Hazel Eyes

When I got the call, it ripped my heart straight out of my chest. Still beating, still alive - but yet that one call made me feel numb. Worse than numb - it made me feel like I had no life left in my body. I knew that wasn't true- but how was I supposed to feel? I loved him, and I'd just lost him. My eyes were quick to react to the situation, spilling an unnecessary amount of tears onto my pillow as I did my best to hide my face from the rest of my bedroom.

Especially from the picture of him that rested on my nightstand.

I reached out, putting it face-down. Having to look up and see that smile was far beyond out of the question. Especially while I cried. But even with my eyes closed, my mind was free to wander, and so I was stuck being haunted by his face. His pale skin, his black hair with a single streak of blue that always contrasted so well with his eyes - his nearly lifeless hazel eyes.

Another sharp pain in my chest reminded me that to occupy my thoughts with his features would not be a good idea. But what else was I supposed to do? For three days...what was I supposed to do to pass the time and not think about him? Was that even possible? Was it possible to look forward to seeing him - but not seeing him all at the same time? Depressed still, I turned to my favorite pastime. One I knew he disapproved of - but at this point, I could think of nothing else.

I slid the first razorblade across my skin, and as the crimson tears began to drip out, I felt like the pain was leaving my body as well. In a psychotic state of masochism, I continued. I made cut after cut, and soon, it began to feel better. I winced as some of the old scars were reopened, hurting more than the new cuts being made, but once again, in my masochistic state of mind, I didn't care if I felt the pain anymore. The thought of not feeling the pain scared me - it made me feel lifeless.

Like his hazel eyes.

And just when I thought it was better, the tears began to flow once more. I felt like there was no hope, no escape, for me. No hope, no escape, no love, no one to be there for me. I felt more than numb and lifeless when I dropped the last razorblade into the trash - I felt empty and abandoned. Not by myself, but instead by everyone I loved and was supposed to love me. Where were they? Downstairs, most likely laughing at each other's jokes, undisturbed my my usual absence, not worried at all by the eerie silence in my room.

Playing music would be hopeless. My one escape would be my downfall - it would remind me of the one I had lost. It would remind me of him. Hoping for another twinge of relief, I took out my sketchpad, purposely ignoring the pages with drawings, hastily flipping to the first page I could find. Then I began to draw, shutting out my room, shutting out the laughter that I could now hear only because I'd thought of it, shutting out the songs that began to play in my head...shutting out my own thoughts. I was an empty being attempting to be an artist.

I was nothingness attempting to depict emotion. And it wasn't easy.

But nonetheless, my pencil slid effortlessly across the paper, creating an outline for my thoughts, and then as I started filling in the spaces, I felt like I had to cry and smile all at the same time just to control myself. I knew I could choose neither - I was still empty. I was still a husk of a person. There was no way I would be able to show emotion, even if I wanted to. I concentrated on the drawing, making sure I had every detail right. I threw myself into my art just to throw the rest of the world into a figurative trash bin, and by the time I was finished, I drew in a deep sigh and felt the urge to turn the page.

I'd drawn his perfect face without realizing it. His perfect face - and his lifeless hazel eyes that weren't so lifeless here. Why was it so heartbreaking that I'd gotten his eyes wrong? I didn't know, but I was devastated. I was so tempted to rip it up and force every ounce of my energy to concentrate on drawing something else, but this simple sketch of the one I loved was too beautiful, if only because he was in it. I carefully removed it from the sketchpad, and I stored it between the pages of my scrapbook. I'd get to it eventually. I just couldn't look at it right then. Another sigh - what was I supposed to do now?

I wasn't about to try to handle the pain of crying into my pillow again. Not if it was going to lead to slitting my wrists again. I just couldn't wrap my head around the allure of my favorite pastime. I shook my head, giving up, falling onto my back on my bed, staring up at the empty ceiling, the pale red tiles, the deep crimson design in their midst. For hours I was absorbed into this simple observation, tracing the designs with my mind, studying each contour with my dim brown eyes.

And then I fell asleep.

It felt like I was sleeping for three days.

I barely made it through, barely convinced my mother that going out to dinner with her and the rest of my family wouldn't be a good idea, barely managed to stay away from what few razorblades I had left. I had barely managed to hide the scars --- the scars that hurt much more than the cuts on my skin. Those hurt, yes, but I didn't think that any single person on the planet could ever know how much abandonment by the one person that was supposed to be the one to make it better instead of making it all hurt really actually hurt. It was almost physical pain, it was so intense.

And I didn't know why it felt so uncomfortable to be putting on my usual clothes - a black pair of pants with a studded belt, a black top with a red-and-white striped tie, and fingerless gloves. Why did that feel so unnatural? Maybe it was because I was getting dressed and getting ready to go say goodbye. How hard was that one word going to be? Would I even be able to coax it past my lips? Would I simply remain silent, brush my hand along his cheek, and turn away? Would I simply kiss his lips and hope that that was enough of a memory to get me through?

What if it wasn't enough?

That thought intimidated me more than it scared me, even as I knocked on the door. A woman in black - his mother - greeted me with anything but a smile, and I nodded in acknowledgement. "I've just come to say goodbye," I murmured, and she nodded in understanding. She stepped aside, and she gestured for me to come in. She gave me no strange stare as I walked past her. She was not one to contest my state of dress. It wouldn't matter in the end, anyway.

I followed her to the backyard in silence, choosing to ignore those that weren't as kind as she was. They stared at me, but I kept my head down. I wouldn't be able to look up until it was the right time. Not until I knew I would see him. They all seemed shocked enough to see me, considering they all thought that I had been forced to consider myself as anything but a part of his life now. I couldn't imagine was waiting for me in the back yard. There were so many possibilities. Pity, anger, hatred, confusion, they all had to be there. I had a feeling that a lot of them hated me for what he'd gone through. I had a feeling that a lot of these people blamed me.

I ignored their stares as I had before, and I bit my lip to hide my pain as I heard a familiar melody playing in the background. To no avail. I shed a tear anyway. Moments later, I was face to face with him. I stroked his cheek, and I stared at him, taking in his features. This would be the last time I could ever take in exactly what he looked like. I traced the outline of his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. I let my palm slide along his jaw, and I sighed. This was what I'd been forced away from. Pififul. I didn't think that any of these people knew how much it hurt to know what I still could have had. I kissed his pale lips softly, and then I sighed. I let my hand fold around his one last time, and I kissed his hand ever so gently.

Then, I released his hand, a tear in my eye. I couldn't stand looking at him anymore, and I couldn't stand listening to this music for another minute. His mother must have seen this, because she was looking at me, asking me with her facial expression if I knew this song. I nodded, giving her a half-assed smile, not even convincing myself that it was genuine. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and cry, instead glancing over at his piano. I had no desire to play it. I much more preferred that the piano remembered his touch on its keys than my own. His fingertips...much more skilled than mine, even though I knew the music by heart.

There was no singing in this music, but I knew it anyway. It was a song he'd dedicated to me once, six years ago. It was a love song - not a song to be played at his funeral. But all the same, he'd once said that he wanted this particular song played at his funeral, and he didn't care how. He'd said that as long as he could hear that song before leaving the earth, he would be able to leave happy. Then I looked back at him.

Pale.

Lifeless.

Empty.

Just like me. Except he didn't have his soul anymore, and that hurt me to think about. I bent down once more, kissing his soft lips once more, and when I pulled away, I whispered, "Goodbye, I love you," just for him.

Then, finally, I turned around and forced myself to walk away from his mother's confused stare.

If he was dead, then I would be too. It didn't matter if I had my soul or not. I just had to be with him - without him, I was incomplete.

Once I got home, I picked up the picture that I'd drawn the day of the phone call. My picture of him, my mind's idea of what he looked like - the stresses on his lips and his eyes and his hair, and the rest of his face drawn lightly, as though I'd spent little time touching or looking at the rest of his face. I finished the drawing - I made sure to put enough stress everywhere. I added a hand, his hand, his chin resting on it, as though he'd been posing pensively for this picture himself. I wrote the same thing I'd said to him on the bottom of the paper, as elegantly as I could, and then I picked up one last razorblade.

If he was going to be dead, then so was I.

It didn't matter that it hurt like hell to slice my wrist open along the vein instead instead of slicing across it.

All that mattered was that I knew I had to - absolutely had to - be with him.