Interim by S. Walden

list the guns you’d carry, and how you’d carry them. You note the amount of ammo you’d need if you had to shoot someone multiple times. You mark resting points throughout the halls. You describe your target practice. You explain—”
    “Stop,” he said. Hearing her say it aloud—listing off the details in fast succession—really did make him sound like a lunatic. But he wasn’t! He wasn’t a fucking lunatic. He was organized. His plan made sense. It wasn’t needless killing. It was purposeful. It was just and right.
    “You think you have the right,” Regan whispered, like she could read his thoughts. “You think you have the right to take someone’s life.”
    She waited for his response. He knew what she wanted to hear. If he gave it to her, she would know he was lying. Better stick to the truth as much as possible.
    “I do think I have that right,” he said finally, and she gasped. “In my fantasies.”
    She relaxed some.
    “I’m sure you have fantasies,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away from his journal.
    She nodded. “I don’t fantasize about killing, though.”
    “You’ve never wanted to kill anyone in your anger?”
    “No.”
    “I’m sure you’ve fantasized about hurting someone,” he suggested. “Someone who wronged you.”
    She glared at him. “Yes.”
    “He was mean to you? He disappointed you?”
    “Yes.”
    “So what did you wanna do?”
    “Strangle him,” she said before thinking. She slapped her hand over her mouth.
    “There,” Jeremy replied triumphantly. “Now, if you wrote that down, and I found it, do you think I’d believe for a second you really wanted to kill that guy?”
    “It’s not the same thing at all!” Regan cried. “Mine’s a figure of speech! You go on for pages and pages—”
    “Wake up, Regan!” Jeremy shouted. “I’ve been dealing with bullying for years! You don’t think that warrants a lot of goddamn pages?”
    She flinched then opened her mouth to argue. But there was nothing to say because he was right. His experiences warranted more than “a lot” of pages.
    Jeremy tipped backwards until his butt hit the ground. He groaned softly as he stretched his legs in front of him.
    A long bout of silence. Rustling leaves. Some bird conversations. Honking horn.
    “I get it,” Regan said finally. “I understand.”
    Hope. The first he’d felt it since he discovered his journal was missing. That seemed like ages ago. But there it was now—a tiny sprout still curled into itself, nestled snuggly in the soft, warm tissues of his heart. It wasn’t sure of opening completely. It needed more sunshine words from her lips—assurances that she trusted him.
    “I would never do those things,” he whispered. A gentle lie. He realized he needed to treat her like a skittish horse. Lots of cooing and verbal petting.
    She thought a moment, watching the ground as she drew crude stick figures in the dry dirt: one female, one male. She fought a gender battle in her heart—the feminine part of her wanted to trust him immediately. After all, she pitied him. But the masculine part of her fought against those supple emotions, demanding she scrutinize the evidence and keep feelings out of it.
    She glanced at the journal once more, then at Jeremy who sat pulling weeds.
    “Why not tell a therapist?” she offered. She immediately regretted the words.
    Jeremy snorted but said nothing.
    “I . . . I just mean, maybe they could help you work through some of this.” Her face burned. Shut up, already.
    “So telling someone all of this instead of writing it down would have changed what exactly?” he asked, looking straight into her eyes.
    She wanted to blurt out, “I would have never read it! I wouldn’t be responsible! That’s what would have changed!” But she shook her head instead, keeping her mouth sealed shut.
    He knew her thoughts.
    “You didn’t have to read it, Regan. If you would have just minded your own business, then you wouldn’t