[Other Original] a messy set of short stories and poems

Ethan saw Zach die many times. Every night he would hear the bullet shot, hear it rip through the air through Zach?s skull and brain, shattering bone. He saw the blood spray the wall like misty rain, saw Zach?s eyes glaze over like the foam of waves in the sea, saw the hole in his head, perfect and untouchable, clear and bright like summer sky, blood oozing like a blossoming hibiscus. He wished flowers had grown over his body, wished they covered him like baggy clothes. Wished for anything but blood and gore and guts and no matter what he did, what medication he took he felt as if that image of a single circle of nothingness in Zach?s brain would stay with him, would repeat over and over like a movie reel, stuck there staring at him. That bullet hole was stuck there staring at him. It was a hate crime. Zach?s death was on purpose.

His partner Gabriel had been sick for three days. It was nothing serious, just a cold and slight fever, but Ethan had stayed awake for all those past three days, listening to every breath Gabriel took, watching his neck pulse with every heartbeat. He was fearful that some morning he would wake to a still silence, Gabriel?s body dissolved of all heat. The thought crawled over him, parasitic and dangerous. The thought scared him more than death.

His mind took him to other places, like the emergency room where he worked. He thought about the various things he saw. He thought about the boundless amounts of teenagers he saw come and go, taking 100 pills and one of them had swallowed razors and he remembered seeing the families, the families cradling grandparents, aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers, children, brothers and sisters. He remembered the foreign man that had come in, cradling his brother?s body, blood running from his head. He had gotten stabbed, the knife still embedded into his skull. He was screaming so loud in something Ethan did not understand and would never understand and the only thing he could say was that he couldn?t do anything and it was all in English and the foreign man just continued to scream in his foreign tongue until the echoes got branded into Ethan?s brain and he woke to them sometimes. How many times a week did he tell people he couldn?t help? More than 22 but less than 36. How many of those were lies? All of them. He could save everyone if he wanted but the thing was he couldn?t save everyone. He couldn?t patch the hole inside Zach?s skull. The hole inside Zach?s skull the hole inside Zach?s skull the hole inside Zach?s skull.

?Babe. Hey, babe. Are you okay? Snap out of it.?

What? What is it? Ethan was back in his bedroom, Gabriel?s back pressed up against his own.

?You?ve been mumbling to yourself for the past couple minutes. Is everything okay??

I?m fine.

?Are you sure??

In front of Ethan, he could have sworn he saw Zach standing there, the collar of his button up shirt popped. Blood was running down his entire body, dripping like escaping rain out of his skull. He wanted to take all that scarlet and put it back inside Zach. There was a hole in his brain. There shouldn?t have been a hole in his brain. Yes. No. Not really, I don?t know. I, uh, I can?t stop thinking about everything from the past everything from the past I can?t stop seeing Zach Gabe I can?t stop seeing Zach I don?t know what to do I don?t know how to stop it God please make it stop I can?t do this anymore I feel like I need to do something I?m going to check on the front door.

Without another word, Ethan went out of the bedroom and checked the front door. He placed his hand around the knob and turned. It wouldn?t budge. It was locked. Beside the door in a bowl were the keys. He took the keys and put them in the keyhole, turning until it clicked. Unlocked. He turned the other way until it clicked again. Locked. Over and over and over and over and over. They were good clicks. Solid clicks. The clicks ripped up all the images of the hole in Zach?s brain momentarily. He felt satisfied after fifteen tries and walked back to the bedroom. Gabriel was sitting up, looking at him. The expression on his face was unreadable. Ethan sat on the bed with Gabriel, staring at his hands.

?Did you remember to take your medication??

Oh my God. Shit. Shit I didn?t do that. Oh no, oh God. He started crying. God I?m so stupid oh my God. Zach came back again, his stupid collar still popped. Ethan wanted to rip it off. He would rip it off, if Zach wasn?t dead and he wasn?t a memory he was actually there. There was a hole in his brain. There wasn?t supposed to be a hole in his brain. Zach tried to speak, but vomited up blood instead. There was blood everywhere. Blood out of his mouth, blood out of the hole in his brain.

?It?s okay, Ethan, it?s okay. I?m not mad at you.? Gabriel combed his fingers through Ethan?s hair while he continued to cry, smothering his face into Gabriel?s chest, sobbing. Gabriel wrapped his arms around him.

They were silent for a while, sitting there on the bed, holding each other. In that silence, staring at the ocean wave folds in the sheets, trying to flatten each one until the fabric was smooth and level like a crisp piece of paper, Ethan thought about that one time a month ago on the couch, after he and Gabriel had made love, where everything seemed okay for a second, for one second and he remembered the way Gabriel?s cowlick was that day. His cowlick his eyes his lips his cowlick his cowlick his cowlick. He remembered everything about that day. He didn?t know why he remembered this day or why it seemed so special to him. Maybe it was because that day wasn?t a work day and it was quiet in their house and Ethan hadn?t had any nightmares and he wasn?t locking the door fifteen times or turning the lights on and off thirty times or washing his hands twenty-one times. Maybe it was because there were no holes in anything. Everything was how it should be. Or maybe it was because as they were lying there on that couch falling asleep Gabriel had looked at him and said you?re okay. He didn?t know why he said it, but it was reassuring. You?re okay. I?m okay I?m okay I?m okay I?m okay.

But instead his mind was stuck with Zach.

There were times when Zach held him close, watched him count every crack in the sidewalk, hear him say his name over and over until he got it right. Zach was good, Zach was pure.

?I know it?s hard for you.? Gabriel?s voice broke Ethan from his thoughts. Pressed up against his chest, he could hear his heartbeat. It had a slow tempo to it. It reminded Ethan of the ocean.

What?s hard?

?I mean, what happened with Zach.?

Zach was fourteen. He was a child. The last thing Ethan remembered before he blacked out was the hole in his brain the hole in his brain the hole in his brain the hole in his brain. It was so undeniably, so frustratingly perfect. So simple and so beautiful. The hole in his brain was beautiful. Like nature in its purest, untainted form. Ethan was afraid and fascinated by holes. Ethan wanted to fill every hole in the world up to the brim, leave no traces of the void that was there before.

?He meant a lot to you. To see someone get murdered like that at such a young age-?

Can we not talk about this? Please?

?Sorry.?

It?s okay.

They were quiet for several moments, listening to the ambient nightly hum of the house. Ethan thought Gabriel had fallen asleep but when he looked back he was still awake, but his eyelids were drooping. The blond hairs of his stippled beard gleamed a modest gold in the warm lamplight of their bedroom. Ethan reached up and brushed Gabriel?s sandpaper cheeks with his hands. The repetitive motions coaxed him. He focused on this. He wished he could only focus on this. No more holes.

Gabriel moved away after a while and the two laid back to back once more, ?We should go to sleep. Goodnight, Ethan.?

Goodnight. Ethan cleared his throat two times. Goodnight goodnight goodnight goodnight.

?Ethan.?

Sorry.

Ethan listened to Gabriel?s breathing as it grew heavier and less frequent, falling into a deep sleep. Ethan still could not sleep, but thought often of that moment those weeks ago of being with Gabriel, trying to escape the thoughts of violence and death that plagued his mind. Zach was only a memory, but it felt like he was still here, watching Ethan with blood running down his face, a hole in his brain a hole in his brain a hole in his brain. He got out of bed, deciding not to check the lock but go upstairs, counting his steps, making sure he landed on the last step with his right foot and not his left, then back downstairs again. Zach was only a memory. He walked into the living room then out onto the back screened in porch. It was dark outside, but a sliver of light was just among the horizon. The pool was still and quiet. Zach was only a memory. Ethan stood there and stared out at the sky, counting the stars, white holes on a canvas of black, until he couldn?t count anymore as they all began to disappear into pastel clouds, becoming nothingness for the night. No more holes. Zach was only a memory.

You will meet him on the Metro, hands gripping a metal pole, shoulders of the other civilians shuffling your own. The lights flicker and dim at random. The train is bumpy. It is quiet.

He will be playing Tetris on an old Game Boy, level 10. In five minutes, he's able to beat the game. He's leaning on the pole, not holding it. Like you, he has his hood over his head, his sleeves covering his hands, jet black hair peeking out from the darkness of the hood. Once you lean over, he will ask you if you want to play. You will say no, thank you. He will nod and introduce himself. You will say your name. You will continue to talk about video games.

Around you, the civilians glance over, but say nothing. You try your hardest to hide the fact you are not the same. You are an Other. You think they can see straight through your denials. Slowly, one by one, the civilians leave the Metro. You and him will be left alone to talk. You ask where he lives. He states the Flat Block you live in. You say you live there too. He nods, you try to discern any hint of interest.

You both wait until the Metro's last stop to get off. You will try not to notice how close you are to his hand when you get off the train. You will both get out of the station and walk down the road toward the lonely Flat Block, the Flats casting shadows on the horizon, huddled together like scared rabbits. It is getting dark. You curse. You should pick up the pace. People like you shouldn't be out at a time like this. You are an Other. You are not welcome here.

He distracts you. When it is time for you to separate and go to your respected Flats, you shake hands, say your good-byes and leave. You think you will never see him again.

Three months later, he is there with you as you cry on the floor of your Flat, blood all over your wrists, the knife you used scarlet stained. He cleans the blood from your dirty hands, washes your wounds in the kitchen sink, looks at you and whispers how bad feelings come and go. Sometimes the simplest things comfort you. You look at him and appreciate the quiet beauty of his contours in the cheap warm lamplight of your bedroom. He smiles at you. You can't help it when you kiss him, his hands wrapped around your bandaged arms.

You do not think about the consequences of your actions.

You will think more clearly about the consequences of your actions when the following week he will take off his shirt in front of you, rip off the Ace Bandages around his chest, show his breasts to you. His ribs, twisted and corrupt are visible through his skin, sticking out like a patch of grass peeking through asphalt. You watched him in silence as he collapsed onto his knees, sobbing, saying how sorry he was, curled in on himself, presenting his skin as if he wanted you to break it.

Underneath the lamplight, you hold him as he had done once before. You fall asleep with him in your arms. That night, you had a dream he slipped far away into the shadows, somewhere you couldn't follow.

He was an Other. A special kind of Other. You had to protect him. You will feel under pressure from fear. Hunting Season will draw near. Your hands will unlock from his. You will be afraid to go out into public. At the Square, you will want to feel joy when you see his hands go up, fingers outstretched as the first snow begins to fall, his breath misting out like a vagabond ghost. You will want to smile because he is beautiful and he is here with you. There is an ache in your side, however. You will try to hide your grimace.

You will give him a chest binder and Testosterone smuggled across the border. You will want him to be happy. In turn, he will take the razors and knives you keep in your drawers, take you down to the Bridge, guide your hand as you throw all those harmful instruments into the River. The water will consume it all.

Your happiness will fade and be snatched from you. You will regret walking with him until the late midnight hour, regret separating at the Square, promising to meet back at your Flat Block. You will regret not telling him to be careful and to not talk to strangers as he saunters off into the night. You will regret not thinking anything of it when you wake up the next morning and he is not knocking at your door, or sleeping in your bed, or texting you good morning.

You will find out later from a friend of a friend that he was found dead in front of a person's door way, a bullet wound in his head. The Hunters who had killed him had pissed all over his corpse. It was on the news briefly. He was called she.

You will not go to his funeral. You will not visit the site where he died. You will not protest the horrendous crime. You will stay in your room and lose yourself. You will take a hundred pills. You will be lying there in your room, weak, barely conscious. You will wait for the end. You will become darkness.

"Pause." He tells you. The two of you are sitting in the shade of a gnarled oak tree. His hands are wrapped around the faded gashes on your wrists, "I don't like this story."

"It's the truth. You wanted to know why I'm here."

"It's a sad story."

"It's our story."

"We should move on from that."

"Why?"

He is silent for a second, tracing his fingers on your marred skin. He looks at you, his brown eyes are unreadable, but he looks at you as if you were the one that was really dead, "It's the only thing you can do."

He then leans in close to you, brushes his lips against your cheek and ear and whispers to you in the softest, quietest tone, "Go to the River. Jump in. Let yourself be taken away."

You will wake up to find yourself in a hospital. Frantically, blindly, you will snap the IVs out of your arm, climb out of your cot and stand up, lightheaded and woozy. Grasping the walls, shrugging off hands on your shoulders from the various doctors and nurses that try and fail to stop you, you tumble along, take the Metro, sit next to the stray dog you and he used to feed candy bar crumbs.

When you get off the train, you will run. You will run through the Square, be careful not to slip on the ice like he did when the two of you were late to the Metro. Pass the vendors selling hot foods and pastries, remember the time you and he shared one.

You will pass roads and Flat Blocks, places that serve no memories except the times you were both lost and drunk from late night drinking, you will pass those bars, those restaurants, those shops, those cafes, those theaters, those churches and cathedrals you never worshipped at, until finally you will be on the Bridge. You will ignore the yells of the policemen that guard the City as you climb over the stone railing and overlook the River.

In the night, the River is dark, but the constellations that are reflected upon its surface wink at you, beckon you on. You will jump. You will hit the water and sink deep beneath the surface. You will remain there until your lungs scream. You will break the surface, coughing and heaving, but grinning. You will float on your back, let the current take you as star light sheds its muted gaze on you.