Joshua was humming It Never Rains (In Southern California), and the rain was tapping its heavy fingers against his scalp. He had his hands in the pockets of his black zip-up sweatshirt to hide the blood, and his hood was down because he had reached a level of apathy regarding his hair the likes of which he’d never reached before. Water always made his lovely platinum angel-wing locks turn dark. A strand of damp bangs plastered onto the skin between his eyes gave him a sort of solemn appearance despite the ever-present smirk carved into his cheeks. Whatever anyone would expect a boy who’d just dug a grave in the pouring rain to look like, he looked the opposite. Like he’d never seen glassy eyes and rotting flesh and congealed blood. Like he’d never had grave dirt stuck beneath his fingernails, or breathed in the scent of death.
“Hey,” he said to the boy beside him. His voice was conversational, lilting. “You ever see that episode of Xena Warrior Princess where they make Gabrielle go through some ritual or whatever because she’s never killed a man? Looks like you’d no longer qualify. So, how does it feel to no longer be a murder virgin?”
