He Soared, I Maybe, Possibly Flew

I try not to think of him much. I never speak of him. Until now, I suppose. He was different. He scared me. And I wasn’t – and still am not – one to be scared easily. It wasn’t the way his hair always seemed to be impossibly black. Or the way his agonizingly beautiful brown, almost black eyes almost seemed to keep you in a trance. Not the way his pale skin was so white he either looked sickly or like a ghost. It might possibly have been the fact he used narcotics daily. Maybe that he’d whore himself out to buy them. There’s slightest chance that it was because he was a Satanist and never tried to hide it or fight it. No. I know why I really was scared of him.

He seemed to torture me. Taunt me with his confidence. He showed me a way to be me completely. Not to hide. He brought me along on one of his “work” nights. I ran home. He gave me acid. It’s still stashed under my pillow along with the Oxy he once gave me. He’d hold my hand in the hallways at school, the mall, the park. He wasn’t scared of anyone’s judgment. I sometimes wonder if that carelessness is what sealed his fate.

Unlike the “normal” boys at our school, he admitted to fucking guys. He never called it “fucking”, though. Not even if it was a client. It was either “sex” or “making love”. To this day, I don’t know what he called what we did. He slept with girls once in a while. Never bragged. Just smirked when he heard the other boys brag that they slept with a girl he already had.

He didn’t need nor demand attention. It just came to him. Maybe it was the black clothes. I’d only ever seen him wear white once. All white. It could have been the way he sang loudly to himself even though he was completely aware of how off key he was. Possibly because he almost always had his bass guitar strapped to his back. Never let anyone touch it. No one other than myself.

One night, he snuck me out of my house. It was recently after he’d convinced me to try on a pair of his clothing, use his hair dye, and line my eyes with dark coal. I crawled out through the window. After kissing me quickly, he grabbed my hand. I didn’t know where we were going. I almost wish I had never gone. Almost.

We walked through the alley ways. A usual pass time of ours. This time, it was different. He was looking for someone. I could tell. I just didn’t know who. We ended up never finding the guy, but did find a crumpled up note with a small baggy attached to it. He had a mixture of a frown and a grin placed on his dry, gorgeous lips. Without saying a word, we walked to his house.

We walked through the front door. No one was home. No one ever was. Once we got to his room, I was expecting the usual. Not what happened. He leant down the slightest bit and gave me a tiny peck on my lips. I was confused. He was always gentle, but never this gentle. He spoke. I won’t repeat it. Those three words are only for me. But he said them.

We laid down on his bed. His arms wrapped around me with my nose buried in soft neck. Quickly, I fell asleep. As if he willed me too.

The next morning, I felt no arms around me. I tip-toed to the bathroom. I knocked – no response. Slowly, I opened up the door. Terrified by the scene in front of me, I almost didn’t see the note. Almost.



So here I am now, watching my memorial. I flew one night. Didn’t soar until the next. It was painful. It made me cry knowing that he had to go through it. Eventually it was over. I was neither here nor there. Somehow, I ended up where I am now. Alone. In a memorial for a body that I could care less about. There were no others of my kind. In my situation. No voice of God. No whispered of the Devil. Just me. Alone. And he wasn’t there. He must have soared. Because I, I just flew.