It was a dream.
The light shinning, bending, glowing, comforting each contour on my map of corruption, moral-less, worthless corruption. Each imperfection was highlighted by this divine glow. The burning florescent bush shown hallow upon his face. It lied to him, emitting a slow truth, a dim light. His major flaws were depleted; this low firelight was a spectral guise no one could construct; he was perfect, appeared magnificent, appeared fucking hot.
Dorian would be proud.—AHHH—whAT IS goiNG ON!?!
It drove down him, from the roses head to its thorns. The dew dripped down the curved stalk with masterful terror. Nothing else mattered to this, this crimson beauty, this emerald stalk. Each thorn tingled and relayed the message as perfectly as the last.
It drove down him, tingled every never. He could, see it—-happen. Each nerve Projected and StucK out like miniature swords ready to cut. Each neuron screeched in pain—and he with them. They-he cringed in agony, and outburst and eruption of a crimson aura. All went numb, all went white. With bloodshed, purity reached, his responsive hand pushed the dimmer to its optimum potential and the nerves relaxed.
The lights went ablaze, revelation was emitted, it replaced the light from within him.
Every flaw, everything was visible. He shut off the lights. He slammed the door. It’s time to live.
An eight ounce bucket of Sweet Citrus Lemon Sorbet and a silver spoon were his only weapons against complete squalor. Everything was in order today, nothing needed to break. Each bite, swallow, echoed loneliness and SCREECHED his desire for something better something MORE!
This year he started to dress simpler, but he was still Dean, he was still himself. He still landed on telephone wires to warm his feet, feel that warm electric tingle surge through his veins. Feel that epic rush course through a body decrepit and young; so full of youth in fact he had been floating and flying for years and not gotten worn out. But even he didn’t wear the same feathers as everyone did. His were not the same solar soaking black velvet feathers he so desired. No, his were a motley array of emotions he presented to the world. With each flap of his broad wings feather fell and from that an admirer caught it. Anything to please an admirer.
Now he was bare, naked, nude.
He had nothing else to wear, nothing else to put on, except the same show he did everyday. “Hello love how are you?”; the same characters “DAMN GURRLL YOU FOGGIN MUH MIRRAS”; always putting on the same, same FUCKING show “I love you”. He couldn’t feel love he could only hold it as it chirped in its nest, far far away from he. He could only look at it grow, manifest into something beautiful and shimmering, until with its onyx wings ready it flew into the blue; never to be seen; again. And then his nest would break, and he would try to save it, but the splinters would catch him. And encased in this perilous hut nothing could ever get out. There was no wolf to blow him over it was just he, forever in a hut, ready to be burnt alive, naked and beautiful.
He gazed into the now empty bucket, empty and cleaned spoon and into his empty, cleaned and beautiful reflection. It was the only tie to reality he had, and as he breathed it became cloudy. Slowly collecting the moistness from his lung, and the spoon collected his life. He didn’t look anymore–I don’t deserve to.
He broke out of his house, so tiny so secure. Stepped onto the gravel and it cracked like the light foil wrapping of a Christmas gift ready for him to open. i don’t deserve it.
He got into his car, green and warm. The mechanical warmth was all he could feel, all he could accept on this frigid winter day, in this frigid fucking life.
He drove the speed limit, texted Holly while passing exit 24B, then got texted back reminding him of Student Council in five minutes, he was ten minutes away, he continued with the speed limit.
He drove to a lake.
It was frozen.
He walked to the middle.
The frigid air caressed his high cheek bones, his emerald eyes, his warm lips, his maple hair which dripped upon his face like the succulent syrup it excreted. Each frozen atom danced upon his skin with orchestrated excellence and brought him a natural symphony, a harmony embodied in an exhale. All his air was out of his lungs. The wind blew and he looked to his left hand, saw the symbol of air, the old tattoo, his symbol for life. It was faded, just a black smudge on his perfect palm.
he closed his eyes
the ice broke
he swallowed the water
The silky ice flowed from the lake into his lungs. This smooth joy, this love, this embodiment of his right palm’s smudge, flowed into his lungs. He sank and he swallowed. He swallowed, not love, nor life, but lust for more, lust for death.
he didn’t swim
he didn’t breathe
he died
As the morning bell rang, a crow flew up into the air, snow melted from a branch and dripped onto the snow beneath it.
“Of course Dean is late hahaha.” Holly was the center of attention, “Mr. Henry is he ever on time?”
A harmony of laughter rang from Homeroom. Mister had an announcement:
Today he died; Today Dean died; “Today Spring begins;”
