I met a boy. A sick, twisted, damaged child; dirty and grimy but so kind. He had a knife in his hand; he’d cut himself open and pour out his soul to me and little by little I got to know him as well as my morning tea. He was like a puppy, a puppy that hadn’t learnt how to love, so when he received mine he didn’t know what to do with it. But I loved him. How I loved him. I would lie awake at night waiting for his messages, waiting for him to talk to me. When I’d see him, I loved running my hand through his soft dark curly hair. I learnt his scent. It was a Ying and Yang of the heavy smell of cigarette smoke along with an undercurrent of some men’s deodorant. When I’d hug him I would inhale deeply. I learnt to love the smell of cigarettes, but only ever on him.
I dreamed of him a lot. He was always the star of my dreams. Doing everything I wanted. Saying the nicest things. Except for in the last one where he pushed me away from him. But I know he loves me. He said he does.
His eyes are brown. It’s fake, but they’re still pretty on him. He has a smirk on his face usually and the brown of his eyes just make him look mischievous. He was like an elf, beautiful but dangerous. He has this favourite pair of shoes that he really loves. He was in an accident once and he swears that if he hadn’t been wearing them he’d have lost his toes. I don’t know if I believe him but the shoes do make him pretty happy. He would never call me names. He hated it if I called myself a bitch. He hated the word itself. He’d fight for any person who was being mistreated and stood up for the people around him.
I dreamed he was surrounded by a cloud of smoke. He looked like the industrial age of Europe packed into one moment. What possessed me to go and wrap my arms around him I don’t know, but I did anyway. I know he loves me. He said he does. I just wish I believed it.
My friends think he’s bad news. They tell me he’s not worth it. They say I love him more than he deserves. But who are they to say anything. They don’t know the extent of my love for him. They don’t know…. Never mind. I run to him whenever I see him, he looks tired. But he is happy to see me isn’t he? Isn’t he? Is he growing more distant? He was, it seemed, leaving me behind. I cried, but I knew I couldn’t give up.
It is dark now. The glint of the blade reflects the dull yellow street light outside, though most of it is coated in red sticky blood. He’s lying on the ground, his eyes wide, tears in them. His mouth is open, as if he is about to call my name or he is silently screaming. In my hands is his heart. His warm heart. It’s a little bloody but I can wash it. I’ll have to wash myself too. A pool of blood has formed around me, soaking my jeans, staining them red. But I believe now that he loves me….
He loves me…
Of course he does….
After all, I do have his heart.