Before the Rain

Eleven: Perhaps My Death is an Object of Faith Rather Than Fortune

"Cal please," his voice is no longer jaunty but desperate.

He steps closer to me, the autumn wind picking up once more.

The red and yellow leaves swirled around the small clearing in which we were standing in the middle of. Somehow the trees appeared as if they were encircling us; always surrounded, yet never sound. The branches continue to grow wider and longer, attempting to ballast but never quite able due to the wind.

I am never able.

"How could you like me?" My words choppy and a bit incoherent from the impending emotions within myself.

He does not hesitate, "What do you mean? You're wonderful."

I am anything but wonderful. How could that be so? I'm fucking sad and angry all of the time, I want to kill myself now more than ever because I can see through all of this. I know what happens in the end. How could I have fallen so foolish to him?

"I am not."

Adam takes a few quick and unctuous steps towards myself, his warm hands settling on either side of my cheeks. He slowly presses his lips to mine, the feeling ardent and vigorous. I was still very much in awe, especially considering my inevitable seldomness and groundbreaking odds. Yet here we stand; alone, together. Our lips connected into such ways I could not even describe. The fucking feeling of wanting to be here. I want to be here, with him. As long as he is around I want to be alive.

How could one person actually do this to me?

I pulled away a bit breathless, not from the physical aspect but for the intake of it all.

He brushes the side of my cheek, to which I can only assume is to pull myself out of this wonderless state, "Hey it's okay."

"I-I need to just, sit down I think," I reply to his attempt at reassurance.

He nods, scanning the leaf-covered ground below us before finally settling on a place to sit.

I place myself across from him, nervously picking at my fingers, unspoken.

Adam clears his throat, "So I'm bi."

"Oh," I say, not entirely sure of what exactly to say, so I instead continue with myself, "I'm gay."

He chuckles uncomfortably, "I know."

"Oh," I say once again, "Why do you like me?"

He furrows his eyebrows together in such a jovial way, as expected, "I can list off things if you want."

"No you do not have to do that. Actually never mind about all of this; nothing involving me is worth any of your time. I'll be far too gone soon enough, so nothing matters. Nothing should matter anyways," I let my hair fall into my face as a dark obstruction from any kind of light in front of me.

The bright white of the flame blinding myself, it's light flickering through my curtain of despair and contamination.

Why is the light so goddamn inexorable and warm?

"How could you say that about yourself Cal?"

"Because I'm afraid of feeling okay!" I practically screamed at him, an unusual display rather than my emotionless and quite reserved tone.

He stares back at me with a look of revelation and tumult.

Of course he was confused and perhaps a bit frightened, I fucking yelled at him. And not only have I harassed him, but I've told him the truth; and what a concerning and deviating one that is. Oh how the cool and harsh liquid of sympathy will flood into my veins, consuming all of the sadness but not quite getting rid of it.