Where you lead, I will follow
There's nothing more calming to me than the sound of the rain. The gentle, rhythmic noise of drops splattering against the window, the rumbling of thunders, the blinding brightness of lightning. Nothing compares with such temper display from Mother Nature.
You know, I used to be afraid of it. The same cracking sound that now calms me used to send me right into the closet, a trembling, crying mess of a child. Pitiful. And ironic somehow, now that I think about it. It wasn't until that thunder storm we faced together, hidden in that tunnel in the park, that I realized there was nothing to be afraid. Not as long as you'd be there to hold my hand. I was only seven years old then; I only knew you for two hours when I decided that I could never be safer than when I was with you; that you could never hurt me, no matter what.
My child heart thought so. I grew up, and didn't change my mind at all. When my mother died two years later, you were there at her funeral with me, holding my hand tightly, yet again, while I stared dumbly at the box being taken down into that bottomless hole. Well, I know now it as only 6 feet deep or so, but it seemed never ending. There was no finish line in sight, nothing to hold on to but you. And I held on, and you let me. I never loved you more.
We used to play together a lot, didn't we? It didn't matter to me what we played, as long as I got to spend time with you. Never had another kid joined us; it was always just you and me, alone, but not lonely; you were all I needed to be able to smile.
My father started drinking; you were there to tend to each bruise, each scratch, each wound left behind by him, each mark marring my skin; a gentle touch, always mindful not to hurt me more, not to cause me more pain than I was already enduring.
I had my first kiss with you. Do you remember? Maybe you don't, but I'm bound to take the memory into the grave with me; a summer night, two thirteen-year old boys fumbling around, trying to figure out what was the big deal with the kissing the other kids always talked about. I swear, as young as I was, I still felt – and still remember as it was yesterday- that ball of warmth pooling into the pit of my stomach when your lips touched mine. A butterfly touch, nothing more, and yet enough to make me realize what was to become my prayer, my driving force: "I love you."
I suppose you did, too, even then. We were so innocent, what did we know? Even with me being roughed around on a regular basis by my father, and your mother whoring herself to be able to raise you, I guess we still retained that pure streak every child has; we didn't lose it then, not then. Not when we loved each other, though we didn't know at that time that it would be considered wrong, disgusting; and that it would take me from you.
You were the first- and only, still the only one- to steal a gasp of pleasure from me. Soft kisses trailed down my face, drinking the tears I was so bitterly spilling yet again. Comforting touches; the tip of your finger gently tracing the bruise on my cheek, trailing down to touch the corner of my mouth, before following its outlines. You leant into me and your lips went down the same path. And then it changed. Your hand went to cup the back of my head, your mouth stopped to taste my erratic pulse; It was magic. Liquid magic, coursing through my blood like fire; cliché, but a very apt description nonetheless. I whispered your name breathlessly; I remember you smiling. I'll never forget that smile.
You used to hold me tightly in your arms, so tight as if you were afraid I'd disappear right there, in front of you. For a long while, I thought that I was using you as my lifeline; that you were my support, the crutch to lean on when I can't go on on my own. But I was wrong, wasn't I? Only much later did I realize that you needed me just as much, that you held on just as desperately. We had each other, and it appeared to be enough for us.
Feeling your cool, soft fingers on my skin was the best feeling ever. You never could hide much from me, but all it took was a kiss or your touch to figure out something was wrong; or that it was so unbelievably right. I'll never understand how someone can claim it's abnormal, that it's dirty: I've never felt anything more perfect, more… right. You understood me completely; I knew you better that you probably knew yourself. How could that be condemnable?
'Two boys together is… unthinkable.'
Ignorants. Why weren't they able to comprehend that love has nothing to do with gender, color, age, religion or any other abstract notion? Love just is. People feel it, you know. When they meet their perfect half, that part that's always missing from our soul and heart. Just like I felt it, during that summer storm when we were seven years old.
It was confirmed to me over and over again as time went by, but never had I felt that connection stronger than the times we made love. To feel you pulsing, breathing, living inside me, God, was there anything more marvelous than that? We were one, both soul and mind; bringing our bodies together felt as natural as drawing air into my lungs, just that the latter paled in importance to the first. Why would I need air when I could breathe you in?
You seeped right into my pores; you flowed through my body, you were everything. So connected, so attuned to each other, that even our hearts beat in synchrony. Mine would skip a beat just to get in line with yours; I used to smile when I felt that happen: every time I saw you, every time you touched me, every time I thought of you, every time. You were everything.
And then he took you away. Because you loved me, and I loved you, and his son could never fall in love with another boy, or so he said. He hadn't been content with killing you slowly by causing me as much pain as he could, he had to go and outright take you away.
I hated him; I never did before-not when he beat me, not when he threw insults at me, not ever before. Not until he wrenched you away from me. He was out of my reach before I could do anything, though. A lifetime in prison isn't enough to return you to me. I can't hear your heartbeat anymore, so mine runs erratically, confused, lost. I can't feel you on me, in me, with me. You're gone.
Nothing can bring you back now.
So I guess I'll follow. But you already know that, right? After all, I always followed where you led.