Futility

Author's Note: My next one-shot for the Writer's Eve writing contest. Genre: poetry or romance (I chose romance). Word count: 1,385 words. Enjoy?

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I don’t remember where it all began, really. All I remember is one day blinking at the bright light that flooded the room, my eyes blurry with sleep. My hands reached up to rub the sleepiness away, and that’s when I first saw him. I mean really saw him. For a moment, our eyes met, and then we turned away. There was nothing special at first; it was just the two of us going about our normal routines.

How I wish I could go back to the start of it all. To before the cruelty of the world hit me, before emotions took their place in my heart.

For a while, things were like that. We’d see each other, make eye contact, maybe a small smile or a shared yawn. But that was it. And then one day, it sort of…happened.

Like most days, that bright light flooded my vision, blinding me. When the spots cleared from my eyes, I found myself staring back at him, studying his face. He was closer than normal, and I got the chance to closely inspect him. His lightly freckled, slightly crooked nose, warm brown eyes with a hint of green streaks, and a smirk that seemed etched onto his perfect, flawless lips. That’s where it all started.

Every time our eyes met, it was the same. He’d smile at me, and I’d smile back, my heart beginning to flutter every time I saw that crooked smile. Sometimes, there would be a flash of teeth, and my heart would leap. Occasionally, my hand would twitch, itching to reach up and brush aside a strand of dark hair that had fallen into his face and instead I would brush a strand of my own hair to the side, unconciously mimicking his movements. I’m not sure how it happened; I never asked for it to happen. It just…did.

The beginnings of a crush turned into full-fledged emotions of love and longing. I longed for close contact with him, but I had no way of telling him about the warmth I harbored for him. I had no way to tell him about the way he left me breathless when he came close, about how my entire being tingled when his skin came near to mine, about how my every thought was spent dreaming of the day when we could be together, free to be ourselves. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

The amount of time we spent together waxed and waned for a while, then after some time, he came more and more frequently. I was happy at first, until I began to see the signs. His eyes no longer sparkled quite so brightly. I knew this because of the way he seemed to study himself in my gaze, as if my own eyes held the answers. The answers to what questions, I only wish I knew. I could see the darkness under his eyes, as though he’d spent sleepless nights looking, searching for something. I even saw the occasional bruise, and it scared me. His smirk held only half the potency it had before, and though he was still beautiful, there was something missing.

He’d always dressed impeccably, kept himself well groomed and neat looking; his cologne would linger in my nostrils long after he’d left. I would have worn it myself if I could have, just so I could have a part of him with me throughout the hours I didn’t get to see him. But just as his eyes lost their vibrancy, so did the rest of him. His hair began to hang limply, and wasn’t nearly as soft as it had been. His wardrobe choices turned to baggier options – hoodies that allowed him to hide his beautiful face, and jeans that hid his well-muscled legs.

This was cause for worry, of course, but before I could do anything, something happened that I was powerless to stop.

One day, I was flung back, pulled from my thoughts by a loud crash, and my heart began to pound. He was pinned to the ground, his face bloody and bruised by the larger man on top of him. The man was grinning, clearly pleased with himself. I felt sick, and I would have run forward to stop him, to pull him off of my beloved, to do anything to protect him, but I couldn’t. I was forced to watch in horrified silence as unspeakable things were done to my love, my stomach sinking with every heave of his body, until it was over and he was left sobbing and retching on the ground. My heart was breaking as I watched him pick himself up and drag himself closer, and I wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, hold him tightly to me and let him know that I still loved him, as broken and battered as he was. But that barrier was there, and I could only allow warm tears to pour over my cheeks as he stared into my eyes. I could see every piece of him that was torn up inside. I could see how used and betrayed he felt, how dirty and broken he knew he was, how unlovable he felt.

He left, and I collapsed to the ground, sobbing as my memory replayed that awful scene again and again in my mind. My chest felt tight, painfully so, and I remember the pounding headache that arose from the hours spent draining my tears.

The next time I saw him, I was shocked by how dead he looked. His eyes were red-rimmed, darkened by the sleeplessness he was tormented by. There was no sparkle left in them. He’d been torn apart by the world, and I was unable to protect him, or even offer him comfort. He even told me so, shouting at me for lying to him, asking why this had happened to him, and if only…

No. I can’t even bear to remember his words. It is too painful. The other memories are bad enough without remembering the day his words became reality.

And one day, just like many times before, he entered the room and looked over at me. He offered a small, broken smirk, which I returned, trying to convey my love for him through that simple gesture. His back turned to me for a moment, and then I heard something. A click. When he turned back around, his eyes met my horrified expression, as I saw what it was he held.

It was fear, desperation, and agony.

It was death.

For a moment, he refused to meet my gaze, and then he raised his eyes again. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, and then he raised the gun to his temple.

Barriers be damned. I rushed forward, slamming my hands against the barrier between us, the barrier that prevented us from ever being closer, from ever making contact. The barrier that now prevented me from saving him from himself. A roar rang out, and I saw red splattered outward, and I screamed. I screamed my love for him, my pain over his own pain, my grief that this was what this had come to. I screamed loud and painfully, but the pain was nothing compared to the way my heart clenched. If I could have, I would have died there with him; the pain was so great. As I stared at his lifeless body, my hands pressed uselessly against the barrier, reality began to sink in, and I felt numb. Everything I had ever wanted was gone. I’d never wanted freedom, never wanted a life outside of my world. He was my world, and now he was gone. I now knew that I had foolishly dared to dream about the impossible. And yet, I never regretted the feelings I’d harbored for him. I’d only regretted that life was cruel, and that fate had stuck me in this heartless place, the one place I’d never be able to reach him, to take him into my arms and tell him how much he meant to me and how sorry I was for not being able to save him. I was forever doomed to be nothing but a lifeless image trapped in a mirrored world with no escape, no way to die, nothing but an eternity of agonizing memories.

I should never have dreamed to become more than his reflection.