Your Inaccessible Light

Ronnie is silent for a second. I don’t expect anything less because that’s what usually happens; people need a moment to construct an appropriate response. What does surprise me though is what follows.

“What was his name?” he asks casually. Most people would find that a peculiar reaction, but I feel an overwhelming sense of relief, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why. Maybe it’s because I’m so sick of hearing people say they’re sorry. I’ve never understood why people apologise after someone’s death, once it’s far too late because the damage has already been done. I guess I knew Ronnie wouldn’t be so pathetic as to say that, but I expected something more like ‘How did he die?’ I don’t mind that so much, because it’s only natural to be curious as to how he died. I just think it’s melancholic how he is almost defined by his death. It’s as though his life has just been forgotten and his death is all that people remember him by. To them he’s ‘Austin the boy that died.’ To me, he’s Austin the person that never failed to make me laugh, the person that cared a lot, too much even, the person that I loved more than anyone else. He was fire that burned so profusely and furiously. He was sunshine, always brightening someone’s day, even though he couldn’t brighten his own. He was bitter like the December frost and unrelenting like the August sun and a mixture of everything else in between. He was a whole bunch of things. To me, he was golden.

“His name was Austin,” I tell Ronnie as we continue to walk through the desolate streets, “It’s his birthday soon.”

“When?”

“October 3rd.”

“Are you doing anything?”

“I want to,” I admit, “But my parents won’t allow it. They like to pretend that he never existed.”

“What was he like?” Ronnie continues. The truth is, I could go on for hours about what he was like, although I wouldn’t know where to start, hence why I go for the most accurate and to-the-point description I can think of.

“He was like you.” Ronnie is silent for another moment, taking in my words and trying to make sense of them.

“Like me?” he questions, raising his eyebrows at me as we come to a stop outside my house.

“Yes.”

“How was he like me?” I look from Ronnie to my house back to Ronnie, an image of Austin flashing through my mind, an image that vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

“That story,” I decide, “Will have to wait for another time.” Ronnie turns to face me, sighing with irritation as he shakes his head at me. He doesn’t push me and I am grateful for that.

“Thank you Ronnie,” I tell him honestly, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his cheek, still holding onto his hand.

“You missed,” he mutters with the usual glint of mischief in his eyes. I never can work out whether or not he’s joking. Knowing what he’s like when it comes to girls, he’s probably being serious. I know better than to follow the impulse to kiss him though. First and foremost, I am not in the position to get into a relationship, not that Ronnie Radke does relationships either. I am not about to come his next fuckbuddy. The second reason is that I have never ever kissed anyone before whereas Ronnie has probably kissed more people than he can count. I doubt I would meet his standards and I don’t much fancy embarrassing myself. The final reason is that I don’t want Ronnie to know that I have feelings for him. Those feelings are my weakness and like I said before, my weakness is his advantage.

Instead I settle for a hug, throwing my arms around his neck and burying my head in his chest. He lets out a small laugh but wraps his arms tightly around my waist. We stay like that for a few seconds longer than we should, but I can’t tear myself away. His scent is soothing and his embrace is comforting. Ronnie is the first one to pull away and I feel my cheeks blush red, fearful that he might figure something out. I am glad it is dark enough so he cannot notice.

“Seriously though, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me doll. Like I said before, I want to help you.”

“Goodnight Ronnie,” I smile.

“Goodnight sweetie,” he grins before walking away. Just as I am about to slide my key into the lock, I notice my mother’s car turn into the street. I didn’t expect her to be home this early. Cursing, I sneak through the side gate and into the back garden, not wanting to risk getting caught out past my curfew. For all I know, they might not even care, but I don’t want to chance it. I throw my bag up onto the roof of the back porch and then climb up, praying that it will hold. It is times like this I am glad I am not wearing heels. From the roof of the porch, I can reach inside the small window of my bedroom, which thankfully I left open, and unlock the big window. Silently, I throw my bag through the window and climb in after, jumping down onto the bed. I can hear my mother downstairs in the kitchen. I don’t think she heard me come in. I slip out of my clothes and change into some sweatpants and a top before wiping off my make-up and tying my hair up in a bun. Then I sit down on the edge of the bed, finally allowing myself to go over the events of the evening. I am overwhelmed with shock and relief and a bunch of other emotions that I cannot describe. It is only then that I begin to cry.