i could write about Your last days
days, where You were no longer
The Boy Made From Stars, or
My Best Friend, but
A Corpse, corrupted
from years of breathing and believing in false hopes.
i could write about Your eyes that couldn’t shine
like they used to, those silver mirrors,
suddenly a desecrated cathedral,
no longer a calm village—
no longer my safe haven, no longer Home.
i could remind this grieving soul once more:
i would’ve done anything to stop You.
i’d walk into the waters with this withered, cement heart.
let my worst fears swallow me whole in one cerulean colored gulp.
i’d face the monsters of our past with a crooked smile and open palms
with nothing but You and these words to save me.
let temptresses cut my enchanted locks; fly to the skies just to drop to the seas.
apologize for every word i breathed which convinced
You i wouldn’t give every planet for Your contentment.
but i can’t pretend these will bring You back—
these actions won’t fix the world You left too soon,
won’t unring the dissonant bell
won’t heal leaking wounds, won’t soothe these tears
or convince me that an offering of chicken bones and broken promises can help You now;
none of this will stop me wondering if You left as an attempt to test my incredulous beliefs,
or if You handed Yourself over to these
Capricious Gods,
promised them every beautiful masterpiece
in exchange for the promise of calm seas.
instead of asking You why—
why You couldn’t offer a written explanation
why You left that whirling winter night
and abandoned ship before anyone had the chance to throw a vest
why You let the Vicious Thoughts win,
—ignore fancy adjectives that’ll sell You short.
refuse to call You anything less than
A Dreamer,
whose curiosity, not his pride,
flew him too close to the sun.
instead of mourning freshly torn graves
or mumbling archaic verses, assuaging No One’s grief,
i’ll read with raw throat & blurry sight
the poems we feared reciting,
proclaiming Death as no cloaked figure
but a buzzing fly, a wanderer’s countenance,
a passing friend.
i’ll read the books You left unfinished,
take the risks We were always meant to take.
speak the words You never got to say.
justify all questions that never had
The Right Answer.
instead of burying Your name with Your young broken body,
i’ll write eulogies for the better times in bright, blaring letters.
transcribe every quote, every epigram and unheard poem, and
scream them from The Precipice You were never meant to climb,
with tear kissed cheeks and
a gurgling roar:
MY BEST FRIEND DID NOT DIE IN VAIN
i’ll do this all to remind the world that
You will never be forgotten like yesterday’s rain.
Best Friend, made from stars and shimmering dreams
i promise You these things and so much more,
for though You came from dust,
and to dust You have returned,
Your Glory will never fade.
Your Glory will never die.
News! News! Get your newspaper for just ten cents!
It was around seven in the morning, yet the sidewalks were already crowded. The quiet buzz of chatter grew louder as the streets dimly lit up by the soft glow of the rising sun. Shops were beginning to open, and the smell of fresh cooked food drafted from street vendors. There were people of all kinds- businessmen, salespeople, construction workers, all trying to get to work. In the middle of the crowd stood a boy, around 10 years old. He was desperately trying to sell the new copies of The Washington Post to people.
-
“Sir, you want a copy?” I asked, with the most pleading expression that I could make. I’d learned that making a sad or helpless face generally helps me sell better. He ignored me. Life was difficult livin’ in the streets. You see, I didn’t always want to be like this. Just a few months ago, I dreamed of being the first man to go to space. I heard stories of people building rockets and sending them off far, far away. The idea of it just blew my mind. But that didn’t happen, because my whole life crashed. First, my dad died in a construction accident. He was working for the railroad company when a steel rod went right through his face. At least it was painless. The letter came in the mail saying that the company that owned him was very sorry. My mum had a fit when she read it and ran off to teach the manager some manners. She never came back. I knew she was gone for good because some child protection officers came over to my house. I took that as a signal to bolt. So, I’m here, by myself, with my hopes and dreams crumpled and stuffed down the sewers. It was hard getting used to the routine of everything at first, but I managed.
“Sir! Sir!” I yelled, chasing down a particularly rich looking businessman. “Newspaper for just ten cents!”
“Damn kids, always screamin’ about. Give me that.” He huffed, and threw a dime at me.
“Thank you sir!”
I lifted my flatcap and stuffed the dime in, with my stash of about ten others. I smiled. These could last me at least a week, maybe even two if I tried hard enough. Or, I could go to the bath house and get cleaned. I remembered when I lived in our old house. It was big. Maybe two stories tall. My most fond memory was the food. Back then, I could eat anything I wanted. I’d just have to ask. But now, I’d be lucky to have a couple loaves of bread for the week. And oh boy were the showers good. I could have a couple showers a week. My mum would fill a huge tub full of steaming hot water and bathe me. By the time she was done, I would be sparkly clean.
So, I went down to the bath house, and got myself washed. A dollar well spent. It was the first time I’d gotten cleaned in months. During my first few days in the streets, I almost turned myself in to an orphanage because I was so dirty. I figured that at least they could bathe me and have some decent food. But my new friends, who were also homeless, told me that the orphanages were like hell. They said that they would sell kids on the black market, or cut them open and take their organs to make money. “Damn bastards ain’t know nothin’ but money.” I didn’t know if they were tryin’ to scare me, but it made up my mind quick.
After a quick bath, it was almost dawn. The sun was setting and the street lamps were lightin’ up. It was time to go back downtown to start buskin’. When I first started livin’ in the streets, I made a routine that earned me the most money. Every morning, around four or five, I’d walk across town to the newspaper factory, where I pay 60 cents to get a couple stacks of the freshly printed newspaper. Each stack would have 25 papers. If it was a good day, I’d make about four bucks off those. But most days, I only get about 2. There are plenty of other paperboys in my area, so it’s all about your competitiveness and efficiency. Once, I started beatin’ a kid up for being too close to me. Only stopped when the police came. After grabbin’ the papers, I would go back downtown and start sellin’. Usually when it’s about one or two, people start workin’ again after lunch. That’s when I stop and go eat. I always keep a loaf of bread in my newspaper bag. It ain’t much, but it’s food, and it keeps me alive. When you’re homeless, you can’t ask for much. You get what you get and you don’t complain. The next few hours are for me. I do whatever I want. I usually hang out with my friends. We would blow spitballs at people, or race around the city. Though sometimes, like today, I would take a bath or sneak into a hotel and sleep for a few extra hours. At around 5 or 6, I go back to work. The evening was always my favorite time of day- the streets were always filled with jazz and bars were livened up with singing and dancing. I know my condition ain’t good, but the sense of community is what keeps me going. Lots of people start headin’ home after work, so I take this chance to play my pennywhistle and busk. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I would play at bars. That’s where I hit the jackpot. I can easily make over ten dollars a night there. After a few hours of playin’, I’d walk back to my home, under a big bridge just outside of downtown.
Anyways, as always, I followed my routine. I set up camp at the edge of the city park. I’ve always loved that spot, and it was one of the most crowded areas in town. Hundreds of people walked past it every night. Across the street was the magnificent La Luna Jazz Club with many, many shops lined up next to it, all with its own bright and flashy signs perched on top of the entrance. There were always stories about La Luna. Every night, they had famous jazz musicians come in and play their music. The great Duke Ellington even came and visited for a few nights. Outside, everything was lit up by street lamps and lights coming from inside the shops. I remembered when my mum took me for a walk in the park. Everything dazzled and amazed me. You could hear the faint sound of saxophones or trumpets ringing from anywhere, which made it an amazing place to go. I still get nostalgic about it to this day. Every night, I play jazz tunes, or the top hits. Anything that grabs the most attention from people. Sometimes, I can even get people to dance along. I had gotten my pennywhistle a while ago. One of my friends gave it to me when he saw that I wasn’t makin’ enough money. He bought it for a few bucks and playin’ it was one of his favorite things to do. Everyday, he spent hours teachin’ me how to play, which I repaid him with loaves of bread and a couple bucks. I heard a few days ago that he committed suicide. Jumped off a tower.
After a long evening of busking however, I had to go back and sleep. It was about 11 or 12. I usually take an hour to walk to the bridge, if I take my time. The bridge, or “Big Grey”, as we named it, was the housing to me and a few of my friends. The name is pretty self-explanatory. It’s a big and abandoned bridge. We’ve made it a popular gathering spot for homeless kids. We usually hang out there and talk about our day and share stories about our old lives. The nightlife is incredible there. If you listen real hard, you can hear all the animals chirpin’ and playin’. I’ve never been good with people. My mum used to mock me about it everyday. When I was younger, I would take long walks around our neighborhood and listen to all the natural nightlife. I had few friends then, and I used to lie on the grass with them and stare up at the sky, at all the stars and imagine what they all look like. We tried countin’ them once. Got to 106 and gave up.
But now, it’s the end of my day. I lay on the hard bricks of Big Grey and slowly dozed off.
-
As the round moon rose above the city skyline, all begun to wind down into an eerie silence. The stars shone brightly on the earth, casting shadows across the mysterious landscape. Everyone settles into their bed and falls asleep, only to wake to the same, boring routine everyday. Deep down, everyone has to follow routines. Everyone is alike in a way, no matter their wealth.
As darkness surrounds you and clouds your eyes
As distorted mouths smirk at your futile tries
As the sound of ghoulish voices fade in and out
As numbness overcomes you and leaves no other route
As you desperately draw in a ragged breath
As you struggle against the jaws of ravenous death
As you fight a losing battle for the chance to live
You are forced to accept it: I do not forgive.
I am a bird
free
airy
light
Wings beat
I am a bird
tiny
lost
late
Wings shudder
I am a bird
alone
afraid
curious
Wings hasten
I am a bird
singing
plain
trapped
Wings burn
I am a bird
empty
mournful
dark
Wings flee
I was a bird
light
airy
Free
If you were a neighbor of the Styx’s house, every day at 5 pm, you would see a small figure peep out the door of their brick ranch house, a puffy silhouette from their winter jacket and boots, running down the trail to the woods, as fast as their chubby short legs could carry them. And if you were a neighbor of the Grimm’s house, you would see another puffy figure skipping out of an identical brick ranch house in the same exact direction.
Then you would see them slow down at the beginning of Maple street, where Asphodel and Prairie Street met. They would greet each other with a big hug, as best friends do, then commence walking down to the woods holding hands. The last thing you would be able to see of them would be their bright winter jackets, one blue and one red. And then you would be left with the dim lamp posts making circles of light on the blacktop.
Maybe you should follow them, see if they’re keeping safe. The curtain falls out of your hands and closes in front of the window, you’re fumbling with the zipper on your jacket, pulling on the mittens your grandma sent you for your birthday, tying your boots and finally stepping out into the frosty air.
You walk through the entrance of the woods; it’s currently the pregnant pause between afternoon and evening, where the sky bleeds red right merely moments before it turns ink black. Barely two minutes of walking has passed when you hear children’s voices.
“Maybe I can bring a sweatshirt from my house from my daddy’s closet. I don’t think he’ll notice.”
“Isn’t that stealing though? Maybe if you take an ugly one it won’t count as much.”
“Okay. Let me see the hat from next to the tree over there.”
You peer out from behind the tree you’re using to hide. The blue one skips to the tree about eight feet across from you and picks up a black baseball cap covered with layers of dead leaves and dirt. The red one holds the cap gingerly.
“I wonder who lost their hat here.”
“Whoever it is, I wonder if they lost their sweatshirt too.” The blue one uses the tip of his thumb and pointer, carefully picking up a sweatshirt hidden under yet another pile of leaves.
You back away from your hiding spot in confusion. Where did those clothes come from?
You feel a chill on your back. You run the rest of the way home.
Days later, you’re walking by the Styx’s house. You can hear voices inside the house, through the flimsy screen door.
“We’re building something super cool mommy, wait till you see it.” An absent minded reply.
“Did you make it?”
“I did, mommy.” You can practically see his round face beaming, the dimple making an appearance, the blush on his cheeks matching the red of his jacket.
“Well, when can I see it?”
“Tomorrow, mother. I’ll give you a hint; it’s inside you and me.”
You resume your walk.
Some more days pass, and you’re at the kitchen table, eating dinner. You prepare to go to the window to watch the children enter on their excursion to the woods, but you hear sirens. You spring up from your dining table chair and bolt open to the peephole in the door in time to see two police cars careening by. They’re heading towards the woods. Blue red, blue red, blue red, blue red. That is the pattern of lights flickering across your eyes from the sirens.
You step out in the chilly air again. It’s starting to snow; you put on a fleece jacket and walk down the driveway. The sirens stop but the cars are still here. You know you were walking before but somehow now, you’re running, sprinting to the woods. You hide behind the same tree you hid behind so many days ago. The white powder slams down a little heavier now.
Behind the whizz of snowflakes, you see, distorted somehow, a red puffy jacket. But his back is towards you, it shakes. It trembles with the breathing-down-your-back threat of grief. It’s hunched over, squatting on something. His bottom resting on an ivory- no a collection of ivory sticks; the shape reminds you of the dog bones in the commercials. Where is the body, the skin, heart, brain for these sticks?
And you know why there was a sweatshirt there, a hat hidden under the leaves. No one lost them; they lost the body. Were they deposited intentionally? When will they bring back the blue jacket? Will they bring back his little black boots to scatter too?
A woman, his mom maybe, tears through the forest, snatching, from under his armpits, the body in the red jacket.
“No, no, no,” she mutters under her breath.
If only saying no was all you had to say.
The remnants still scatter the forest floor like bones on a dirty plate from a chicken dinner.
On April 14, 1958, at approximately 0230, Sputnik 2 burnt in Earth’s atmosphere.
I run in the street. It’s cold, but it’s always cold. “Catch that dog!” someone yells. Everything goes dark.
They put me in a tiny cage. I whine, loudly at first, then softly. I don’t know how many days pass.
They keep putting me in smaller cages.
They feed me food that isn’t solid. I can’t recognize it.
“I’m getting Kudryavka.” A pale woman with blonde hair says. She puts me in a machine that makes loud noises.
I lick her hand. She tastes cold.
A woman strokes me. “You’re a good girl.” her voice has an odd quality that I can’t place, “You’re a good girl, Laika.” I don’t know why there’s a tear in her eye.
A thin-faced man brings me to his house. He has three children, and they tug at my fur.
I’m in a room and it’s very cold and too small. It’s been three days.
They groom me, and paint my fur. It stings.
I’m in the same room. They kiss my nose. One says, ‘I’m sorry.’
It’s dark. My heart beats very fast. It’s too hot. My body burns.
Goodbye.
The spine is worn;
cracks and crevices depict
years of long nights sitting on the
Shelf, lonely perhaps
the family photos never talk
you know, only warped images
Of what life used to be or what
it could be. The wedding photos,
seeming like a happy time collect
Dust with dust mites crawling on top
of old, forgotten, abandoned memories.
Grandpa says that generations touched
That book; I know it means something,
but these are just moments in time that
maybe needs to be forgotten...
After all, the pieces of modern life are
Merely a digital show; capturing
only pixels of a world behind a screen.
In my seventh grade home ec class, we learned about color schemes. Monochrome, neutral, accented neutral. My favorite was always complimentary. Blue skies with oranges suns. Evergreen Christmas trees with red skirts. Purple and yellow irises. I liked the way two opposites could work so well together.
Maybe that’s why I liked you. You were tall and lean, and I was short and just a little bit curvy. Your hands were big with long fingers that engulfed my toddler like ones. You stayed out at parties with your friends into the hours I was always asleep. You knew what you were doing, and I hadn’t the slightest clue. You were my perfect compliment.
And you were very good at compliments.
A ‘hello gorgeous’ here, a ‘I’m so lucky to have you’ there. That’s all it took to hook me on you. Everywhere we went together, I saw beauty.
My purple dress and your yellow hoodie on the day we met. It was kindergarten, the very first day. You got in trouble for taking someone’s crayons or something silly like that. I don’t remember much from that day, but I’ll never forget the you of it all. Your big toothy grin, a picture of innocence, when you got caught. And a big yellow hood, maybe a size too big.
The blue and orange bowling shoes we wore on our first date. Sophomore year, that’s when it all started. I told you I hated bowling because I had always been so bad. You took that as a challenge. I let you convince me that you could make it fun. I don’t even know how you managed to do it, but I had the time of my life. Maybe that’s just you. And I remember how you walked me home that night. It wasn’t meant to be a date, but the way you kissed me under my porch light told me I had it wrong. Boy, had I never been more happy to be wrong.
The green herbs my mom put on the red spaghetti sauce the first time you ever came to dinner. I remember how nervous you were. You wore a tie. My dad wore sweatpants. Even through your nerves, you were charming as could be. They fell in love with you as quickly as I did. They were never the wiser to the you I know now.
The beauty I saw hid your true self from me. I ignored every red flag because I saw them with green eyes. I can’t say everything you did. I cant name all the ways you hurt me. Those scars aren’t quite healed yet, and even if they were, I don’t think I have that kind of time.
I think I hate you, but I know I still love you. Because even when you hurt me I still think about it positively. I think about how even when you hurt me, you still manage to make me and everything around me feel beautiful. Even when my eyes are blurred from all the tears, I still see it.
I see the beauty in the orange bottles filled with Adderall discarded in the corners of my room from nights you snuck in through the window. Coming from or headed to parties where you’d take much more lethal poisons. One bottle in particular is left open on the floor, showing a single blue pill surrounded by orange plastic. I have yet to clean up the mess you’ve made for fear you and your beauty be erased with it.
I see beauty in the way old bruises contrast fresh ones, a collection I’ve gathered from every night we did something stupid. You’re the one who taught me how to be stupid. You snuck me out of my house at night to go to a party or sit alone at the lake. There was always drinking, and most times much more debauchery. I took many tumbles down stairs, into water, down hills, into ditch, and once even off a roof you pulled me onto to be alone. It seemed every weekend there’d be fresh purple marks against the faded yellow ones from the weekend before. You always tell me I’m accident prone, but I still let you lead me to danger every time.
Some nights I wondered if any of the bruises hadn’t been an accident. I didn’t remember much from most nights I got them, but memories of quick open hands sometimes flashed through my mind. You always told me you would never, and I al believed you. With cuts on my eyebrows and bruises on my cheeks, I always let you convince me your hands were my home. That even with every injury I got, you were always the safest place for me to be.
Even though you don’t come around anymore, you still manage to make me feel beautiful. Through your compassion and compliments, you helped me gain confidence in my beauty that I never had, but now you don’t care. My beauty doesn’t matter to you like hers does. Her beauty comes with long thin legs like yours and a pretty face. She has a good sense of humor and an innocence I had before you. You show her off like you never did with me. Your friends tell you you’re lucky while you pretend I don’t exist. Her and I were never close, but I knew her well enough. We’d send Snapchats every day to watch a streak that meant virtually nothing go up and up. She’d never even know that you’d text me from her account. The two of you built your trust on checking up on each other, but my name never popped up on your account. Instead you’d message me from hers so she would never see. She’d never be the wiser if you still talked to me. But after every night she’d log back in, and every next morning you wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
I know that what we’re doing is wrong. It’s not fair to her, but you don’t seem to care. I should never even talk to you anymore. The things that happened, the things you did, the people we became. I know none of it is right, but my heart still sees all your beauty.
There is one last beautiful image you’ve never failed to leave me with, and still never do. Green eyes look so pretty when they cry.
They come to him first when he was seven, a barely-there voice from the shadows. “Come and play with us, Josh. We’ll have lots of fun. Lots of singing and dancing. We do so love to dance. Won’t you come and dance with us?”
And Josh answered, “I don’t know how to dance.”
The voice says to him, “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you. Just come with us.”
Josh was just wise enough to say no.
He flung himself into the bed after they’re gone, and sobbed into the pillow. He doesn’t know why he feels so cold.
They weren’t there before, but he could still feel them. Gentle, floating wisps of haunting pleas. Rough, angry screams. Anguished sobbing, though it’s not theirs. The ever-present moving of feet, and the smooth sound of cloth rustling. Tendrils of blackened thoughts reached towards him, glowing bright- too bright.
When he plays by the window, breathing in the chill night air, he dreams of them.
He’s seven, at the ballet, and he watches the dancers glide through the air, and he thinks of them, and he watches the wisps of the flowing dresses flutter, light in the air. He watches them leap, and his heart pangs. He thinks of how he would love it here. He listens, to the almost shy violas, to the roar of the cellos, of the crooning of the bass, of the almost arrogant violins. He thinks how they would love it, here at the ballet.
He’s eight, and he drew aimlessly, his pencil gliding on the page with a sudden grace. Loops and spirals emerge, and they’re smooth and clean. His fingers moved elegantly. The result is beautiful, a portrait of an unknown man, and yet he knows his face far too well. When he was done, he ripped the paper up, tearing it into ever-smaller shreds. He hears a whisper, “Oh, and it was such a lovely picture.” He screamed, and clutched the shards to him.
He dreams, and he’s with people who are like him. Young, laughing children, a kind old man who offers them little cakes. He dreams of circles and of a magical world just beyond.
He’s nine, and he can’t escape: his thoughts spiral down and down and down, endlessly, and the pit at the bottom- for surely there’s a bottom somewhere- is black, so dark it shouldn’t exist, black that takes the warmth, black that takes the light, black so dark it hurts to look at. They appear to him, and somehow they are darker.
He doesn’t mind, though. Black’s his favorite color. It used to be pink.
Josh dreams of them every night, dreamed of the ballet, the cold green and sly purple, of voices that tell him to come back, that he belongs. He dreamed of a world, happy, or maybe not, but who can be happy anyway? Josh doesn’t think he’d belong with people who were always happy, and he knows the voice isn’t happy. Josh dreams of them every night, and he always remembers his dreams.
They come to him next when he was eleven. “Oh, Josh, the time we’ve missed. You can still come with us, you know. It’s not too late.'' The voice is oil-smooth, the taste like bitter chocolate. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll still dance. All of us, together. Won’t that be nice?”
Josh choked out a reply, intoxicated. “It would. But I was told not to go with strangers.”
The voice chuckles then, an odd sound. “No. No, you mustn't talk to strangers. But I’m hardly a stranger. Won’t you dance with us?”
Josh swallowed, and said, “No thanks.”
The voice is gone, then, and Josh is ashamed of how he wished it would linger, and surprised at how he feels like a part of his soul he didn’t even know existed is gone.
He doesn’t know why, but when he was singing in the shower, he half expected them to come to him. They don’t, of course, but when he tapped his feet in the suddenly too-small area, he felt just a bit warmer.
They come to him in the middle of crying, locked into a dirty bathroom. He’s twelve, then. They croon to him, sweet nothings, empty platitudes, and he sung back. They know they have him. He sent them away, gently, firmly, expecting the pain, not expecting the sadness.
He doesn’t like the shadows. He never lets them touch him. Not because of what might be in there- ghouls and vampires and barely-realistic monsters from Ma’s silly stories- but less because the shadows make him feel like there are needles in his skin, pushing up to the surface with their sterilized points, and more because of what he knows is in there.
He dreams, and these dreams are flustered, frenetic, flurries of movement, up, down, leaping-swirl-dip-leg-lift. He dreams, and he dreams of wild, animalistic cries, of the stage, and the cold gleam of the spotlight. He dreams of voices calling, voices singing, higher higher higher more more more. He can’t breathe in the dreams, and he doesn’t want to.
He yelled at them, once, on his fifteenth birthday, and the voice is raw and pained. He whispered, then, once they’re gone. He pleaded with the darkness, begging it to come back. Tears streamed down his face, and maybe he hears cold, cruel laughter ringing back, or maybe it’s just his desperate mind.
He dreams, and they aren’t there anymore. He dreams of the chanting, the burning, the ropes, lights, music, the gesturing composer with the too-tall hat who smiles for a second too long. He dreams of green, and of purple, and these are not kind. They are cold, and clinical, and too-sterilized and dirty. He dreams of laughter with no merriment, laughter in mocking rings, and he tries to catch the laughter, but he falls short.
When he’s sixteen, they come back, mocking him. They laugh at him for thinking he could join them, now, when he's been spoiled. They laugh as he jumps and leaps for them, anything to stop the icy, cutting cold. They’re cold, too, but Josh needs the cold. They laugh as they leave him, and this time there isn’t a wisp left.
He practices pilates and spins and twirling leaps that night until his feet bleed.
Josh doesn’t dream of them anymore.
He’s seventeen, and he’s at the ballet, some stuffy old fundraiser his parents dragged him to. He watched the dancers, and as he watched their too-slow leaps a fraction behind the beat, their awkward, hesitant spins, and he thinks of how they would hate it here. He hates it too, and as he glared at the ballerina with the gangly limbs, his heart pangs, and he doesn’t know why.
He stares at the college brochure in his hand, and he looks at the dull-green bushes and artificial sky in it. He looked at the off-angle feet of one of the students- he refuses to call them dancers- and the too-stiff arms of another. He looked at it, and he looked at the shadows- he got rid of the flickering lights long ago- in his corners, and he thinks of the smooth voice it’s been too long since he’s heard. He thinks of them, of how they hate it, and how they’d hate him, and he smirks. He hits the buttons, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
He grabbed the letter, staring at the fancy insignia, pausing for the tiniest moment before slicing it open. Congratulations, it says, You’ve been accepted. He can’t breathe. He stared at it, shakes it a bit, even licks the envelope. It’s real. He’s filled with a sudden urge to flee, a primal call that he can’t ignore. He hears dark taunts swirling through his head. He clears his throat and shows it to his parents.
They are thrilled for him.
He is thrilled that the voices came back.
He’s glad, as he boarded the train, that it’s so far away. It makes it harder to come back, harder to stare into the dark closets and shadowy corners, harder to remember. He grabs his luggage and shoves it next to him. He puts in his headphones and changes the station because he recognizes it and it makes it hard to focus on the fact that he’s going to college to learn how to dance like they did. It’s the music played by the shy whispering violas.
He looks into his dorm, into the shadows that aren’t so black and the almost inviting emptiness of the room. He hears the air duct whistling. A gust of cool air blows from the vents, and a cloud of dust hovers. He smiles.
His dreams are full of bright, colorful peals of laughter that sparkle like diamonds and cut like glass.
He’s twenty and he’s nervous; it’s his first role. His parents couldn’t make it, and some part of him is selfishly glad, because he doesn’t want to share this feeling with anyone else. It’s a wonderful night, and there are congratulations all around. Everything is illuminated, but the stage doesn’t call to him, and he feels like he’s lying whenever he dances.
He dreams, and he sees her in his dreams instead. Her foot kicks high, her landing impeccable. She’s flying, she’s falling. Down-down-down into the pit, black as the night, black as the shadows, black as his heart. He reaches the bottom, and she’s lying on a bed of broken bones, shadows whipping around her, her willowy figure looking- wrong. He lifts her veil, realizing he never saw her face.
It’s him.
He dropped out of university when he was twenty-one; he couldn’t do it. He was a year and a half away from completing it. He got a job cleaning cars. He still dances, even though it makes him feel like his heart’s on fire.
He hears a voice when he passes by the window. Someone’s lighting a fire outside. It smells bad. “Come back.” It’s a low cry, but he can hear it.
“I don’t know how,” he says.
“Don’t worry. We’ll tell you how. Just trust us.”
And Josh does. He doesn’t know why. But some inexplicable feeling just made him.
Five weeks later, Josh disappears.
Seven weeks later, he came back.
When she opened them again, reality shattered her perfect fantasy. Gone were the tender touches of the wind. Beneath her, the floor was cold and hard. Loose threads hung from the edges of her lace sleeves, where the fabric had been violently torn from her thin white dress. Next to her lay what remained of her hastily chosen bouquet of grocery store flowers. The flowers were strewn about the space, and all that remained in the crumpled plastic wrap was a gaudy pink ribbon and a couple curling leaves. She reached out and placed her hand on the locked door before her. She could hardly see through the dark of the closet. While it was still quiet, she would slip into an escape. She ran her hand down the door frame. The cracking white paint began to flake off and crumble to the floor like dandruff.
And around her fell a soft flurry of white cotton puffs. They kissed her face and her arms, welcoming her home. The grass, the sky, the air, everything was an uncharted expanse waiting to be explored. She stretched out her arms to the heavens and drank in the fresh air. She could finally breathe. There was an endless amount of space. She loved the sky. And the sky loved her back.
Inside the closet, the walls closed in on her with overbearing certainty. She knew every inch of the space. From childhood, she had learned to obey her father, lest she be locked away in the small closet by the stairs for hours on end. It was easier then: she was much smaller. Now, there was only space enough for her to huddle into a corner and breathe, but barely. She pulled her knees into her chest and stared at the wrinkles in her tear-stained dress.
Before the darkness could seep into her world, she closed her eyes and began to count.
One, two, three. With nimble fingers, she picked up the flowers she had gathered into her basket.
Ten, eleven, twelve. The collection of baby blues, lavenders, aquamarines and lapiz amassed a lovely bouquet.
Twelve. Delicately, she set them back in the basket.
Twelve.
What remained of the ravaged bouquet had little life left. The petals had curled into an ugly brown snarl. It might only take a heavy sigh or meaningful glance to break their delicate frames. She buried her head in her arms and shook her head. This had all been a mistake. The dress. The bouquet. The dance. She never should have tried.
“Back so soon?”
The voice came from behind her. She lifted her head and turned to look at him. Even through her sadness, she couldn’t help but smile. He was always late.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she replied.
He smiled and settled down next to her. His hair was a wispy white, and his eyes a pale, luminescent sapphire. There it was. That clear blue sky, untainted by tendrils of night seeping into its pure and unadulterated brightness. That magnificent glow of light, sweeping over the heavens with ethereal strokes. That blue, the only blue that could counter the darkness.
In his eyes, she felt, very simply, home.
“I’m glad you’re here, Azure.”
She turned her face away and rested her head on his shoulder. The silence that stood between them did not need to be filled. She knew every thought passing through his mind. He felt the grim permanence of events that could not be reversed. He knew that what had transpired could not be taken back. And it was unfortunate, but at least he knew. At least someone could hear her.
The sound of heavy footsteps at the base of the stairs startled her to attention.
“Who do you think you are, fucking Cinderella?”
She shrank back at the sound of his voice. If the green grass in her mind could materialize, she would sink into it forever and never be found. She heard the bang of his fist hitting the light switch. The floor was illuminated with a small sliver of a sickly orange glow.
“Cinderella didn’t have to buy herself her own goddamn flowers.”
He started up the stairs. Every thud of his foot felt deafening. She closed her eyes and searched for her infinite blue. But the crack of orange in the dark diffused into the open air of her world, muddling the clarity of the atmosphere.
“Cinderella didn’t have a good Daddy, like me.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to return, but the air was filthy and choked with a bitter, citrus taste.
“Why the hell do you need a ball, when you have me?”
She heard the metallic sound of keys rattling at the closet door. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.
“Azure… Azure, where are you?”
With a loud bang, the door was thrust open. The hazy, orange light spilled into the closet. She shielded her eyes.
No. No.
But it had already begun. The orange caught on like wildfire. The grass burned and was quickly swallowed and engulfed. The orange crept in to neutralize the brilliant blue hues of her sky. What it didn’t dull, it blackened and charred.
The blue sky was filled with thick smoke and suffocating poison and all at once, there was total darkness.