December 21st, 2009. A high school Christmas concert.
He found a seat with his friends in the cold cement stands. They're joking. They don't care about what's going on down on the gymnasium floor below them. Something about Santa Claus. Something about Jesus. Something about hope.
Then he sees her. Her friends are with her. They're joking too. Some of her friends see him staring; wave him over. They're all smiles.
He slips away from his group and joins theirs. No big deal. He's flexible. Popular. He fits in anywhere.
To an outside looker, she fits in so well that she might be passed over. Not with him. She's all he sees. All he can look at. He laughs with them all, but his eyes wander to her every few seconds. Her foot; her hand; her thigh. Fragments that make him hunger for the whole.
Then their eyes meet.
She smiles. He dazzlingly responds. Doom falls upon them.
February 19th, 2010. Her bedroom.
It's the day before her birthday. He's just surprised her with gifts: a bouquet of roses and two tickets to a local theatre production of a little known play. He knows she loves theatre. She wants to be an actress someday.
She grins. Her whole face lights up like a shooting star and in her bright eyes are fireworks. Then she hugs him. Tight. He responds at once with a squeeze, pleased at her reaction.
They look into each other's eyes. Short-lived eternity.
His lips meet hers first, just a little over halfway.
Fizz fizz fizz! Firecrackers! Boom boom boom! War drums! Vroom vroom vroom! Race car engines!
Their lips part. Blank eyes refill with colour. They beam at each other.
Yes, virgin lips are sensitive.
March 2nd, 2010. An old barn.
He watches her bustle about the place, to and fro between six horse paddocks. Her family owns horses. She rides. She loves them. One of them, Woodchip, belongs to her. He is her baby; her furry treasure.
He helps her clean the paddocks. He doesn't know much about horses, but he's learning. He likes them. The scent of the barn will never leave him. Not completely. He winks at her as he cleans.
It only takes a moment for the space between them to close. Arms around her waist. Arms about his neck. Their breath visible as the Word is breathed.
He said it first. She says it too.
The internal lightning has a short, unworthy name.
May 15th, 2011. Her kitchen.
Dread is in his heart. She lies before him on a couch, hand over her eyes. Her teeth are gritted in pain; her feet twitch every few seconds. Tear stains mark her cheeks.
It's late at night. Her mother is there too. She looks on sadly. She tells him that there is nothing they can do but wait. The doctor said she'd be fine. The doctor said. Eventually.
But he is not fine. He shares her pain. He tries to hug her. She tries to respond, but the pain in her sides is too much. She shudders, releases him and tries not to cry too loudly in front of him.
Her mother tells him he can go home. It's late.
He looks at her mother and sees her eyes widen. He knows it's because of his expression; he knows it's because she's just realized.
He looks back down at her. Takes her hand. Stares at it.
He spends the night in silence, the thudding of his heart an effective antidote for drowsiness.
July 26th, 2011. His bedroom.
They're arguing. Something about space. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, stiff, hands clasped together. She's sitting across from him on the carpeted floor, back to the wall, one knee drawn up to her stomach.
It's sweltering. The window is open. The steady hum of his father's lawnmower wafts in; settles upon the thick layer of tension. Their eyes are locked. Their lips are drawn. Both are stubborn. So, so stubborn.
It takes a while. At some point, he gives up. He tries to apologize to her. She rejects it. She's too proud. He feels the anger rise again. It commands his mouth once more. As always, she follows suit.
They turn their heads from one another. She hugs herself.
October 10th, 2011. A high school classroom.
They share the same class. School's almost over. She's nervous. She fidgets with her pencil, gnawing it and drumming it on her wrist. Her backpack sits open beside her. She can see the white tip of heaven.
She calls to him as the bell rings. He comes to her. She asks if they can step outside. He agrees. She pulls him out into the hallway, round a corner, and into another tiny hall that culminates in a dead end.
The tears have begun. Her voice wavers, then drops off. She holds out a white envelope. It has his name written on it. She tells him to read it; that she's sorry. Then emotion takes her completely, and she runs off with her head in her hands.
He's stunned. He looks at the envelope. His knees give out, and he pushes himself back against the concrete wall. He opens the envelope; pulls out a letter.
It's five pages long. He misses his bus.
November 4th, 2011. His bedroom.
He texts her. He wants to see her. She responds with a refusal. He texts again; tries to sway her. She begins to ignore him.
He throws his phone at the wall. He grabs a handful of his hair in each hand. His mother calls from downstairs, asking if he's okay.
His phone goes off. A text from her. Or not. It explains that it's from a guy named Mark. It explains that Mark's strong. It explains that Mark can kill him if he keeps texting her.
He doesn't respond. He finds the letter, folds it up and places it neatly in his desk drawer.
Then he curls up in bed, turns off all the lights, and loses himself.
March 1st, 2015. His new bedroom.
He sits behind a keyboard. He yawns, stretches and looks at the clock. It's late.
He scans typed words. He's unsure about their rawness. Their simple form. Their vulnerability.
After a moment, he decides he likes them. A bit of his history, on display.
He glances at his desk drawer. The letter is no longer there. He burned it back in the summer. He had watched it blacken and shrivel. A piece of him had gone with it, resurrected only now in memory.
He's not quite done typing. He has a few lines to go. There's another page open on his screen. Something about dreams. Something about posterity. Something about nostalgia.
Nothing about hope.
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