It takes him a good quarter of an hour to wash his face. I wait patiently, sitting on the floor, tracing my fingers mindlessly on the rough surface of the carpet. Judging by the muffled sound of the window opening and closing, Raven is considering alternative escape routes. Yet there's no way he could squeeze out through the little bathroom window, so he will have to use the door.

My mind is stuck in a loop, trying to figure out what has just happened and what's going to happen next. If Raven reports me, I'll be in trouble. I probably won't go to jail, since it's my first offence, and I haven't cut him for real, but they will give me a hard time. Could having a criminal record affect my chances to become a baseball player? Have I just thrown my dream away because of one mistake?

I shake my head. He won’t report me. Doing that would uncover his own dirty secrets, which will send him to a therapy home, and he wasn't too keen on that.

At last, the sound of running water subsides. For a minute, it's quiet inside the bathroom, and then I hear footsteps approaching the door. Then, another pause.

"Come out already," I say.

He opens the door and steps into the corridor, looking ready to bolt away at the first sign of danger. He's wrapped in the towel I have given him, wearing it like a mini-dress. His face is still puffy from the tears, and probably the most un-made-up I have ever seen it. There's a plaster on his neck where the knife has broken the skin.

I point at it. "Is it deep?"

He clears his throat. "Just a scratch."

"Come with me," I say, getting up.

I walk over to the door of my room, open it and turn back to him. He's still standing by the bathroom door, staring at me.

"Come on, I won't bite."

"You've nearly killed me just now," he says.

"I didn’t intend to."

"Really." It's not a question. He knows that I did, at least for a moment, intend to do just that. I know it, too.

Still, he walks over and enters my room, moving stiffly like a wooden marionette. I follow him inside and shut the door. The sound makes him jump.

"Relax," I say. "Sit down."

He makes a couple of steps and sits down on the bed. I go to the bookcase and reach for the highest shelf, retrieve a small photo album and wipe the dust off its cover. Then I go to the bed and sit down by his side. He shifts, trying to put more distance between us.

"Oh come on," I say. "I won't hurt you. I just need to show you something."

"An album?" His voice comes out hoarse.

"Yeah. My family."

He clears his throat. "Trying to kill someone makes you sentimental?"

"I didn't intend to…" I sigh, then flip the album open. "Never mind. Just look."

It starts with a picture of a man and a woman, hugging each other on the beach, smiling into the camera. Then, there's the same couple among other people at what looks like a barbecue in someone's backyard. Then, an artsy black and white photo of the woman wearing a wedding dress and the man dressed in a black suit, a bit too large for him. He's hugging her by the waist, his eyes smiling from under his bushy eyebrows.

As I keep turning the pages, pictures of a child appear. First a baby on the woman's lap, then a toddler holding the man by the hand. A picture of the three of them under a Christmas tree, the child about four years old, clutching a toy rabbit, his father's hand on his shoulder, his mother's on his head. They boy is the only one smiling in this photo. The man and the woman stare seriously into the camera.

"Wait." Raven's finger traces the lines of the boy's face. "Is this…you?"

I nod.

"But that's not Catherine." His finger moves to the woman.

"Those are my parents," I say. "My real parents."

"Oh," he says.

"My father was a jealous guy," I say. "Always thinking my mother was too promiscuous. He would hit her, yell at her. When she's finally decided to leave him, he got into a rage and stabbed her to death. Then, he killed himself." I snap the album shut and look at him. His expression is blank. I continue, anyway. "I loved them. They were good to me. I was so angry when they left me. I hated everyone who tried to take their place."

"But not Catherine?"

"She was… so accepting." I look down, at the tips of my sports shoes. "So patient. She ended up adopting me, even though I was a nasty piece of work. Hitting other kids, snapping at adults. They said I had too much of my father in me. Anger management problems, you know."

He hums. "You don't say."

"I got over it," I say. "I've been fine for years, before you came along," I add, somewhat defensively. "Catherine helped me. I could never thank her enough."

There's no way I can look at him now, because there're tears in my eyes that I can't let him see. He must hear them in my voice, though. So be it. I don’t know how else to get to him, to make him feel what I feel. I can only put my cards on the table and hope it will reach him, somehow.

"There's just so much in life that is bad, and evil, and when you meet someone like her, who is kind, and …" I swallow a lump in my throat and finally look him in the eye. "I just think that kindness should be repaid by kindness, that's all. Doesn’t it make sense to you?"