The room was empty save for the two of them, Drew, typing idly away on an aged keyboard, and Cole, also empty, laying on the top bunk, still fully clad in an immaculate boy scouts uniform. The room was small and confining, dimly lit by a single, old flickering bulb just barely clinging to life, spaced by four, light grey, almost blue thick brick walls. From the bed Cole could, if he so chose, lookout through the adjacent window, aged and unopenable, long ago sealed by paint, to see rain puring just outside his third floor room. Little droplets cascaded down upon the thin glass, propelled by powerful winds, each one a small soldier of the storm, trying and failing to penetrate his dwelling. He could hear the thunder booming, its blast radiating throughout the grounds of the hollowed school, and felt it shake all of Berkley hall, his humble living space included.

The lightning that followed the booming thunder magnificently lit up the small room for the briefest of seconds, but Cole remained silent and unmoved, his eyes still sternly focused on the ceiling above, mere feet from his sour face. Like everything else in the room, or in Berkley for that matter, the old tiled ceiling was not without flaws, it was marred by four spots, water damage Cole suspected, and his eyes were dialed in to those spots.

They were yellow, like the teeth of a smoker, like his mothers teeth, and they were shapely, but in no particular way, just like the ink blots. And just like the ink blots, the brought his mind right back to his mother, where it belonged. His withholding, yellow toothed mother, that was also empty.

More thunder rocked the room and was coincided with a knock at the door. Cole did not hear the knock however, but rather he heard Drew get up from the humble desk at which had been sitting to answer it, as if he was in his own room. As if the knocker must be here for him. It was.

Emily entered, soaked and out of breath. Her dark brown hair, made darker by the dampness was down, and in complete disarray. Her attire was plain and modest, a Sunday skirt that went down to her knees, a nice, collared shirt, and a jean jacket that had failed to protect her from the elements. Her cheeks were flushed rosy red from and she shook uncontrollably from the cold.

Drew smiled and squeezed her tightly, and then gently kissed her on the forhead.

“This is the last time, I swear.” He said, apologetically, but with a smile.

“I’ve heard that before”, she said, her voice still a bit shaky from the cold, but still with a smile on her face.

“I’m sorry about the rain. Buy you a hot chocolate?”

“I think this time you owe me two.” He laughed, agreed that that was fair, and turned to leave, without saying so much as a word of thanks to Cole. It was Emily, that looked back before they left, waving him goodbye and smiling kindly at him. Cole returned the wave half heartidly, and, to his own surprise, met her smile with one of his own. It was weak yes, but it was a smile nonetheless.

They left, taking his smile with them. This was time number three that Drew had locked himself out of his own room, and time number three that he had come to Cole seeking refuge. Each time Cole had kindly let Drew in and each time , the boys had barely spoken so much as a word to one another. Likewise though, this was the third time that Emily had come to Drew’s rescue. Cole enjoyed that part.

Throughout his life Cole had had nine girlfriends, but none sense he had started college two years ago, and none lasting more than eight weeks. Cole was attractive enough, and so too had they been, but there was always something missing. He used to think that the missing component was his own fault, after all, nine girls couldn’t all be wrong, but now he knew, it was them.

They had been nice sure, some of them nicer than others, but they lacked the decency and values that had been so clearly outlined for all of everything to follow. Cole followed them without exception, and so too should any potential mate. But none did. One girl swore too much, while another had been too handsey. Not to the point of lust, but too close for Cole’s liking. And still another girl had had no will power at all, no more fiber whatsoever, and had served him steak on Ash Wednsday. And then there was the Lutheran. Cole chose not to think about the Lutheran.

But then there was Emily. She made him believe again, made him believe that there was indeed hope. She was kind, sweet even, but there was more than that, so much more than that. She was beautiful, beautiful enough to be the mother of his kids, and she was smart, but not smarter than him. Just smart enough. She was unwaivering in her goodness, but more than that, she was oblivious to all of it. She had no idea how desirable she truly was, and because of it, she was with Drew. Dumb, dull Drew. The Drew that couldn’t even keep track of a key, how could he possibly keep track of a woman like her? And yet they were all but married, just like many of the students at St. Elizabeths college.
Young. Too young in Coles opinion. His parents had married that young as well, with less than stellar results, though they had done so, to ensure that Cole would not be a bastard. Catholics didn’t have bastard babies. And Cole was not one. He escaped it by a margin of mere weeks, but his existence was very evident to anyone perusing their wedding album.

He reached into his left pocket and retrieved his rosary. It was old, and had been gifted to him six years prior on the day of his confirmation, by his grandmother. It was hers, but before that it had belonged to her mother. It was an heirloom of sorts.

His grandmother had passed away two months after giving it to him, in a hospital bed hooked up to respirators, him by her side, gently clutching both of her frail old hands, praying one final rosary, as they had always done when he was a boy. Since then he had prayed it daily.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. His eyes shut, and he clutched the old beads tighter. Blessed are you amongst women. It came to him all at once, his whole life, the flood gates opened, and it all spilled out. The mother, or lack there of, the dead father, the dead grandmother, the girls, all the girls, and now Emily, never to be his Emily. He got up from his bed thinking nothing more of it. Down the old ladder, taking his belt off as he went, he headed strait towards the closet, where he got to tieng with all the skills of a high ranking boy scout, now on his short footstool he stood, belt around neck, rosary still in hand, and he kicked the stool out from under himself.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. The moment the stool had stopped being there he missed it. He swung violently in the small closet, his feet dangling just inches from salvation. There was so much pain, so much regret, so much else that could’ve been. His lungs, he felt it all in his lungs, they burned, and yearned for air, and he ws purple, he could not see himself but knew that he was purple. It was all purple. Purple, purple purple, and everything began to fade into the hot purple that was his face and that burned his face, and that was simply and utterly, purple. The rosary fell from his now weak hands. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of hour deaths.

The bar broke and he crashed to the ground, air rushing into his lungs all at once. It burned, but in the best of ways, and his neck hurt like nothing he had ever felt. He got up, strangely collected, retrieved his rosary, and returned to the top bunk to finish it. Amen.