Categories > Original > Romance > Untitled Song
Seventh Song
A famous singer finds a boy laying in the snow. He decides to bring him home. He soon discovers that he has developed feelings for him, but he has trouble reaching out to the mentally ill boy.
?Blocked
The apartment seemed empty when I got there. "Ayah?" Music was being played loudly on the stereo, making the windows vibrate. It was one of his favorite bands. Something with nine...Nine Inch Nails was it? The sound was quite unnatural somehow, pretty hard, and very melancholic.
No answer to my call. I went further in, taking my coat off as I walked and throwing it on a sofa. It slid down from the edge, falling on the green carpet. It seemed no one was here. I got worried. I went back and picked up the coat, dumping it on the sofa and sat down and read the newspaper. The TV was on, but it was talking to itself. Then I looked out the window, seeing the first snow of the year starting to fall. It was strange how I saw it just starting to fall. It was strange, as if it'd told me it was going to fall now. I opened the window, breathing in the cool air that burned my lungs. And down there he was standing on the wet pavement. His left hand was in the pocket of the same coat as before and his other hand holding a black cigarette. The smoke was in front of his face like a gray filter in front of a picture. He looked up at me with a smile. His lower legs were bare and a little pink from the cold. The dress was too short to cover them and the boots were unlaced as always. The snow fell on his sunshine soft locks, glittering in the artificial light of the street lamp before melting down and dripping down from the tip of his locks to his shoulders and face.
I waved to him and he waved briefly back with the cigarette, slowly starting to walk unsteadily towards the front door. Ecstacy. He threw the cigarette before him and walked on it. He'd been partying.
He came up, kicking his boots off at random places, throwing the coat on the floor. Smells of chocolate-smoke and sweat filled my nostrils.
I observered him quietly as he took off his clothes and threw them on the floor as he made his way to the shower, not uttering a word to me. It felt like he was even further away from me than he usually was, as if he wasn't himself, or as if I wasn't there. But he was never close, he was never there, he was always in his own world, and now I felt it much stronger than usual, stinging in my chest.
Oddly enough I felt relieved, even though he'd done something I couldn't approve of. But he looked to be fine and quite happy, therefore I said nothing about it.
I sat back in the couch again and pulled a small blanket that we always kept there, on me. I wished I had some coffee, but I felt too lazy to go make it. The sound of water in the shower and soft buzz of the TV made me soon fall asleep. When I woke up I noticed nothing had changed. I checked the clock and noticed that one hour had passed. I went to check on him.
Ayah was standing in the bathroom, facing the white ceramic-wall, his side to me. I put my hand on the doorframe. "Didn't I tell you not to cut yourself anymore?"
He jumped, looking at me with fear and guilt, like a child getting caught red-handed, and stopped doodling on the wall. Blood was on his lips, arms and legs now. Crimson blood was smeared on his lips like lipstick. He called this dirty blood. He said he was dirty. He said the demons made his blood dirty and it was of no use to him, it didn't keep him alive, it was killing him, this blood.
He gulped and then avoided my eyes, turning to face the wall again. I could almost feel the chills crawling under his skin, running away from the fear that was me. Why did he fear me? "...I guess you did..." he said in his innocent tone, like a child who'd stolen his sisters hair brush and was being scolded. He'd written an "I" on the wall with his blood. Perhaps it was gonna develop further into something else later...but that wouldn't happen, I decided.
I rolled up my sleeves, took his hand and pulled him into the shower. He winced as if I'd forced him. Why did he wince? I hadn't forced him. Did he fear me this much? Did I restrain him? It felt like he stabbed me, though of course he was just standing there and looking at me washing him. Looking at me as if he wasn't in on this, as if he was just a passer by and it wasn't his body I was washing. I let the water wash the blood off the wall, and then bandaged him. I crouched in front of him, his naked body too small to be healthy, and dried his body carefully. He still looked at me with those eyes, those eyes that were like knives condemning me.
Ayah ran to the bedroom, still naked. He didn't care to dress. His feet left traces on the naked floor of the hallway. His hair was wet, but he didn't bother to dry it either. He curled up on his side on the bed facing the wall, wetting the pillow. I followed him and sat down on the bed in the angle between his tighs and calves, carressing his bandage covered thighs, longing to be closer, but not daring. I was afraid he would push me away even now, that he'd direct those knives at me again. I wished those knives would go away for I'd rather see the hollow crystal surface of his eyes looking through me because in some way I thought he understood me when he gazed at me like that, thought that he saw the very core of my being.
"Why did...?" He was sobbing. I took his hand and silenced him. He tried to calm down, drawing in air that made his body tremble and blinking away tears from those ever wet crystals. I leaned over him, kissing him behind the ear. He looked so small under me, curled up, sobbing, thinking I was mad at him. It was the demons that were telling him so, the demons were again playing their pranks on him and he couldn't distinguish it from his own thoughts anymore. I played with his hair. It was cold and the locks sticked toghether. I took the towel and dried the sunshine the best I could, pulling the blanket on him. I laid behind him, thrusting him further toward the wall to fit in the bed and played with his hair. He continued sobbing and I knew that he didn't really know why. Sometimes he didn't know why he cried and he never knew why he felt the way he did. He didn't turn to look at me, he didn't give me a clumsy goodnight kiss, and he didn't touch my hand that was wrapped around his waist. I knew I shouldn't kiss him either, I knew I shouldn't touch him, I knew I should pull that hand away, not play with his hair, but I did it anyway, even though I was afraid; I did it until he fell asleep.
No answer to my call. I went further in, taking my coat off as I walked and throwing it on a sofa. It slid down from the edge, falling on the green carpet. It seemed no one was here. I got worried. I went back and picked up the coat, dumping it on the sofa and sat down and read the newspaper. The TV was on, but it was talking to itself. Then I looked out the window, seeing the first snow of the year starting to fall. It was strange how I saw it just starting to fall. It was strange, as if it'd told me it was going to fall now. I opened the window, breathing in the cool air that burned my lungs. And down there he was standing on the wet pavement. His left hand was in the pocket of the same coat as before and his other hand holding a black cigarette. The smoke was in front of his face like a gray filter in front of a picture. He looked up at me with a smile. His lower legs were bare and a little pink from the cold. The dress was too short to cover them and the boots were unlaced as always. The snow fell on his sunshine soft locks, glittering in the artificial light of the street lamp before melting down and dripping down from the tip of his locks to his shoulders and face.
I waved to him and he waved briefly back with the cigarette, slowly starting to walk unsteadily towards the front door. Ecstacy. He threw the cigarette before him and walked on it. He'd been partying.
He came up, kicking his boots off at random places, throwing the coat on the floor. Smells of chocolate-smoke and sweat filled my nostrils.
I observered him quietly as he took off his clothes and threw them on the floor as he made his way to the shower, not uttering a word to me. It felt like he was even further away from me than he usually was, as if he wasn't himself, or as if I wasn't there. But he was never close, he was never there, he was always in his own world, and now I felt it much stronger than usual, stinging in my chest.
Oddly enough I felt relieved, even though he'd done something I couldn't approve of. But he looked to be fine and quite happy, therefore I said nothing about it.
I sat back in the couch again and pulled a small blanket that we always kept there, on me. I wished I had some coffee, but I felt too lazy to go make it. The sound of water in the shower and soft buzz of the TV made me soon fall asleep. When I woke up I noticed nothing had changed. I checked the clock and noticed that one hour had passed. I went to check on him.
Ayah was standing in the bathroom, facing the white ceramic-wall, his side to me. I put my hand on the doorframe. "Didn't I tell you not to cut yourself anymore?"
He jumped, looking at me with fear and guilt, like a child getting caught red-handed, and stopped doodling on the wall. Blood was on his lips, arms and legs now. Crimson blood was smeared on his lips like lipstick. He called this dirty blood. He said he was dirty. He said the demons made his blood dirty and it was of no use to him, it didn't keep him alive, it was killing him, this blood.
He gulped and then avoided my eyes, turning to face the wall again. I could almost feel the chills crawling under his skin, running away from the fear that was me. Why did he fear me? "...I guess you did..." he said in his innocent tone, like a child who'd stolen his sisters hair brush and was being scolded. He'd written an "I" on the wall with his blood. Perhaps it was gonna develop further into something else later...but that wouldn't happen, I decided.
I rolled up my sleeves, took his hand and pulled him into the shower. He winced as if I'd forced him. Why did he wince? I hadn't forced him. Did he fear me this much? Did I restrain him? It felt like he stabbed me, though of course he was just standing there and looking at me washing him. Looking at me as if he wasn't in on this, as if he was just a passer by and it wasn't his body I was washing. I let the water wash the blood off the wall, and then bandaged him. I crouched in front of him, his naked body too small to be healthy, and dried his body carefully. He still looked at me with those eyes, those eyes that were like knives condemning me.
Ayah ran to the bedroom, still naked. He didn't care to dress. His feet left traces on the naked floor of the hallway. His hair was wet, but he didn't bother to dry it either. He curled up on his side on the bed facing the wall, wetting the pillow. I followed him and sat down on the bed in the angle between his tighs and calves, carressing his bandage covered thighs, longing to be closer, but not daring. I was afraid he would push me away even now, that he'd direct those knives at me again. I wished those knives would go away for I'd rather see the hollow crystal surface of his eyes looking through me because in some way I thought he understood me when he gazed at me like that, thought that he saw the very core of my being.
"Why did...?" He was sobbing. I took his hand and silenced him. He tried to calm down, drawing in air that made his body tremble and blinking away tears from those ever wet crystals. I leaned over him, kissing him behind the ear. He looked so small under me, curled up, sobbing, thinking I was mad at him. It was the demons that were telling him so, the demons were again playing their pranks on him and he couldn't distinguish it from his own thoughts anymore. I played with his hair. It was cold and the locks sticked toghether. I took the towel and dried the sunshine the best I could, pulling the blanket on him. I laid behind him, thrusting him further toward the wall to fit in the bed and played with his hair. He continued sobbing and I knew that he didn't really know why. Sometimes he didn't know why he cried and he never knew why he felt the way he did. He didn't turn to look at me, he didn't give me a clumsy goodnight kiss, and he didn't touch my hand that was wrapped around his waist. I knew I shouldn't kiss him either, I knew I shouldn't touch him, I knew I should pull that hand away, not play with his hair, but I did it anyway, even though I was afraid; I did it until he fell asleep.
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