'm a bit reluctant to open the door, but it turns out he's closed the magazine and put it on the chair on the other side of the room. And he's fully dressed, which is a plus.

"Carry me downstairs?"

"Can't you wriggle?"

"Down the bloody stairs?"

"Right..." I sigh.

After dinner - curry for me, soup for Julian - we sit down in front of the telly, drinking tea and smoking. These evenings in front of the telly with Julian is becoming a tradition.