Horrors of Us...

I fell in love. Not the sweet, romantic type of love where you want to stroke their hair and buy each other flowers, but the heart-wrenching, grueling, punch-me-in-the-throat-until-it-bleeds type of love. The type of love where your every thought is devoted to him every second of every day, and you can’t stop thinking about him even if your life depends on it. It’s the type of love where you become engulfed by his existence. Where you lose yourself in his light. Where you become darkness, and all that’s left to do is surrender.

​

I spotted him for the first time just one year ago. He was sitting at the circle table in the corner of the cafeteria. He was picking around the wrapper of his corn muffin, surrounded by a pack of friends. His jet black hair was pinned back in gel, and if you got close enough, you were able to smell his old spice deodorant wafting off of him. He wears a tee shirt — usually light blue, but sometimes gray — that matches his eyes. You’d give up anything for him to talk to you, but if he does, you might just die. 

​

Tonight’s the Senior Scavenger Hunt and we’re dressing up as Bonnie and Clyde. I sewed both of our costumes from scratch. He decided to meet me there and drive with his friends. That’s alright. We’ll see plenty of each other tonight.

​

The scavenger hunt is a bore. It drags on insufferably. as I watch him from the back window of the Honda. Finally, the night wraps to an end. I exit the vehicle, and begin to approach the crowd. I slip in silently, sneakily, without notice, maneuvering all of the extra bodies until I find his. So warm, and supple his cheeks look tonight. 

​

I begin the maneuver, plunging the needle into his thigh through the back pocket of his jeans, and start to play doctor. “Here, let me help,” I say, and drag his resting body into the backseat of the car, where I hold his hand the whole ride home. God, I’m such a romantic. I just can’t help myself. 

​

The whole drive home I flutter his face with kisses and stroke his hair. He’s my little angel and I’m going to love him for eternity. We’re about to pull into the driveway when we hit a pothole. He flickers his eyelids. “Wha–. Where am I?”

​

“It’s okay baby, you’re home.”

 

He seems confused, but I think she's just tired. 

​

I unbuckle his seatbelt, and  carry him inside. I bring him upstairs to the loft, and set him in the bedroom. 

​

I take off his clothes, slowly, gently, to savor the moment. Tonight will be our first time. I rip off his jeans and pull down his boxers. He scratches my back in pleasure and screams in delight. Suddenly, I fall off the bed. Then, he’s running out of my room – silly boy, he must be nervous. 

​

“Come back to bed, sweetheart. We aren’t finished” I run after him. He’s gripping the house phone in one hand and punching the dials with the other. I knock him to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t part of the plan, Sweet Pea.”

​

I start dragging him up the stairs again. Just as we’re reaching the top step, I hear the sirens.

 

The shackles cut deep into my wrists, the scent of metal intermingling with the remnants of Him. I yank my wrist up to my nose and inhale deeply, the old spice and blood wafting off my skin. I close my eyes and revel in the memory of his face. The most untimely beauty I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. I can still hear his precious screams, see the way his lanky body thrashed inside of his sheets as I gave him such pleasure. I finger the scratches on my back, still fresh with the indents of his nails. 

​

I can imagine the whispers in school this morning. His pack will be gathered around the circle table, an open seat and an unwrapped muffin in his honor. Girls who barely knew him will be sharing stories, trying to prove that they had something special. That they knew him the best. But I'm the only one with his smell still rubbed onto you. The only one who cared enough to actually do it. 

 

The holding cell reeks of urine and unwashed hair, crafted entirely of beige and brown lines. Everything is angled at a precise 180 or 360 degrees: the door frame, the bars of the cell that I hold onto, the bench that will act as my bed. Curves are a luxury. Color is a luxury. They are worth the sacrifice. I can still hear the sirens pounding in my eardrums. I can still feel the officers tugging me out of his bed by my ponytail, one restraining me while the other cuffed. I can still picture the untimely beauty of his cold, still face. I see him lying on his pillow, in an eternal slumber, his eyes frozen open. Mine was the last face his eyes will ever see.  

-