I lost my boy yesterday. [[CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SUICIDE]]. ... Frerard?
For those of you who DO know us: thank you.
I lost my boy yesterday.
I say 'my boy', because that's what he was; mine. He was my beautiful green-eyed boy, so small and perfect.
So very easily broken.
He took himself from me that night, quiet as a whisper as he died. I know because his family heard nothing as they sat down for dinner. They were completely deaf to the wet cutting of flesh, to the wheezing gasps as the blood spilled forth from his slender wrists.
They didn't hear him as his breath slowed, as his heart struggled to keep him alive.
They didn't hear him.
It's amazing that I didn't sense something. Even now, completely numb to everything else, I can't help but wonder how I didn't feel such a huge part of me disappear. How did I miss him leaving? How did I sleep that night, unaware that the next morning would be met with such terrible pain? If your other half stops existing, how do you not know?
I didn't hear him either.
I wonder if he thought of me as he left. I wonder if my face was the last thing he thought of, if he regretted leaving me like this. Did he know how much I'd hurt? Is that what he wanted? Did he hope that I'd feel guilty? Maybe he wanted me to kill myself, too. Maybe he wanted me to feel pain because I didn't know about his.
He must've been suffering. He must've been in agony.
And I didn't hear him.
How do you hide that? How do you hide that kind of pain? How do you keep it secret, the ache that's strong enough to rip you out of this world? Is it even possible to smile when you're rotting on the inside?
No one heard him.
I always thought I'd be there when he died. I imagined going to bed for the last time, old and white-haired with age, and waking up to find him gone. It would've been hard, but after a while, I would follow him. After a long life together, we would leave without a struggle.
It's hard not to be angry with him. Didn't he know I loved him? Didn't he know that by picking up that knife, he was killing me, too? I tried so hard to protect him! I tried so hard to shield him from the world, because I knew this would happen!
It's all his step-father's fault. That man ruined everything the day he came into my boy's life. Between the homophobic comments and the constant whining for a better son, it didn't take a genius to pinpoint the stressor that led to this... this tragedy.
I don't know what to call it. Suicide is such an ugly word, something too cold and wrong to be used with my boy. I don't like it. Murder is also wrong, because there was only one person who made the decision to pick up the blade, and that was the victim. No matter what word I use, no matter how many times I rearrange and change my sentence, it's all too wrong.
My boy was innocent. He was fragile. His step-father is a monster, a monster with hands and words far too harsh for a boy made of glass. He broke without anyone seeing, splintering and cracking without even the slightest hint.
Maybe that was the problem; he was too smart. He could hide anything without even trying. I remember how long he hid his sexuality from his family, bringing home boy after boy while leaving his parents in the dark.
Not me, though. I always knew. He never kept anything from-
Oh. Oh, wait.
He kept his feelings from me.
The first (and what I thought to be last) time he hid his feelings was when we were just friends. He was quiet around people he didn't know, so it took a while for me to figure out what he was thinking. I noticed how his face would go red when he talked to me, how he always stayed at least an army's length away from me, how he'd always sleep on the floor when I invited him to my house. I thought he was just being shy, and that he'd come around when we got to know each other better. I didn't know that he liked me until he finally admitted it, right in front of everybody at school.
I loved him so much for that. I thought I'd finally found my soulmate in that boy, the one with the shaggy hair and wide eyes.
But I still didn't hear him.
I didn't hear the sobs that came from his room at night, nor did I hear the hoarse screams into his pillow when no one was home. The only reason I know about them now is because of his note, but I can still imagine what he must've looked like.
My pretty boy curled up on his bed, fingers clenching his sheets and his pillow soaked with tears.
I didn't hear him.
I guess I'm made of glass, too, because I can feel myself breaking. There are pieces of me shattering and smashing into dust, and I can feel them floating away. There's something in my stomach, something black and thick. It's writhing down there, slipping up my throat and threatening to spill out. Just when I think it's finally ready to leave my body, it just slowly edges back into my stomach and continues to twist my insides. My head throbs, the pain rising and falling as thoughts come and go. It's like being sick with an imaginary flu, only there's no pretend pill or shot to cure it.
Maybe this is how my boy felt. Maybe he had this illness, and maybe he finally found a way to cure it.
Maybe I'll just wait a while and see if it disappears. Perhaps it'll fade over time, and my breath won't be slicked with the black mass in my stomach. Maybe my headaches will go away, too, and I'll just move on as if nothing happened.
Or maybe I'll pick up a blade. Maybe I'll slice through my skin and peel it back to see what's underneath it. Maybe I'll let the black stuff exit with my blood, and maybe I'll sleep for a long time.
And maybe no one will hear me.
AN: Based on something that happened to me and my boyfriend, Ben. NO ONE PANIC. BEN IS ALIVE AND KICKING. NO ONE DIED. I just needed to vent a little, because I'm still mad about it. Don't worry, everything's fine. As Ben would say: "We are unicorns-on-fire fabulous". Yes, he says that. I find it adorable.