Getting Over You

Part 1

Part 1

Tillett had never thought, although he grew up with four siblings, and saw them all move out, become normal, happy young adults, and marry with the prospect of many children, that he would ever fall in love like them. He remembered, though vaguely, being a teenager – and from the various hours he wasn’t high or on the streets – his three sisters gushing about love; boyfriends; their boyfriends’ cars, and other pointless teenage girl things. Tillett had never envisioned wanting to gush like they had, shout to everybody who could listen that he, Tillett Edward Lyle, had fallen in love. But, there you go, hard-headed drug addict and self-proclaimed man of alcohol, had fallen in love; with the kindest, most beautiful human being he had ever laid eyes on.

Finlay Finch-Baxter.

And he was Tillett’s.

-

The dream had been building all week. First came a flash of the dirty, unwashed hair that was the epitome of Finlay. Next came a pale hand and crumpled outfits Finlay would always wear (the ones he looked so good in, Tillett couldn’t help undress him again). After that, the dreams started to get weird, with Tillett catching sight of Finlay’s burned, mutilated or drowned body, dripping with glistening red blood, on the floor as Tillett moved to the kitchen, or peeking from behind the shower curtain as Tillett pissed. But, it was always a glance, and as soon as Tillett looked away then back again, Finlay was gone and all that was left was a single crimson red rose petal, fraying at the edges and bleeding outwards onto the stark whiteness of the bathtub, the tiled kitchen floor, or the dank hallway that always smelled like must and pot.

Then, the seventh day was here.

Tillett knew it was coming; the pattern didn’t scare him any longer. It had been the same thing every year since the day Finlay left three years ago. Packed his bags in the middle of the night, saying he wanted to get out of the rut he was in, and fix his life.

The night would start slow; Tillett would drink himself senseless – wishing he just had the courage to call and plead Finlay to come back – and would fall into bed at three in the morning, silent tears running down his face as he thought of the passion ripping through his veins at being able to see Finlay again, although only in a dream.

The dream would start with static, loud and heaving, pulsing like a heartbeat in Tillett’s ears, before deathly silence and names etched into dying trees, although crisp red leaves blanketed the soil pushing at the bases of the spindly forms. Weaving between the branches, Tillett would see a black-clad form, and he would feel a tingling at the base of his neck, all senses harshly bared to the exposing light. He knew then it was Finlay. Finlay held a gun, Tillett could hear it being cocked, a warning signal. Then, Tillett would try to run, but he ended up slipping on the leaves that had turned to black rot beneath him, slender fingers pushing under the soil from their shallow graves and grabbing a hold of both ankles, before, smirking, Finlay would be shining like a God before Tillett, but face still shrouded in shadow because he was a demon, and even light couldn’t change that fact.

Tillett wouldn’t even remember the black steel gun pressed to the middle of the head, cold bleeding into his eyes and chilling his very core; although Tillett’s legs would be warm with running piss startled by the fear he felt. The anger Finlay held in his eyes.

Then there would be the bang. A tremble shattering the Earth, ripping Dream Finlay apart piece by disastrous piece.

Tillett would find himself again in his own bed, sobbing and yelling and feeling his heart crackle inside him. He’d ask Finlay over and over again, spitting out through chapped lips, why, why, why. Why did he have to haunt his every thought? Why was he so angry?