scene ii. Flash Back, Back, Back, and Back.

From "His" point of view. The novel switches over to this voice, of a boy in love.

 

Scene ii; Flash Back, Back, Back, and Back.

 

Him:

 

All I want to do is sing you a song.

And give you the world.

But I’m a simple boy with no means and until I can do that, a simple song will have to work. I just want to play you something that will make your heart sing with mine. I want to play you something that will make your smile outshine these city lights. I want to write, and sing, and play you something so profound, that it will take your breath away, hide it, and make you look for it. I want these words that tumble from my chapped lips and broken hips, to be hopeful, but they’re just broken and breaking into problematic ink that you’re dripping onto ripped loves notes.

I’m fading into the background of an iridescent rainbow and I’m leaking from heroin needles. Your eyes are sewed shut with fine lace made of crushed hopes, ignorance, and chaos. They’re tattooed with broken windows. Your lips part like every gentleman walking by is Moses- and they’re the red sea. You’re dropping your pants like trash and there are no garbage cans around. You’re dropping your pants like you drop hearts- as if they aren’t recyclable.

You’re like a broken toy. How does it feel when your battery runs out? When your porcelain is destroyed and your pretty-pretty princess tiara falls to the floor and catches its death? When your words run dry and your strings are cut loose? You’re simply broken. I’m here to fix you, babe. All I want to do is fix you. I’m running out of super glue, but I have just enough for you. I just ask, that in return you don’t break my heart- because then I won’t have enough.

Oh Darling, you’re conquering my territory- my vital organ. My heart. But there isn’t anything left for you to take. Every bit of oil sucked from my caved-in-arteries and every jewel picked from the cavern walls of my muscles. I’m cleaned dry and you’re still looking for a way to explode this cave, until I’m completely exposed. (But I am already exposed, babe, this is who I am. This is me and all of me, and I’m yours.) You’re doing it with a firework show composed of decomposing hearts. A fizzing rainbow of glitter, flaming colors, and dieing cellophane. Painting sparkles in trails along the falling stars.

I always seem to wish on the ones that die in my hands. And you’re the one that’s shooting the bullet at them.

All I want to do is hold your hand and a conversation between us. I want to swing on tires under the sun, butterflies, and falling leaves dying in all their glory with trespassing colors. I want to kiss your blush with compliments and drape your ears in sincere lust. I only want to stare at you and grin because you own my world – but you’re starting wars on it and I think a treaty is out of the question. Too bad I’m sinking under daisies and peace.

So now, I could tell you a story. I could write you a novel. I could make lists. I could drench your soul with words of my life but that’s not what I want. I want you. I want your story.

I want to be the cute boyfriend who lets his world revolve around his girl. I want to shower you with rainbows and roses and other pretty things. Nothing’s as pretty as you, though.

But out of all of this, do you know what I really want? Happiness. Je veux bon heur. I want me to be happy and I want you to be happy. I want life to be happy and I want love to go on parade.

Instead of love parading around my heart- I’ve got a death march. Scavenging like vultures. Thick, large, and infesting. It’s taking steps and stalking my emotions, waiting for any chance it may get to drop down and rip me to pieces.

Well it’s doing a good job.

I’m sitting on my bed. Alone and empty, like the pop cans that are scattering my room, posing as the artwork I don’t own. I’m watching colors on the wall fade from green, to yellow, to red, and I listen to the noises that saturate my walls from the city lanes below. Every break, every horn, and all the busied words that run from everybody’s mouth. I catch it all and I let it sink in.

It’s a nightly routine as I let thoughts of you invade the barricades of my skull. I must have a crack and a leak somewhere. I should probably fix that, eventually.

And even though I want you, I can promise you that I’m not the only one. Want that in writing? You’re drenched in offers from boys that want to give you triple what I can. I just want to treat you right but all you’re looking for is a night.

Well I’ve got that. And plenty of it. But the question is, is it privilege enough for you? I guess not.

So I’m waiting in line. You have rows and rows of misguided kids, hoping for the same thing I dream of. But one day I’ll show you. I’ll wrap up gifts of hopes and dreams, things that you never really had. And we’ll recycle Pandora’s box that you keep hidden in your chest. Does it hurt to have the seven deadly sins, stitched into your organs?

Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride.The seven deadly sins, and they’re tattooed to your routines. Covering it in a dust made of intemperance and I’m not a doctor. I can’t fix the hopeless, but I sure can try. Don’t give up hope yet, because I haven’t given up on you.

And I know you’re not aware of me or everything that I’m capable of. Maybe I’m not perfectly fine with that, but I’m generally okay. I’ll manage.

The clock on the wall is ticking, and with every breath I’ve lost and every chance that’s been taken away, I spend it thinking of you. I spend it ignoring the shadows and flashing lights on my walls. I spend it ignoring the orchestra of noises below. I spend it ignoring every other little detail of my life. I spend it thinking of ways to make you happy. Because you deserve it.

And you deserve me. Eventually.

Eventually I’ll write you a song that’s so cute, everyone will love it. And eventually I’ll sing it to you, hoping that you’ll adore every stunning word. And hopefully, we’ll eventually live happily ever after.

Except your fairy godmother told you that with boys, you’ll break more than you’ll glass slipper. You’ll break your heart as well. And even though I’m the one exception that’s willing to return your lost treasure to you, you’re too distracted in avoiding the outcome.

You’re too distracted with the entrance fee at the front of the line.

So I’ll pay up, just know that I’m planning on receiving my money’s worth and that I’m damn well good at cutting in front of cues, because when the time comes, you won’t be so surprised. And maybe you’ll save a little bit of that lost breath on speaking a few charming words to me.

I can only hope, and even if this sounds sort of strange, I’m hoping it’s sort of cute. So I’ll sing you a song to explain myself, and maybe you’ll notice me.

I mean, after all. Who can really beat expressing themselves on the radio?

Who can really top sincere creativity?

Who can really go above and beyond the stars?

Me, that’s who. And you’re the one who makes me want to run to the moon and back. You wait and see. I’ll prove it to you, because darling,

You deserve it

I’ll write you a song.

And you’ll absolutely love it.