Your gateway to endless inspiration
Trigger Warnings: Overdose, cheating, alcohol
“He would do anything for you,” his friend says to him one day. The coffee in front of her had already gone cold, but she still stirs it with an idle hand. “He would hang the moon for you if you asked. I have no doubt.” He laughs, and doesn’t understand. She looks at him through dirty lenses, and her eyes speak a thousand words, a whole galaxy of thoughts swirling in brown eyes and gold rimmed glasses.
“He would.”
And he still doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t understand when his boyfriend follows him like a lost puppy, or when he hugs him tighter than anyone else he knows. He doesn’t understand when the lights go out and he feels a hand trying to grab his own under the covers, or when he sees him cry in the corner sometimes.
He could write a song about the silent, slow, rare tears he saw on those nights. It was the kind that travelled down your face and dripped down your neck, and you didn’t care enough to wipe it away. The kind that you didn’t sob out, but rather let go.
It didn’t really matter to him, though. Saltwater was saltwater, and he didn’t care why it came into existence.
“You should go home,” she tells him one night. “Your boyfriend is probably worried, and it’s late.” The club is pounding, pounding, pounding, the bass creeping into his veins and making his breathing and heart stutter just a little bit. Her glasses are reflecting the neon bar sign, and the glare someone’s camera flashing is caught in her purple hair. He couldn’t care less.
“Another Blue Sunset!” He calls out, with a wild grin on his face. There was no way he was leaving before three.
She glances at him from the side, eyebrows scrunched and eyes unsure. “How are you gonna get home?”
“I’ll call my boyfriend,” he waves it off and grabs his full drink. It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine.
And that’s what he tells himself.
That’s what he says when he starts to leave with strangers and promises that it won’t happen again. (He doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince his boyfriend or himself.) That’s what he says when he starts to bring a toothbrush and a comb when he goes to the club. (It’s so he can fix his hair and brush his teeth after having a few.) That’s what he says when his boyfriend’s crying became more frequent and more and more resigned.
(He doesn’t know when this became their normal.)
His boyfriend doesn’t really look at him anymore. He sort of looks at him with his eyes to the floor. And he starts to forget which stairs creak in their house and he stops leaving his socks everywhere because he sleeps in a new house every other night. He doesn’t have the time.
(He doesn’t know when his house stopped being his home.)
The sky looks sad today. He looks up and it’s bright and sunny and clouds are few and far apart. He squints. The beams of light make dots in his eyelashes and he stares at them until his neck aches and his eyes burn. It’s a good day.
(He doesn’t know what that is anymore.)
He never understood why his boyfriend cried more often. He never understood why he wanted more. He never understood why his heart was broken. He never understood that maybe he was like this because his heart was never there in the first place, like it was just ripped out, like there was a hole in his chest and every second of every minute it was straining to get it back, straining to exist a little longer, like he was as empty and hollow as a skeleton in a secondary school biology classroom, like he would never understand how to understand.
(And when he was lying on the floor, his actual heart slowing and his boyfriend screaming a terrible broken sound that made his voice shudder and shake like it couldn’t contain whatever it was feeling and kneeling on the floor next to a bottle of pills that no longer rattled, he still didn’t understand.)
It wasn’t about him. It was never about him.
In fact, she never meant for him to have any involvment in the matter, never meant for him to ever know about it. He was never meant to know anything.
It had started long before she ever knew him.
It started when her father had brought out a lighter one evening. He opened his pack of cigarettes and took a long drag, his shoulders relaxing. He sunk into the chair. He no longer cared about hiding his addiction from his daughter, playing with a doll idly on the carpeted floor, six years old and quiet as a mouse.
She was known for being a rather emotionless child. Not once had she laughed or grinned or cried. Her mother fretted about her, but her father didn’t mind. No tantrums was fine with him. The lack of feelings wasn’t a problem with him. She watched with glazed eyes as flaky ashes fell to the carpet. She stared at them as they floated gently to the floor, choking and coughing a bit from the fumes.
She stared even longer at the lighter. How could a fire be hiding in the tiny object?
Late into the night, she snuck into the living room where the lighter was still lying next to the ashtray, and stole it. The next morning, she hid it in her backpack and ran off into the woods to play.
It was yellow and shiny and had a grey top that flipped open. She immediately was fascinated, entranced. Her eyes lit up for the first time. It was so small, but had such power! When she mimicked her father’s motions, it let out a fizzling spark once, twice, thrice, and then burst into a tiny flame.
She knew what she was doing tomorrow. Her eyes burned with the fire she now possessed.
Her mother found the neighbor’s cat later that month, half-decomposed and covered in soot, and she had screamed. It was the kind of scream from a horror movie that got half-hearted reviews, one that never really sent shivers down your spine. It never even got under her skin. She didn’t care that she had been found out. The cat was annoying anyways. Her flames were bright, unstoppable, unable to be extinguished, and she would feed the fire until everything came down around her.
Years later, in her twenties, she met him. Her lover. He was sunny and bright and passionate and emotional and everything she wasn’t. He was her fire. She wanted him, in a way that she hadn’t wanted since she’d laid her eyes on that lighter over a decade ago.
And eventually, she got him. It seemed like she had attached herself to him, in a strange way. She wanted him to be hers, and only hers, but shied away from affection and emotion. She didn’t know how to respond to his hugs, how to smile for him. She didn’t know how to be genuine.
And that meant that she had to avoid him, and that meant that she left the house often, coat over her shoulders and lighter in her pocket.
She didn’t know what she wanted more, him or her fire. And that scared her.
She hadn’t known what it was like to be scared before.
She flicked the lighter, and threw it down on the large pile of dry grass and twigs at her feet. The willow tree sheltered the newborn flame, and it slowly climbed higher and higher. As it began to lick the tree top, she backed away to admire the light in the drizzling rain. Her light.
Her eyes gleamed.
Her fire burned.
Her lover still smiled for her when she came home. He smiled through watery eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was from her late return or from the water drops tapping out a rhythm on the sidewalk or from the ash that clung to her shoulders, even through the rain. She didn’t know how to understand what he felt on their best days together.
He hugged her close and securely whenever she came home, and she responded the same. Her eyes were as dry as the Sahara, saved from the rain by her umbrella, glazed over with disinterest. Waiting for the next opportunity to buy another lighter. To buy more gasoline. To build a stack of sticks and grass. To relish in the newfound brightness.
To burn.
(She never thought about how he had had an umbrella of his own when she came out to greet him, and how his clothes were dry.)
She would set the world on fire just to watch it go ablaze, and she would smile the same smile she always had before. An answering smile. An answer to the questions, to the counselors at school and the dead cat her mother found covered in charcoal and gasoline, to the classmates who were afraid of her in kindergarten, to the prescriptions in her cabinet, ever fluorescent.
To her lover, whose eyes were still full of water on the sunniest day of the year. She still ignored the drip-dropping of water on her neck whenever they hugged.
(It wasn’t raining.)
(She didn’t know how to explain it, so she avoided it.)
(Sometimes, she thinks that he cries because he doesn’t know what to do anymore.)
He cried when she left and cried when she came home, and he cried when he was alone and cried when she was with him. He cried when she smelled like a campfire and when she had ashes sprinkled in her hair, and he cried when their budgeting started to include lighters and gasoline.
He cried every tear that she never could.
Sometimes she wished that she could cry for him instead. He must have been so dehydrated.
(For his birthday, she bought him a nice water bottle. “So you can stay hydrated. You cry an awful lot,” she said. He grinned and hugged her, then pulled away quickly.
“Thank you.” His lips were wobbly and saltwater streamed down his cheeks. She smelled like a campfire.)
She always had grey peppering her clothes. Her smile was subdued, but her eyes were distant and wild. Like they knew something. Like they had already watched the world burn down in their head a million times, and enjoyed every second.
A psychopath.
An arsonist.
Someone who burned trees and papers for fun. Someone who bought too many lighters in too little time. (The gas station attendant had never seen so many lighters be laid out on the checkout counter.) Someone who watched her lover cry and looked away with disinterest. Someone who didn’t leave the house one day to burn.
(He was still home, crying in the corner. She didn’t notice him until the end.)
Someone who never cried when she watched her lover scream and his tears evaporate, ugly crying, with eyes of crimson and half moon bruises underneath and snot running down his face, saltwater on his tongue and dripping off his chin just to go up and evaporate in flames and smoke.
Someone who died with her lover by accident and didn’t care. Someone who watched the flames with gleaming eyes until the end.
(Her eyes were still gleaming when they burned to the ground.)