How to Paint Our Skies

How to Share Lines

Dear Fin,

    For an hour today I sat before a mirror, watching my reflection, wondering who the hell was staring back at me. The girl -or was she considered a woman now? - seemed familiar, but just barely. She reminded me of a flower, pressed between the pages of a book: dead, but her essence could still be found among those words and dried leaves.

    And as I watched, I couldn't help but wonder how that woman must've been like, when she was just a girl. How could've she ever known she was destined for dullness, for a bland reality? But potential, I suppose, can't be seen in the eye or hand or tongue, especially when one is so young. Potential can be seen in the eyes and hands and tongues of the driven, those who are considered mad in ambition; but there is sanity in insanity, logic in illogic, sense in nonsense. A type of mad that I never had.

    Did you know, Fin? You, the genius, should've been able to spot failure . . . you're just too polite to point it out. Besides, it probably wouldn't have been beneficial to tell the girl you're sleeping with that she was doomed for failure. But that's easy to say, from here in my bed in my small apartment, because notifying people of their dim prospects must've been worse than the grimmest of futures. I could never imagine the horror of seeing someone’s eyes as the truth hit them.

    Besides, I know how it feels, to know that your life is meaningless and worthless. And sometimes, I question even my mere existence. I mean, what am I doing? I haven’t done anything with my life and I have nobody or nothing to live for. So why am I still here? It’s because I’m a coward, I suppose. No matter how many times I hold the pills in my fingers, the gun (when I stole it from my father’s drawer) in my fist, the razor in my hand . . . I can’t do it. I can’t face death. I’m not ready and I shouldn’t have to be. Why can’t I be happy? Why can’t I be like you?

    I guess these questions lead us to the next encounter. Because that day is one of the few I remember so crisply, the mere words linger in my mind perfectly to this day . . . I spoke freely for the first time in my whole life. You made me remember what it was like to live; giving me the fire I needed to continue.

    And sometimes, I wonder if that’s the worst thing you could’ve done.

    Encounter Number Five:

    Our legs were tangled. 

    I had never been so intimate with someone. But it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re in my bed (fully clothed, yes) or your arm was casually brushing against mine or that I could see the muscles of your back through the back of your tee-shirt . . . no, it had to do with the fact that you had placed your left leg directly over my right leg, anchoring me down. Occasionally, the skin of your ankle would rub across my naked foot.

    Regardless of reason, it felt more intimate than actually having sex.

    You’re smiling at me, your grin lighting up those pretty green eyes; it was distracting me, especially when I was helping you study for an upcoming test. But I didn’t mind watching you, hearing your rough voice, letting your essence wash over me.  You made me want to laugh again, Fin. I hadn’t laughed in so long before you came . . . oh, the joys of laughter.

     I had invited your over to my house; we’re sitting in my bedroom, careful to avoid my family.  I would let nothing spoil my pleasant mood.

    And that’s when you found the note.

    There were plenty of them, so I wasn’t necessarily sure which one you found. They’re every where . . . scattered throughout all of my schoolbooks, in my locker, in my clothes.  After a long time, the pain they had given me lessened, but I still received them. The bullies said it was their “kind way of communicating with me since they knew I couldn’t speak.”