Tragic Tales

…and it had the potential to ruin his life. What was he thinking? Getting into bed with a man who he knew could quite literally destroy him. One slip, and it would all be over. The young boy would be destined to a life of illness and ostracism. He didn’t mean for it to happen. It was just that somewhere in his heart of hearts, he still had feelings for the man…

God damn those feelings. When you shed tears over another’s well-being, you open the seams and let all sorts of feelings in. Feelings that have no business living inside you, enlacing your fragile, silly heart.

The boy crawled out of bed and scavenged the room for his belongings. His undergarments were nowhere to be found, but he couldn’t stay and search any longer. He woke his dangerous companion and said goodbye. Thankfully, the other man in bed didn’t wake up (yes, they were three in total).

He made his way back home with no underwear and a whisper of anxiety in his chest. By the time he reached his front door, that anxiety had grown into a billowing stack of panic.

After calling almost every hospital in the region, he finally found someone who would give him the treatment he so desperately needed. The young boy went to see the doctor. The portly, bearded physician asked two questions, prescribed the medication, and sent the boy on his way. The experience was in no way comforting.

As he left the clinic, he thought of the days to come. He was not looking forward to the side-effects, the turmoil, and the guilt that would make the next twenty-eight days an almost nightmarish experience.

…on a blindingly dark voyage. Move forward with quick strokes. Look back only in happiness, along the rippling water and into memory.

The sea is cold and absolute. Tread lightly, and don’t let it swallow you whole.

…take in its scent and let things change. Take my arm. Place my hand on your cheek. Inhale, and let the sharpness return to your eyes. I see it there sometimes, almost extinguished. The scent of my skin, particularly the skin of my wrist, might be strong enough to rekindle you.

     After all, you used to know it, or at least you knew a shade of it. My arms and my head. I remember you had them not too long ago. You kissed my cheek. You felt my texture and my temperature, and I saw your response. It was written on your body, it was written on your face, and I loved every bit of it.

     But then you were overcome. Something shifted, and suddenly you were at the end of an indoor road, looking into an ocean you pretended didn’t exist. Or maybe you just didn’t know it was there. In any case, you looked inside and sank, and there was nothing I could do but sink too. 

     So I sank, and we were on the floor of the sea together for a while. Ignoring the rays of light and the various creatures passing by. Soon we emerged, no longer submerged, but only for a bit. No sooner did we come out than something shifted inside you again. 

     In the comfort of the moment, you followed a trail to my neck, and then my lips. Not once. Not just once, but twice. Two trails that erased the creases and broke through our cracked porcelain. Its newly repaired surface was once again open to the outside world, trading light and dark (the way broken porcelain always does).

     And did you notice? Could you bring yourself to admit that it felt like something? Could you admit that the folds became unclear and that the ocean (the one you pretended didn’t exist) had spilled over? Can’t you see that the water still washes up and down this new shore? And can you say with any certainty that it won’t happen ever again?

     Take in the aroma. Breathe in the skin of my wrist, look me in the eye, and tell me something hasn’t changed inside you. Go ahead. Tell me.

…but what is so sweet about it? The young boy pondered this exact question as he thought about the coming months. The next stage of his life would be so full of possibilities yet so devoid of the care and affection he had grown accustomed to.

Whenever he thought about the people he would be leaving behind, he steeled himself to live without the person he came to care for so deeply. He prepared himself to live just half a life, until he could rebuild himself.

Sweet? No part of this parting would be sweet, and only a fool would claim this sorrow to be anything but painful and harsh.