I always thought Henry Dwiser had an oddly shaped jaw. It was almost lopsided, the right side extending past the halfway mark, making the left side shorter and making his face seem . . . what’s the word? Menacing, I guess. Nevertheless, I considered him my best friend. Since he was my neighbor, just a few blocks down the street, we would play away the long summer days and bundle up and watch movies in the winter. We were inseparable. For better, and as I learned, or for worse.
Henry always liked getting into trouble. I would usually get some of the blame since I was always with him, but I didn't mind. I was his friend, and supposedly, that’s what friends do. Or at least that’s what he tells me. As the years progressed, though, small pranks and tricks escalated to full-on felonies. I would assist him, but not for the things we would steal or getting street credit from it. Just the rush of doing something bad with your best friend in the whole world made me feel . . . what’s the word? Alive, I guess. The best part is when we would hop in the car after grabbing the merchandise or vandalizing the school, and floor the gas. Myself in the passenger seat, I would duck down and try not to be seen although there was no one there to see us. Just the rush of it all was astounding.
I should've seen it from the start, but robbing and tagging wasn’t the right sort of feeling for Henry. He went off experimenting, and one day he told me to meet him at 10 o’clock at night, sharp by the tennis courts and just walked off. My mind wandered with the excitement of what may be happening tonight for the rest of the day, until 9:50. I snuck out the window and biked through the neighborhood to the courts. I saw Henry standing there, almost hidden behind an old willow tree. “Henry!” I called out as I approached.
“Will you shut up?!” Henry reprimanded, “You’re going to blow our cover!”
I felt so . . . what’s the word? Foolish, I guess. Why would I yell at night and wake everyone up?
As I began to apologize, a dark car pulled into the parking lot next to us and 4 men, probably all young 20’s, got out and starting walking towards us.
“Henry. . .” I whispered. This may be too far. This wasn’t any petty theft or graffiti anymore. This was a drug deal.
“You go the stuff?”
“You got the dough?”
“All $500 dollars of it.”
They quickly traded the merchandise, while I still couldn’t believe what Henry was dragging me into.
“Wait a minute,” Henry spoke as he shoveled through the contents of the bag, “You’re ripping me off! I deserve at least twice this for the money I gave you.”
“Tough luck. See ya, kid,” the leader spat as the strode back to their car as hidden as the night.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Henry said. I had to force myself to take my eyes off the gang to look at what Henry had that was making them so scared. The glint of a pistol twinkled at me, taunting me and the gang to say another word or take another step.
All at once, they booked it for the car, the leader stepping on the pedal before the car was even on. And then, Henry did the unspeakable. He fired. I had never seen this side of Henry before. He fired again and again, acting almost . . . what’s the word? Robotic, I guess. As they were almost out of sight, the back right window shattered, drops of blood hopping out of the empty void the pistol just made. The car disappeared into the night, exiting as quietly as it came, and Henry and I were left standing there, one in shock, the other feeling nothing, under the old willow tree.
“Why did you bring me into this?!” I shrieked. I was hysterical. What I just saw was not the henry I know, no sir, Henry was a good kid.
“To see what life is going to be like for us from now on,” he muttered as he stared blankly where the car had vanished, the gun still extended fully in that direction.
“US? Henry, you may have just killed a man! And the neighbors probably heard the shots and the cops are on their way, I’m sorry Henry, I’m getting out of here.” I picked up my bike as I felt a cold hard hit to the left side of my face.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Henry spat in my face, “We are in this together. And best friends don’t desert each other.”
“Goodbye Henry,” I shouted back as I started to walk towards the path from which I came to this awful place. As I moved away from Henry, I tried to piece together what had just happened--
“I’m sorry,” I heard a voice say from behind me. I turned around to find Henry, with tears in his eyes, frozen solid, with the pistol pointed straight at me.
“Only my best friend would understand why I have to do this.”

I remember is looking up at Henry, staring down at my draining body. His tears hit my face like pavement in a storm, but I didn’t mind. Best friends were there for each other when they cry. Otherwise, it seemed like he had no remorse, just doing his job. But I know that isn’t true, Henry was my best friend. He would be sad at my death. As he started to walk away, I could tell he must be going to get me help. This was all an accident. But why isn’t he moving faster? Maybe he’s hurt.  My eyes started to close, and I felt . . . what’s the word? Peaceful. My last thought, forever imprinted on my mind, was how oddly shaped Henry Dwiser’s jaw was.