Oneshots

Timothy

(Connor, don't read this.  I edited it back to the original, sorry.  It's sort of my way of healing.)

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Genuine laughter.  A warm hand on my leg and a comforting weight over my shoulder. More laughter. The smell of beer and butterflies explode. Pure fucking happiness. It’s all wrong but it feels so right.

 Love knows no boundaries. There’s no gender, race, age, sexual orientation in love’s accepting eyes. We used to be living proof of this; Timothy and I. We still are. The only thing death cannot kill is love. It just makes the fire burn hotter and brighter until it burns you from the inside out. It takes your breath away.

 I can’t breathe most days. I’ve always had trouble with it—but Timothy helped me avoid asphyxiation. It’s not like asthma or some medical condition. I actually forget how to breathe. Whenever I think about everything too much my throat closes up and I start to panic. I can’t remember how to pull the air back in, and so I just sit there; suffocating and panicking until I either run out of the room or by some miracle I hear his voice reminding me to breathe. “In and out,” he’d tell me, hand rubbing out slow counterclockwise circles on my back, “in and out. You can do it. Just breathe, Pete. Breathe. In and out.” Over and over.

 He’s not here now, and I fucking need him. I’ve been thinking too much. I can’t do this.  Ms. Peter’s voice is droning on and on and my throat is closing. I shift  in my seat and force myself to turn my back to the empty desk beside me, fingers clenching the plastic ‘wood’ so tight they could almost snap.

 “Are you alright, Mr. Symonds?” The teacher asks, her painted fingernails holding the chalk in mid-air. She peers at me over the top of her half moon glasses.

“C-can I go to the office?” I choke out, my voice just a whisper and cracking at the end.

Her other hand taps in annoyance on the top of her perfectly organized desk. “I suppose so,” she says; scribbling a pass holding it out to me. 

 I sling my practically weightless backpack over my shoulder and weave my way through the maze of desks the best I can. Everyone’s eyes are on me, but I try to ignore their stares as I keep my gaze focused on the floor, mind set on avoiding tripping over anything. I grab the pass from her outstretched hand, almost missing it, and hurry out the door. I stumble into the hallway, swinging the door shut behind me, silencing the laughter with a click.

 I should have fallen. Maybe the shock would have knocked the air into me. No pain, just the thud of my body on the solid linoleum and the sudden impact of the floor.

 It’s so quiet out here. Just me and the rows of shiny blue lockers staring back at me- some of their surfaces scratched with obscenities and gay slurs, and covered up with mismatching spray paint as if that fixes it all. Public high fucking school. The faint smell of weed drifting from the bathroom and the memories of heads shoved into trashcans and books knocked to the floor echoing all around. It’s too much for me. I need to get out of here.

 Running. Screaming. Tripping and laughing. Depression is there—it’s always there, but laughter makes it seem alright. Sliding on the concrete and the sound of jeans ripping. His laughter. My laughter. Warm blood running down my leg. Sticky. More laughter. The cold air against my bare legs. Shivering in my boxers. And then back to reality as the outside air hits my lungs. I can breathe. 

 I sit down on the stone steps and lean up against the cold metal rail. It feels like ice through all my clothes. It’s the same kind of eerie quiet outside, but memories don’t suffocate. I close my eyes and try to let my mind blank out. It soon fills with black and I slouch, barely holding myself upright. My life is a mess. Nothing more than a fucking mess.