The Boy I Loved

The boy I loved was… A little bit messy, most definitely not the neat type… A little bit ruined, too: who wouldn’t be after all he’s been through? Life didn’t have too much mercy on him… He’d called himself a beautiful disaster, fixing his slightly crumbled red tie in the mirror. I’d always agree and kiss his soft cheek, the warmth of which now seems so distant, so unreal, as if it has always been just a part of my imagination, a magnificent dream… My memories are wrapped in a veil of mist which I, no matter how much I desire to, just can’t break through. I wish I could remember each of his birth marks and freckles, which only showed in summertime, each of his tiny teeth, the slight perk of his nose, the shape of his lips the way his pinkie stuck out when he held a teacup or a water bottle, the way he had a habit of talking out of the side of his mouth… But I can’t.

I still reread the poems he’s once written for me, at least the ones that he left for me to keep and take care of before leaving. They are my own drugs that no one else is allowed to abuse. I’d like to be able to call them my own sort of heroine, but unfortunately, that line has already been used in Twilight. But really, that’s all they are - I need them like I need air, if not more. They are deadly and venomous - each time I lay my eyes on them, a bit of me dies. But I don’t regret leaving it behind- the feeling I get while scanning the yellowish pages is uncomparable. They also have a bit of gun-powder in them- they are enough to set me off into a trance for days, weeks, completely blow up my mind and tear it into pieces.

The boy I loved really was one of a kind, and awfully talented; almost inhumanly talented, in fact. It’s a shame he didn’t use his talent in a good way though, or he, perhaps, would have still been alive, waking up next to me every morning. Nevertheless, I am convinced it wasn’t his fault. None of what happened is on his now cold, lifeless hands. He didn’t choose his fate, his fate had him gripped in it’s old, disgusting slimy hands long ago before he even knew it.

Art enlightens people but in this story, it killed. And it killed horribly, worse than in any nightmare. What’s scary about art is that you can create practically anything, make things that can’t possibly exist come to life through lines and words. And that’s exactly what Gerard did. He made the impossible come to life in his drawings. The poor thing refused to believe it was him until it was too late. By then, he couldn’t change anything.

He breathed too much life into his drawings, and they returned to crush him. A black veil of death occupied his thoughts, forcing him to do the unimaginable- to kill. He killed them through art. All it took from him was to draw a portrait and write the way of death in the corner, then fold it. It could be anything: from “burn” to “bloody murder”, and he didn’t hesitate to reach out for the second one.

Crazed on revenge, he killed off everyone who nagged, laughed and beat him up back in high school. Each and everyone of them, without a single exception, and he didn’t have any mercy. He shared the news with me, looking as excited, psyched and happy as never. I just smiled fondly at him and kissed his cheek. I never told. I just wished for him to be happy, and I allowed him to do whatever pleased his poor, little worn-out heart. Now that I think back to it, I should have taken action- I should have taken the damned pencils away from him, burn all the paper… But I didn’t, and by this day, it still is the biggest regret of my whole life. I don’t think it’s going to change any time soon.

He ended up drawing himself. His bloody, cut-up corpse was found three days later three blocks away from our house.

Every once in a while I bring flowers to his grave, proving him that I still remember and care about every moment we shared, even the hours I spent trying to get him back to his senses. But all the black and red roses can’t bring him back, nor can they at least give me a glimpse of him.

I can’t even remember what his voice sounds like: he never liked taking pictures, and he was practically terrified of being caught on tape. He didn’t like himself all that much; some would say he hated himself. He was convinced that I was the only one who loved him in the whole wide world, and even I perhaps was just pretending. I promised myself I’d fix him, but he didn’t give me enough time.

I never got to tell him how much he means to me, and every time I pick up a new bottle of beer, I remember our last day together. We were sitting on the couch, my legs tucked under me while his head was resting on my knee. His eyes flicked away from the television, locking into mine. And then, he smiled.

The boy I loved is still the one who haunts my thoughts.

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