How to Paint Our Skies

How to Remove Band-Aids

Dear Fin,

    I re-read the last letter last night . . . sometimes; I wonder why I put myself through this. Remembering all the pain that you've brought me can't be healthy and yet I do it anyways. Because there is something so addictive about feeling like shit, maybe because it's a feeling I understand oh so well.

    Writing to you is like ripping of a band-aid. When I met you, I had this bleeding wound that I desperately needed to cover up, which you thankfully covered with a band-aid; but as time passed, the gash continued to bleed, soaking through the band-aid. Yet you refused to remove it and its been sitting there all this time. These letters are my way of ripping off those band-aids.

    Encounter Number Seventy-Three:

    Worry filled me like a bitter bone, threatening to make my body collapse under the weight of the world. You were my thoughts, forever lingering, and I just wanted to be with you. I knew you were alone and that terrified you, that you were drowning in pain and felt like no one could save you . . . I wanted to save you.

    It had been over a week since Etta's passing and I hadn't seen you since. The last sight I had of you was curled up into my arms, giving me one last hug before you disappeared into your house after I drove you and your mother home.

    Generally, funerals are arranged a lot faster than a week, but your mother was really struggling to make the arrangements. It must've been so hard to plan two funerals for people you love so close together. I volunteered to help, but your mother insisted that she was fine; before she would promptly burst into tears.

    Today, though, today was the day of the dreaded funeral. The ceremony was in the afternoon and a small reception would occur after, but the thoughts of burying Etta had me waking up at the strike of dawn; well . . . and there's was a tapping at my window.

    I raced over and I saw you, standing in my lawn. Even though it had only been a week since I last saw you, you looked so different; you're like a ghost, just an imprint of the life you left behind. Your skin was so pale it appeared transparent, your green eyes glazed and distant and you had lost a bit of weight. You had been throwing stones up at my window.

    "Hey," I greeted.

    "Hey," you replied.

    "You w-want to come in?"

    You hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I would like that."

    I went downstairs and opened the front for you. Your eyes watched my body in my pyjamas –camisole and underwear- which caused me to blush for reasons unknown, since you had seen me naked before.  We stared at each other for a moment before you reached over and wrapped me up in a heart shattering hug, burying your face in my hair.

    "I missed you," you murmured. "I'm sorry I've been nonexistence the last few days, I just . . . I don't know. I guess I needed some time to myself. It's crazy, though, because the more time I spent alone the more I missed you."

    "Fin, it's a-alright." I let my fingers curl around your shoulders. "I mi-missed you, too  . . . a-are you fe-feeling better?"

    I knew that you weren't but you nodded anyways. "Being with you makes me feel better, my dove."

    We stayed like that for a moment before I pulled away, placing a kiss on your cheek. I let my words press against your skin. "Would you l-like to come up-upstairs?"

    "Okay."

    I grabbed your hand and I led you up the stairs and to my room. The house was still sleeping, thankfully, so we basically had it to ourselves; although the only place we're heading to was my room. After you entered, I shut the door behind you.