Oneshots

Obsession

Obsession; complete infatuation. But, it means so much more than that. You breathe your obsession. It is your life.

I could stand here all day and watch him; the way is long brown hair falls into his face and he flips it back out with feigned annoyance, or the way is too long sweatshirt sleeves fall over his pale hand and the way his little fingers delicately grasp his sandwich with the tiny bite marks. Even the smallest new detail gets me excited and makes the butterflies start up. I am hopelessly in love.

They come everyday, six of them, at least twice his size. Knock him to the concrete and kick him, hard in the side, trying to get him to show weakness. But he just sits there and takes it, watching his half eaten food fall to the ground as he hides the tears in his eyes. I can see how badly he wants to cry, threatening to spill over his eyelashes, when they spit “fag” at him so hatefully that it makes me cringe from my hiding place yards away. Or when they kick him forcefully enough to knock the air from his lungs and break his ribs. Or even when he pulls himself after they're gone, arms shaking from the abuse, and picks up his wasted lunch and throws it away. He just takes it, the innocent spark in his eyes fading slightly more each day.

And everyday I kick myself harder inside for not standing up for him. For not marching out of hiding and pushing the football players away, spitting obscenities at them for every insult delivered to him. The thing that keeps me alive, the promise of seeing him each day giving me the motivation to get up in the morning without the help of antidepressants, and I can't seen to find it in myself to show my gratitude.

They're here again and I watch in horror. He's on the ground now, they're kicking him harder than before. A small squeak of pain escapes his lips and my heart squeezes, fists clenched tight. Everything about me screams, “go help him”, but I can't. I can't even bring myself to help pick him up after the fact. I can't let my obsession show through.

He takes longer to get up than usual, and he turns and spits something on the sidewalk. It looks dark. Please don't let it be blood, I plead in my head to anyone who's listening. He spits again, very clearly red, and using the wall for support, gets up and walks away slowly, tossing the sandwich in a trashcan and disappearing from view.

Anger burns through my veins. Someone needs to help him. “You,” anger tells me, but fear argues back. “You can't let him know. What if he wonders why you haven't come before?” “He spit blood. He fucking spit blood.” Anger is furious now and I'm shaking so hard. I slide down the wall and hug my knees to keep me steady. “You can't do it,” fear tells me again, and like every time before, I obey.

The bell rings. Class almost seems painful now. I sit in the fetal position until the late bell comes and even then I'm still shaking. I need to get up now, I don't want to have to rush home to erase the “your son/ daughter cut class message? Instead of watch him wait for his ride. After everyone in school leaves and its just me, him and the empty campus, I actually consider me talking to him a reality. I never have, but maybe someday I will.

Class is painful I can''t get him spitting blood out of my mind. It plays over and over in my brain, a broken record, until I'm on the edge of my seat and starting to shake again. He's not okay. He spit blood. Where is he now? Is he okay? He has to be okay. Fear drives me now.

The clock seems to be moving backwards. I focus on my breathing, in and out, in and out. Two more periods. One. The bell finally rings and I'm free. I walk slow, all the other teenagers hurrying around me. It's Friday and everyone has a party to go to or weed to smoke or friends to hang out with. Anywhere but here. This place turns to a graveyard pretty quickly at the end of the week. I just leave my books in my locker, too many people in the locker hall and I need to make sure he's alright.

He's sitting on the same bench as always, legs up and chin resting on his knees. He looks okay, just tired. I can't see his eyes from my hiding spot , but my guess is they're pretty blank. I want to walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his small frame and whisper in his ear that it was all gonna be alright. That I was gonna protect him from now on. I want to feel his warmth in my arms and know that was mine and all mine. And I actually want to be his too, instead of just watching from afar.

He's crying now, shoulder shaking, trying to hide it. A stab of anger jolts through me and I'm surprised by the bravery it brings. I'm going to talk to him. I'm going to walk over and ask him if he's alright. I take the first step forward, despite my mind's screaming to hold back. The first step to forever.

I'm cut off through, by a group of six familiar giants, headed straight towards the shaking boy. He can't see them, and he jumps as a huge hand comes down on his shoulder. “Hey there fag, why ya cryin'?” the biggest one asks.

He bites his lip and scrambles up. He's trying to look as tough as possible but his hands are shaking. Every part of him is shaking. “Pl-please,” he stammers, “please just leave m-me alone.”

“All alone now aren't you emo boy?” another one taunts. They're closing in on him, a group of hyenas circling their prey.

My fists clench up and I take another step forward. Fire burns through my veins. “Leave him alone.”

They all turn and look at me. “Aw, look, one emo fag loves the other emo fag,” one of them says. All eyes are on me, including his; I'm the victim now, and for once in my life, I'm not scared.

They step away from him and circle around me. I see him crawl back and reach into his pocket and then he's gone from view, six sweaty jocks blocking him from me. Someone kicks me and I'm down, falling with my back to the concrete. Six pairs of legs are stabbing at me, at my ribs and my legs and my head, but all the pain is overwhelmed by the adrenaline rush. A foot contacts with my stomach and I curl up, coughing and choking on the taste of my own metallic blood.

“Please!” A scream rings out from somewhere outside the circle. “Campolindo! Please help him!” Its him, shrieking into the phone. The ring opens up as they back away.

“Shit,” says one of them, “we gotta get out of here.” They all start backing away. “Fag,” another one says and he spits at me, his saliva dripping down my face and mixing with the rusty blood on the sidewalk.

He hurries right over to me, ignoring all the blood and rolls me over onto my back, my head resting in his lap. “You uh...stood up to them.” He looks so scared now. “Are you alright? Please be alright.” He holds my hand gently and even in his feather light grasp I wince.

“Shit.” I cough up through a mouthful of blood. He tilts me to the side so I can spit it out onto the ground and lowers me back into his lap. “I think my ribs are broken.”

He bites his lip. “You think? This is all my fault.” He looks down at me “Crap crap crap crap. The police are on their way. They're gone thought. They're gonna get you to a hospital. Its all gonna be fine. How did you know they we're coming? Crap, you're hurt real bad. Please be okay. This is all my fault.” He's talking a mile a minute and I can see the fear in his eyes. “You saved me. You're a hero.”

Sure doesn't feel like it, I think. Every part of me hurts and there's so much blood. Doesn't all the blood bother him?

He brushes my sticky hair off my face. “What's your name?” he asks me, tangling his fingers through it. My skin tingles under his fingertips and I feel all warm in my stomach, a million times more powerful than from watching him, at lunch.

“Sebastian,” I tell him, in a whisper and I can hear the sirens now.

“You're beautiful, Sebastian,” he tells me as he bends down and places his lips to mine. They rest there for a minute and then he pulls away, the sirens piercing my brain and I fade out into the blackness.