He closed his bedroom door, quietly.  His mother was half-asleep in the living room.  With a sigh he let his books drop from beneath his arm, exposing a dark print on his shirt where the fabric had been pressed to damp skin.

Come look.  Come see.

Gingerly, silently, he stepped over the pile of books in the floor, over the dirty laundry, over upturned skateboards and guitar cords and the musty memories of potato chip bags, and crossed the room to his bed.  Then the toe of his shoe snagged in the pocket of a pair of jeans, and he stumbled, throwing out his hands.  He caught himself on the edge of his mattress, but his knee slammed into the floor.

“Are you all right, Riley?”

“Yes, Mom, yes!”  He closed his eyes, swallowing air to choke back the tremble in the voice which had somehow raised an octave.

Quietly, now!  Silently, SILENTLY!  But quickly…

Remaining on his knees, Riley forced his hand beneath his mattress, then his wrist, slipping deeper and deeper inside until the elbow disappeared.  His fingertips brushed paper, and he jerked free, empty-handed.

He shook his head.  No, no, this isn’t right.  It’s sick.  That’s what it is.  Sick.

You’ll look.  You’ll see eventually; you know it.  You can’t stop.

Eyes still closed, he lowered himself to the carpet and pressed his back against the mattress, hard, until the metal rim bit into his spine.  His heart was racing now, fast, thrashing against the insides of his ribs like a caged animal.  He could feel it in his wrists, throbbing close to the skin of his neck, filling the balloons of his veins to their breaking points.  The blood drained from the tips of his fingers, causing his hands to tremble in his lap.

Hurry now, before your mother comes!  You must see…

God, the sweat now.  He could feel the fabric beneath his arms clinging to his skin, the rough seams on the insides of his shirt nibbling the fine hairs which outlined his torso.  The sweat.  Running like fingernails down his back, lightly, seductively.  Taking hold of the tips of his hair until they grew heavy, until they grew tired enough to lie flush with the curve of his brow.  And on the brow, beneath the oily worms of hair, the slime ran thick, collecting in salty oases in the places where the delicate arches of his nostrils met the redness of his cheeks.  The sweat filled his eyes and his mouth and the room, and surely the hallway and the living room where his mother dozed, unaware…