An Undead Tale

Panic struck me as I rolled over, pulled the safety off my hand gun and was deafened suddenly by the three quick shots I released.

The body dropped on top of me, the hundred-and-eighty-something pound man pinning me to the ground.  His rotten smell enveloped my nose causing me to gag.  But I knew I had to hold it down, otherwise I'd suffocate in my own stomach waste.  

I shimmied my left hand into the inner side of my pant waist, tugging out a worn dagger and stabbing the man's gut to push him off.  

With great strain his body slowly slumped to the side, allowing me to turn over and hurl. 

What little that was in my stomach was now under me, and my body felt exhausted. 

That was the second close-call in the past day that almost sent me to my own immortal death. 

"Fuck!"  I spat, punching the cement beneath me, "Fucking fuck!"

I gasped and sat on my heels, looking up at the setting sun.  There was a stale taste in my mouth, and I didn't want to waste the water I had to rinse it out, so I pulled out a cigarette instead while adjusting myself to be able to see my ankle.  Or in other words, the ankle that the man had grabbed. 

Relief filled me as I realized he hadn't broken my skin with his filthy nails that were filled with this disease. 

I remember sitting at home with my brother when we were younger saying how the world needed something to purge people.  I know that's awful, honest I do, but we were young and heard all about over population issues and all of these terrorist threats.
When the virus hit the news, it seemed like a blessing.
But it wasn't.
It wasn't a blessing because it wasn't natural.
A blessing is something from the natural world that brings a person luck or sense of calm.
This was neither.

I pushed myself up, setting into a steady jog across this street.  All the doors of the large houses were bolted down with wooden planks, metal poles and simple cardboard.   As the sun kept setting, my panic was returning.

I remember when it was the sixth night when the disease started, we weren't too scared because media hyped things up, we knew that.  We knew that.  But when I was in bed, the front door started banging.  Really, really aggressively.  It woke my fifteen-year-old self, as well as my older brother.  Mum and dad were already up, they were always arguing and for the past few days they were arguing about whether to stay at home or visit our grandparents.  But I was really scared. Adrenaline hit me, see?  And my heart was racing.  My brother's room was right next to mine, and I rushed into his room full of fear, to see that he was in his clothes, a backpack on his back and his sword on his waist.  He got that sword for his ninth birthday.  He loved Japanese culture, so a family friend got him an antique katana.  He looked at me when I walked in and asked if I was okay.  I hugged him.
Dad when to check the door.
That was the first mistake.
That was the first damned mistake.
The thing lunged at him.
It didn't bit him anywhere.
It tore him a part.
Drove its hands into his chest with its nails.  Mum ran down to help him, but they travel in packs.  They're smart.  They're very smart.
My brother and I stayed in his room.

My breath was coming quicker, I was running faster.  The sun was almost gone.  I finally saw the lighthouse.  Thank fuck.

But like I said, they're smart.  This disease... I know people would call them zombies.  I know people get angry when shows call them 'walkers' or 'undead' but I can't use the term zombie.  The disease is a strain of rabies and tumour cells.  The people who made it thought the two could cancel out one another.  But it made a mecha-virus.   A terrifying virus.  The cancer cells multiplied muscle cells and tissue as well as rapid brain cell growth.  It protected their minds while giving increased strength and longer limbs.  Then the rabies... it made them crazed.  Rapid movement,  sharper teeth and longer nails.  It shut down the analytical mind and amplified the murderous, kill-or-be-killed.  Then once they began eating flesh like cannibals, it warped their sense of sanity to the extreme, just like how cannibals are affected.

As I reached the water to the lighthouse I dove in without hesitation, swimming to the little island.  And by the time I made it to the door, the sky was purple.

My brother was always into dressing up as a superhero- spiderman, batman-- even as a Jedi master.  He had his sword ready as I quivered behind him, we both were watching the door.
We heard and saw the door shaking.  I felt tears forming.  He was sturdy.  Finally, the doorknob began turning.  Really slowly.  I thought about how in movies they did this to create suspense, but it was the killer toying with the prey.  The door shot open and the thing jumped at my brother.  I remember screaming as he swung his sword against the man's head.  It was rusty, but it cracked his skull and he dropped.  My brother was heaving.  More were coming through the door and he was slicing them.  When there was a break he shoved me, his backpack and something I didn't see under his bed, and he pushed several dead bodies over the bottom so I couldn't be seen or smelled.  And I was trying not to cry.  I was confused as to why he wasn't hiding with me.  But I waited under the bed for days.  Waited for him to get me.  Waited for me to stop being afraid.  But finally, I pushed out from under the bed, and stood up.
My legs were sore, as well as me back.  I tucked the little package he left into the bag and looked around and grabbed what I could.  I also checked around the entire house for useful items.  By the time I got to the front door, I noticed that mum and dad were tucked on the couch, looking like they were asleep, and the front door closed.  I sighed and opened it while saying goodbye to mum and dad.
I threw my shoulder against the door, falling into the lighthouse.  Up, up, up I went.  Finding my little sleeping ground by the rotating light.  I sat on my sleeping bag, looking through my backpack.  At the bottom was the little package my brother left me.  
I added another day to my journal.
It had been Seven Hundred and Eighty-Two Days.
Just over two years.
I sighed and pulled out the package.  He would be Twenty today.
I opened the package for the second time and reread the note inside of it.

Keep going, Isabelle, I'm out there.  I love you.  I'll find you by grandma's as soon as possible.  When you get there, wait for me.  I'll be waiting for you too.  But you need to get to -----

I dropped the package in water before I read it.  But I'll get there.  The sentence after talks about me meeting someone.  Someone by town hall.  The lighthouse is a thirty minute walk to town hall, and I sit there all day, and come back here to sleep.  I've been doing it for two years.

I heard the Lighthouse door open, fear slicing through my skull.  I grabbed the knife and huddled against the wall, waiting. 

Calling

I thought I would try to write you a poem

because I could never explain how I felt

but my throat always tightens from sadness

at the cards that I’ve been dealt. 

So I can’t tell you that my knees feel like they’ll give

or that my face is burning away

just because you acknowledge me

and leave me with nothing to say. 

So I thought that I could try

to bring these to words

but I’m falling

but I’m falling

but I’m falling.

Your simple smile towards me

makes my heart jump into my throat

making my mind explode in euphoria

and escape from my emotional boat.

I get so shaky that I can’t tell if I’m cold

or if it’s just from passing you

and I think so quickly that I can’t see

I can’t see if the sky is blue.

So I need to feel your soul

I need you to hear

that I’m calling

that I’m calling

that I’m calling

you

The Sea

I think I was swimming in an ocean of dreams

When my vision began to ebb

and the stars I was so used to seeing

Decided they wanted to go to bed

I didn’t think too much of it at first

because Jupiter began to shine so bright

and as I let my heavy head fall into the sea

My heart lifted to see it was sunlight.

The Little Mud in Life

When she was young, she tied her hair up away from her face.
His hair was trimmed but messy as he ran through the field with his friends.
She carried a colouring book to the swings, laughing with her older sister.
As she tried matching the blue sky to her picture, her sister pushed her gently.
He was slipping in the mud and yelling at his mates, screaming with joy.
But he slipped too close to the swings, and kicked up some mud onto her.
Her white stocking were wrecked, and the picture she worked on wasn't able to be seen.
Her sister started yelling,
He tried to apologize,
She didn't say anything,
and then the bell rang.
All the students scurried inside, trying not to be late.
But the boy stayed behind to try to wipe the mud off the swing.
The girl wasn't angry, just embarrassed that she was so dirty.
She was sent to the washroom to clean up, but on her way she saw through the window that the boy was using his water bottle to clear the mud from the swings.
She blinked a few times before walking into the bathroom.  She opened the closet full of cleaning supplies and grabbed the bucket and sponge.
She filled it up with soap and some water, but when she got to the swings there was no sight of him.
When she was about to turn away, she heard a slapping noise behind her.  To her feet were a pair of mucky black running shoes.  Her confusion was short, because after she saw them, she looked up.  At the top of the swing set was the boy, and in his hand was one of his socks as he was scrubbing the post.
She called for him to come down, but he resisted.
Finally, she soaked the sponge and threw it at him.  A squishy splat echoed in the air, and a large, oval, damp shape cloaked his navy t-shirt.
He was stunned for a moment, and both the boy and girl watched the sponge squish back onto the gravel.
He hopped down, and asked her what she was doing out of class.
She didn't speak, but pulled falling strands away from her eyes.  She reached down for the sponge and began cleaning his runners.
They didn't speak for a while, but cleaned the mess around them.
He put on his shoes bare-footed as she tried getting the mud out of her stockings.
And when they walked into the school again, they went into their own classrooms.
They didn't see each other again, for he played soccer when he was older while she drew.
But when they passed each other, he thought of her ruined stockings while she thought of his shoes.
And they went their ways.

Amen.

It seems like humanity is lost.
That's heard pretty often from people, yeah?
But every once in a while something will happen that will make your heart feel like a bit of gold is shining on it.
Like there's so many good people out there.

A year or so ago, I wasn't feeling great.  None of my friends were at school that day, I felt alone, depressed and hopeless. It was cold outside, and air helps calm my mind, so I decided I'd go outside in the cold to cry, since no one would be out there.
I was contemplating ditching out the rest of the day, just go home.  Don't even grab my bag, just go.  That's what I was thinking.  And I was going to.
I don't necessarily believe in a god.  I'm spiritual.  And before you glare at your computer screen, whip out the holy water and spray this technology while verbalising the Holy Bible and chanting what a sinner I am, hold up.  Just, fucking stop for a second.
When I was in such a state of despair, I kid you not, a shadow fell across my feet.
Empty field.
Empty courtyard.
Just me.
And as I looked up, clearly upset, I see a dark figure with the sun beams wrapping its edges so clearly she looked like an unearthly being.
I tried to stop crying.
I feel embarrassed crying in front of people.
But this girl, as she bent towards me, sitting down next to me, didn't speak.
I knew her vaguely, she was a yer ahead of me and in my drama class.  I also knew her sister, and I knew that both of them moved from Nigeria a year prior- for her sister and I got along in the classes we had together.  I didn't know either of them though.  But these girls... I can honestly say I've never met two purely whole people that cared so deeply about others.  I consider myself a caring person, but to plants, animals and a few people who I feel deserve it.  This is why I always carry change when I take the train, so if someone needs some, I can say yes.
I'll call this girl Renee.  Yeah... that's pretty, like her soul.  She didn't say anything, but turned her head to me and asked quietly, "Is it okay if I pray?"
I'm not against religion.  I love it.  I love hearing about it.
I loved that she asked this. I nodded and tried to smile.  She bowed her head, her black hair covering her face, and I can hear what she's saying.
"Dear God, I am praying to you for this beautiful heart, for she is feeling ill right now.  And I'm going to tell you why she deserves to feel better.  She deserves to feel better because she has had the sorrow for more than any person should feel.  I know this may be needed of her, but please, please take the pain away for a bit.  Please let her feel healed for a long while before she has to face what is hurting her so.  If you've truly seen her as everyone has, you'd see how she needs a break.  Just a break.  Amen."
And she sat with me for a bit, before she tugged at her scarf and put her hand on my shoulder.
"Emily, please know that you'll be in my prayers."
And she left.
I think that's one of the last times I saw her.
But my gosh, that is one of my most treasured moments.
So when you see a homeless man or woman on the street, and they're asking for change- or they're not- either way, maybe give them what you have, no matter what they use it to buy, just giving them something can make them feel that same glow, that same love and thanks.
It's an idea.
But maybe,
humanity isn't as lost as we think it is.
Maybe we're just looking in the wrong places.

To a Friend

The first time I saw my father, I was already a twenty-nine year old man with an ex wife and a daughter.
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either.  It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke?  Only the best for my paps."
Oh no.  It was a bloodbath to say the least.

You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age.  My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for.  Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food.   Which is what he did.  By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind.  Literally.  I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard.  I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone.  They was howlin' though.  Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked.  And I knew it toos.  See, my paps was a drinker.  Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid.  A blood related one nonetheless.  But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on.  That was m' curfew.  And I had screwed the fuck up.  I know that.  I triggered him.  Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me.  I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset.  He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're!  You should've seen m'girl Nancy!  She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother.  I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing.  Short brown hair, large blue eyes.  Medium build.  She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though.  They've course were them gooey type.  Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians.  Fucken' Asians.  They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers.  Y'know, the sweaters.  Ughk.  Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything.  In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho.  I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me.  I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness.  It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school.  I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool.  That's kind of when things slowed.  Because then I found art.  HA.  It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore.  Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork.  I built everything I could've in those three short years.  And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em.  Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl.  It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when  I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed.  She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin.  It was a light brown.  Then her eyes, oh god.  They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray.  And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither.  No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes.  In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks.  And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit.  I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain.  It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me.  She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it.  I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated.  We had Lillian when we was a bit older though.  We was twenty-four, twenty-five.  But then Lucy kept gettin' sick.  She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time.  But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day.  Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more.  Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain.  Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed.  See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak.  I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest.  Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed.  I'd fear for Lily.  I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily.  If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset.  I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that.  But I never hit her.  I guess that's a lie.  Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her.  No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap.  I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.

I didn't mean to.  I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived.  Some place in Oklahoma.  I drove for a few days.  I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him.  I didn't want him to know she existed.  So I went up to the old, rotting door.  And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
     "I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy."  He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way.  Before I meant to I said,
     "Jacob Merth!  I'm Jacob Merth.  Your son."  He froze.  Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
     "Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
     I don't know why I went in.  I shouldn't have.  I know that now.  But, it's too late.
     All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places.  The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
     He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?"  I felt shocked.  Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
     "What.. do you mean?"
     "Apol-o-gize."  His iron stare made me uneasy.  Why did I come here?  "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
     "I didn't know you went to jail.  I was six and in pain.  I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
     His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
     It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back.  Suddenly I was scared for Lily.  Would she be adopted now, too?
     All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other.  And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand.  It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head.  I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose.   He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him.  With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch.  My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation.  The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more.   I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
     I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic.  I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor.  The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine.  It hurt more than losin' Lucy.  But I was going to jail.  I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now.  My conscious was wrong now.
     I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him.  But it was me.
     I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth.  I love you, Lucy, Lily.  Please forgi------------------

Evermore

I remember everything about him.  His green eyes.  His soulful fucking eyes.  I hated them.
I hated how he would hold my hand so tenderly, as though he would break me.
I hated how he would brush his nose against my neck, making my knees become fuzzy and frail.
I hated how he would be talking so excitedly while walking ahead of me, and then he would turn his head over his shoulder, grinning crookedly at me.
I hated how when his life became so hectic he told me to let him sink.
______
 
      "Vi?"  His soft gaze tried to meet mine.  But I refused to look at him with tears clouding my vision.  He pulled his large hands around my small ones, "Please."
     I forced myself to look at him.  But  I could only reach his shaggy brown hair.
     "Let me drown."  He was whispering.  "Let me drown, and eventually I'll be able to swim to the surface and see you on the shore."
     My teeth were clenching.  "Let me help."  He smiled sadly.
     "This is something you can't help with."
     "You haven't let me try!"  I leaned forward, squeezing his hands desperately.
     And then he brought his mouth to my forehead.  And he rested there for several moments.  Just before he pulled away he murmured, "I love you.  I can't let you be hurt."
     I sneered, "How ironic."  I pushed away, whipping my hands out and away from him.  And I rushed out of his flat, into the busy California streets.  It was colder than usual, so I tugged my wind breaker tight around me, not knowing whether my trembling was from him or the wind.
And I walked away.
______

Years ago, when he and I had just met, we were sophomores at an uptight private school.  We didn't have any classes together, but his and my lockers were right next to each other.  So each day, we would be at our lockers and we would say hello.  Every day.  For the entire year.
I never thought of him as anything other than an acquaintance until he approached me during the first week of junior year.  His hair was really long, licking the base of his jaw and swept up away from his eyes.  It looked messily beautiful.
     He leaned his hands against the outdoor table, an odd gleam in his eyes that matched the crooked grin plastered to his face.
     "Violet, right?"    He wore a deep red t-shirt with a high v-neck.  But I couldn't stop staring at his eyes.  They were such a clear, dark green.  I had never seen something so amazing.
     I nodded, stiff with surprise.
     "We had lockers next to each other last year."
     I nodded again.
     He stood up straight, adjusting his shirt to fall against the rim of his navy black jeans.  "Zaylen."          He coughed slightly, a pink blush sweeping under his eyes.
     I nodded, unsure what to say.
     He cleared his throat, "Any ways, I was invited to this party," He waved his hand, "Or get together or something..."  He caught himself, "And I thought, I dunno.  If you wanted to come, I could introduce you to some people."
     "Are you saying I don't know any one?"  I spoke before my mind could stop myself.  I winced at how mean I had sounded.  He seemed unfazed as his grin returned.
     "No- no, it's just..."  He glanced to the side and leaned in, "Everyone talks about you, but I barely see you with anyone."  His endless eyes stared into my own, "So you should meet everyone who is talking about you."  Zaylen shrugged his hand into his front jean pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.  As I opened my mouth in protest he unfolded the lined paper.  "My phone number, the party's address and the password to enter."  He moved the paper towards me like a bribe, "This Friday, ten o'clock.  When you get in call me and I'll meet up with you."
     "What if I'm busy this Friday?"  I inquired as I rose my dirty blond eyebrows.
     "Well you are."  He tapped the paper, "You're coming to a party and you will hang out with me and you will have a great time."  Before I could respond he began walking away, and that was the first time he looked over his shoulder grinning wildly, "See you Friday, Vi!"
______

I hated how when I met up with him he placed his hand flat against my shoulder blade.
I hated how coolly he introduced me to every one.
I hated how he brought me drinks with the cap sealed tightly and unopened.
I hated how he shoved some guy who was intoxicated off of me.
I hated how he didn't drink anything, and how he got me home safely.
I hated how when he stopped the car he leaned across the arm rest and brushed his lips so gently across my cheek that it felt like a rose petal.
I hated how he told me he'd call me so we could hang out again.
I hated how I nodded dumbly and said yes.
I hated how he made it seem like he cared about me.
______

Zaylen didn't formally ask me out until we had hung out a total of nine times.  He explained to me, that proper etiquette was to wait until we had met up the same amount of times as his favourite number.
     "For good luck."  He said smiling.
     I said yes.  And we went to parties.  And we stayed at his place.  And we toured around Cali.  We went to the beach almost everyday, running into the endless waves and falling back into the velvet sand.
     There we lay one day, huffing and out of breath.  We were on our backs, staring up at the pale pink setting sky.  I turned my head and looked at him.  God, I loved looking at him.  He had tiny water droplets that lay on the tips of his thick black eyelashes.  He blinked and turned to me.  But there was something different.  He looked at me, and it felt like he was placing a blanket around me.  I felt secure.  We had been together for almost a year.  But it felt like I wasn't caring about him less, but intensely more.
     "I'm in love with you."  I didn't see his lips move, but his low voice echoed through my ears.  He and I had told each other we loved one another a few months ago, but to hear that he was in love... I felt it.
     Zaylen and I stared at each other, and he didn't give me a look as though he was expecting me to say it back.  But I did.  I said it so many times.
______

Senior year took us by surprise.  College applications had to be going out, parents were fumbling and being melancholic about how they'll miss their kids.  I had already said goodbye to my parents because Zaylen had convinced me to move in with him in a new apartment.
     We went through school focused, but coming home to him gave me such euphoria, that I couldn't believe how much I loved him.  I loved Zaylen so much that it physically hurt.  My heart would race, my stomach would churn, and my legs were immobile.
     But he was there to catch me.
     He always caught me.
______

After a few months, he would get home and be quiet.  He wasn't eating as much and sleeping more.          He had permanent black lines under his eyes, and he never seemed energetic.
     We still went on walks, but his excitement for life seemed drained.
     We sat on the dock on a Sunday.  I remember it being a Sunday because I pointed to the horizon, trying to cheer him up.  "As the last bit of sun fades into the horizon, Sunday becomes Monday."
     He tried to smile.  He really did.  But it seemed fractured.  He kissed my temple.
     When he got back to the apartment, he sat down on the love seat.  As I was about to go to the bedroom he called me.  "Vi."  He sounded weak.
     I remember freezing.  I was scared suddenly.  I knew something was happening.
     "Can you come sit down, Vi?"  Zaylen's voice cracked, and I hesitantly moved towards him.
     I sat about a foot away from him, but he shuffled closer to me.  His long hair strung in front of his eyes, and he seemed to fade out looking at the carpet.  I pulled his hands onto my lap, and I brushed my thumb across the back of his hand.  He squeezed my hand with reassurance, and looked up in response.
     "I did what you asked."  I blinked, not understanding what he was talking about.  He nodded his head slightly, "Therapist."  A wave of realization shot through me as he continued, "To try to feel better.  It's kind of working.  Sometimes.  I don't know.  They're going to be letting me try different medications."  I was crying suddenly.  I don't know why.  To hear his pain was so hard.  It felt like I was being torn apart.  "There are times where I feel better, but then it gets worse for a bit.  They said it's normal, but it's just hard."  His green eyes looked at me.
______

I hated how he wouldn't let me try to help him.
I hated how I couldn't understand why he was sad.
I hated how he couldn't explain it.
I hated how helpless I felt.  How I feel.
I hated how hopeless he was.
______

It was a few weeks after he told me he was seeing so many people about his struggles.  He thought that we should get a dog.  That maybe something love-able and cuddly would help.  I agreed completely.  She was a Finnish Spitz crossed with husky, and the tiniest pup you could imagine.  She was the runt, but Azzy was the sweetest dog that we could have hoped for.  She made Zaylen smile more.  And he was willing to take her on walks.  But the time with me was minimal.  I would offer to come, or to take her for a walk alone, but he insisted differently.
     After a few more weeks he became distant from Azzy as well.  Our attempt was beginning to fail.  That's when he sat me down again.  And this time he told me he was leaving.  That he needed an intensive therapy program where he would live for a few months.
     I knew it was coming, but I didn't stop crying that night.  I was also crying in my dreams.
______

I hated how he hugged me, and told me he loved me as he walked away with his suitcase.
I hated how he didn't want me to see him for several weeks.
I hated how the doctors and nurses didn't let me talk to him.
I hated how I got used to Zaylen not being in the apartment.
I hated how I felt abandoned, when he was the one struggling so terribly.
______

He was right when he said he'd be there for more than a few months.  I finished school and began prepping for a University I got accepted to.
     I began seeing my parents more,  They lived in the same gray blue house, with the same beige carpet.  As my mother handed me a teacup filled with steaming green tea, my stomach dropped into a pit of guilt.
     She sat next to me on the large floral couch, resting her free hand on my knee as she held her own cup with the other.  "Tell me, Vi, how have you been?"
     And I talked to her.  I told her about how painful it was without him.  How he changed, and how I want him to get better.  How I want my Zaylen back.  We spoke for hours, tears emerged from both of us.  Laughter bubbled from both of us.  Daddy didn't get home until around dinner, so I stayed with them that night.  A constant warm comfort stayed with me.  Even as I strode up the staircase into my old bedroom, which was now the guest room.  I was now a guest.
______

The first time I visited Zaylen, a dense silence filled the space between us.  I didn't force him to speak.  I didn't give idle chit chat.  So we sat, studying each other.  Finally he reached over to me, slowly placing his hand on top of my thigh.
     His green eyes sparkled, "I'm going to be discharged in about a month, Violet." I wanted to smile, to hug him.   To expel all the relief that had seized up inside of me.  But that's what it did.  It froze inside of me.  And I couldn't tell him how my insides twisted with joy, how my heart began thumping as though it hadn't for the past four months.  But he squeezed my thigh to tell me he understood.  He always understood.
______

When he was released from the hospital, I ordered dinner so we could have a calm evening at home.  We sat on the couch quietly, and I felt odd for a reason I couldn't pin point.  And when we went to bed it felt odd to have him by my side.
     When we got up in the morning it felt odd.
     When we went out it felt odd.
     And I couldn't figure out why.
______

When he told me to let him go, so he could fix himself, I did.  And I didn't hate him for it.  I hated myself.
     Everything I hated about him, I only hated myself for enjoying it.
     I hated myself because when Zaylen had gone away for the five months, I had gotten used to the creaking of the apartment.  I had gotten used to cooking for one.  I had gotten used to walking Azzy alone.  I had gotten used to being alone.
     And in that time, I had fallen out of love with him.
     The boy I was head over heals in love with, the boy who stole my heart at fifteen, who was my first love, was just that.  My first love.
      And I hated that I had torn that love a part.
______

He knew.  He could tell.  And I saw the hurt in his eyes every day until I kissed him goodbye.  I kissed Azzy goodbye.
     And as I know now, the time I had with Zaylen was magical.
______

I remember everything about Zaylen.  His hair, eyes, mouth, clothing, vocabulary, favourite food, favourite joke.  Favourite everything.
______

I remember when he took me out on the roof and we lay and stared at the fireworks exploding and popping above us.
______

I remember how he blushed when he bumped his hand against my thigh for the first time.
______

I remember his tiny freckles at the base of his neck.
______

I remember, but I will not let these memories consume me.  I loved him.  I always will.  And I love all the memories we had and made.
     But I'm not in love with him anymore.
     Even though I wish I was.
______

I don't know where he is anymore.  We stayed in touch for a month or so.  Then we kind of parted.  Not in a negative way.  In a way that said "I love you, and thank you."  The beautiful thing about first loves, is that that is simply what they are.  First.  That doesn't mean the last.   And as I, Violet Hatcher write this, I can tell you that I have fallen in love three times.  One, with Zaylen Daniels.  Two, with Azzy Daniels-Hatcher.  Three, with the person I'm with now.  Liam Adamson.   And I don't know if he'll be my last, and I know I will not have the same memories as I did with Zaylen, but that's okay.  It's okay because it makes every love unique.   Every love is unique.