Title:Becoming
Author:Carnivouroslamb
Rating:PG
As I walked by him I felt the plum-coloured fabric of his shirt brush my arm.
It's the little things, the slight crinkling of his eyes when he smiles,
the mole on the left lobe of his ear, the nape of his neck peaking above
his shirt, him yawning stretching his arms to reveal perfect, pale skin that
taunted me as it disappeared down in the dark constraints of his pants.
Its the little things that make me want to weep in a tight ball in the
furthest corner of this earth. If there was a God, an all seeing almighty
God, why had He allowed this to happen? Why had He created a world in which
little children were murdered by serial killers, a world were monsters where
unleashed amongst the innocent? Why create a world where some feasted while others
are gripped by the cold hand of famine? Why create a world where I would want him,
need him, love him knowing full well I could never have him?
At that instant when his shirt touched my arm I felt like
I was being marked. No marked seemed like to meek a word. I was
being branded. Was I being branded his? That was unnecessary for
in my heart I knew it already, I was completely his. Yet he was not
mine, the pain that filled me was so immense I felt I could scream.
I didn't. I went moved on, burying it like most things in my life.
I had become a master of deceit, I lied a great deal. I lied to my family,
I lied to my friends, unfortunately I couldn’t lie to myself. If only I
could tell myself that I did not love him, "love is not love", love does
not exist. Maybe I could leave the vortex of shambles my life had become.
Maybe I could forge an existence that did not revolve around him.
But I couldn’t and I did. Love him that is.
Moments in my life appear like stills from a
silent film. A ten year old me grasping a kitten while my
mother laughs silently behind me. A school picture, me in
my best shirt gazing sternly into the camera. So rigid and
forlorn for a twelve year old. Not smiling, my eyes look
past the camera I feel as if I am looking at myself, looking
at me. So much had happened in five years, yet a nineteen year
old me continues to look at the photo trying to get a clue,
a sign, an indication of why I had become what I am.
When he was around me the air would become heady.
I could feel my heart brim so full of love that I thought
that it was too much I couldn't take, it would cave in.
The emotions would scurry about me, while I conceal my inner
thoughts. I became more when he was around. I became taller,
a bit more reserved, I became vigilant, watching him, studying
everything about him, his movement. The curve of his spine. The
contours of his scalp. The way he breathed. His presence overwhelmed
my senses. I became mute, I couldn't speak. I became afraid of this
power he had over me. If he ever asked, would I die for him? Would take
another's life upon his bidding? Would I cut out my own heart and lay it
upon the ground he walks, beneath his feet? I became angry, angry that this
fervour in which I burned for him was not reciprocated. Why didn't this passion that
I felt scold and scorch his skin like it did mine. I became desperate, would I spend
my entire existence longing for him?
"Why-" I would begin and stop short.
"Why what?" he asked.
Why aren't you in love with me, why do I have
to create stories and excuses just to be around you? Why don't you lie
at night longing to be with me? I love you. I love you. Why doesn't that matter?
"What's the matter?" he asked
"I'm becoming"
"Becoming what?"
"Obsessed with you." I thought it but never said it.
In the furry of my youth I had thought I was invincible,
nothing could touch me. Yet when I lay in my bed realizing
just how alone I was how I had spent most of my life untouched
by others. I being a creature of solitude chose a life of permanent emptiness.
I had exiled myself from the rest of humanity. I would watch them engage in their
activities., laughing into the wind their long hair forming halos around them, I stood
apart. Did they realize I was different? Did they suspect that I was...
What was I? What definition would cause doctors to crease their brows and declare
a text book complicating sounding explanation of what I had become? A freak? A monster?
A stalker? For if I could I would stalk him into his dreams and see what was it that he longed
for? I didn't think that they knew my true identity. If they even suspected that, I even had trouble
saying it to myself.
I wasn't human.
The end
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