"You came into my room that day and told me that I couldn’t possibly be in love with you. I called you a liar and a fool and dismissed you, but you didn’t go. You went on to tell me that my art...
Once upon a time I had a house. I had a warm bed and a job that paid decently. I had a slight nose that was perky and pale, like the rest of my skin.
I drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and sang. Most of all, I made art. I drew comic books and sketched monsters from my imagination.
Nightmares, as scary as they are, are a great inspiration. They were a great inspiration for me, at least.
You started to come around more often, and it messed with my schedule a bit, but nothing was really worth noting. You teased me about how neurotic I was about getting every last splotch of ink in that one character's black coat. You would stand over me, waiting, a cancer-stick dangling from between your chapped lips as you watched me.
"Gerard," you would tell me, pushing your hand through my messy black mop of hair, "Gerard hurry up or I'm gunna go get coffee without you," you would tease to me, probably biting my cheek at this point to get my attention. I'd push you away for a few seconds before finishing up and standing to go with you to the coffee place.
Usually Starbucks. You always hated how Starbucks was a corporate machine, but drank it anyway. It was undeniably good coffee.
About a year passed and you moved in with me.
We slept together.
I was glad to share my space with you. You and your stuff. You didn't really have much stuff, but it was more than I was used to. And it kind of smelled, actually.
Then again, you kind of smelled. It was a nice boyish smell. You were younger than me, but no one could really tell. You were the one with the scruff. I couldn't grow a beard if I tried. You liked my clean, slightly chubby face anyway. I was fat in high school. I lost the weight not long after, before I met you, so you only ever knew me to be skinny. I still had face issues. That's why my hair was always so long. I figured that it would hide it.
Three years in and you were silently at war with yourself. You couldn't really take it anymore. You couldn't. You got increasingly restless. When I wasn't working at the movie rental place I was at home, drawing or painting.
There wasn't enough time for you. You said that you wouldn't mind my secluded nature. I guess you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into.
An invisible wall began to form between us. You were trying so hard to break it down, to dissemble it brick by brick, but you were losing.
In the fourth year, you told me you would leave if I didn't make more time for you. We were both so selfish. I wanted more of myself, and you wanted more of me. You wanted me to be there for you always, which I guess isn't that much to ask, really. You could say that I lead you on.
You came into my room that day and told me that I couldn't possibly be in love with you. I called you a liar and a fool and dismissed you, but you didn't go. You went on to tell me that my art was my only mistress, and that if you couldn't have me, no one could.
I had locked myself in my room, painting. I wouldn't show you what it was. That maddened you. You were going crazy. I had been working on that one piece of art for over a year, and you accused me of being in love with it. You asked me if I even liked you anymore.
A shot rang out.
I had always thought that the walls needed a little color.
I didn’t expect the red to come from my own body.
It was only then that you saw what I had been painting all this time. On the canvas, turned away from sight, cared for with soft lights and rich paint colors, was your portrait.
I truly was in love with what I was painting. I was in love with you.
It was just too late.