Goodbye My Love and Life

“Goodbye,” he whispered, the cold metal on his head burnt with guilt. It killed him to know that he was not loved back, and that he was breaking a promise.

He told the man he loved exactly that, he loved him. The reply was silence. Simply turning on his heals he walked away. His black hood pulled over his black hair. His Converse hit the floor hard with every step. Pounding footsteps matched his heart rate; a steady thrumming in his chest, aching, wanting to give up.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks; he didn’t believe what he had just thought. He promised his love never to do that, give up. But suicide was tempting.

Unaware of where he was going, he refused to think. That blissful state where the mind is silent; not recalling, not pretending, absolutely nothing lingered. He was a strange boy; his mind would always play a song, background music. But for the first time, it had ended. Like his life would.

Broken heartedly our suicidal boy, walked along the streets. Never crying, only blinking to keep the water in his eyes from falling. He promised himself he would never cry over his love ever again. The pounding of his feet led him to his house. He walked around to the side entrance - straight into the basement, his room.

He sat on the bed. Simple thoughts, only just audible, confirmed our lonely boy’s mind about his idea of perfection. He did not love him back. Simple. Just like suicide.

He was going to break one promise, so why not break the other: don’t cry.

Salted water streamed down his face, stained a dull grey from the layers of black eye-liner. His vision was blurred. He founded his way to the bathroom and opened up the cabinet. His shaky hands got hold of the bottle of Aspirin and grasped it tightly. He wanted to die but was slightly scared. What if it went wrong? What if he ended up in hospital? Drugs were too unreliable.

He paced around the house. It hit him like a bullet, literally. He went to the cupboard under the stairs, and found the item he was looking for:

A gun.

This was America and guns were legal. The cold metal of the handle cooled his skin, burning from the agony of love. The drops of water seized flowing from his eyes. The harsh reality of the future, death loomed and didn’t scare him. It was more the natural human instinct to prevent death that coursed through his veins that felt unreal. Adrenaline.

It pushed him in the direction of his room and to his fate.

In the mirror, he could see himself, along with the reflection of his shut door, on the reverse of which was a small post-it note read ‘Sorry.’

Back in his room, looking in the mirror he stared at his reflection:

A short boy, with long black hair that hung over the right side of his face covering one of his grey eyes. The gun was on the left side of his head, held by a steady hand, with nails painted black. His hoodie was still on; the hood over his head was slowly slipping off. His tight grey skinnies clung to his slender physique, thinner than normal – apparently he was too fat for his love, therefore eating was not allowed. On his feet, were his Converse, black ones with rainbow swirls. He wore them everywhere. Why? Because his Love brought them as an eighteenth birthday present. The thought of that man made the salty water trickle down the contours of his face again.

The refection blurred and his hand became shaky. His finger couldn’t pull the trigger.

In the dead silence of the house, everything could be heard. So when footsteps came unsteadily up the path, our boy panicked.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, the cold metal on his head burnt with guilt, but not for long as his slender frame fell to the floor as blood poured from a bullet hole in his head and drained his life.

Whilst his Love stood outside, knocking on the front door, contemplating how to say I love you.