The End � Jesse
Darkness pervaded my realm, surrounding me, gripping onto my skin, and appearing to infinitesimally extend in all directions about me. In my callow, cowardly stance, I stood and trembled at the metamorphosis of my vision; perhaps the distortion was an illusion, but I lost the cognitive skills to contemplate its validity.
A familiar voice called my name, resonating like chords from an organ in a church. However, my knees locked, and I felt as if I had become a guard � by force from a greater power that controlled my limbs as if I were a puppet. But the voice soon disintegrated, as if the organist finished its piece, and I was alone � left in desolation and replete with uncertainty. Who was I? Where was I? Why did I exist at all?
The concrete walls of a cell surrounded me, but chains clutched my limbs and kept me writhing about on the floor. The bands of iron bore into my pale flesh, causing wounds to form and bleed. I couldn�t touch the walls, not one. But my palms pressed against the cold, gritty floor and refused to move. Sunlight covered an area of the room, and I shifted my position to bathe in it, although the source of it lay too far above my head for me to see it. Perhaps it was a window � rectangular or square � without any bars across it. Maybe it merely was a hole. Or, the light itself could have been another illusion.
From the image of the cell, the scene transformed into that of a living room. From a prisoner chained to the floor, I became a depressed adolescent laying on an overly-stuffed, pastel flower-printed sofa, with my sister standing above me. My body was glazed in sweat, for it clung to the hairs on my arms, rested upon my knees, and buried itself below my eyelashes. No, I realized, the latter was not sweat, but the residue from tears that I cried hours before. I gazed upward at my sister, for I lay supine on the sofa, at her worried, but angelic face. I desired not to move from this position, with a blanket over most of my body.
�You�re awake finally,� she said. �I was beginning to get concerned, especially after I went out to get some food. I don�t remember you sleeping like this when you were young.�
�It was a long time ago,� I murmured. �Things, obviously, were different. You were home, Tom didn�t laugh at me, and I didn�t want to be a girl, yet.� I paused. �Lots of things have changed, but that�s age, I guess. And time.�
�Yeah, time does things like that, doesn�t it?� she replied. �Why don�t you sit up now?� Her tone expressed that she was becoming serious. �I think we need to talk some.�
�About what?� I knew, but I wanted to evade the issue that my parents wanted me to leave again. Blatantly.
�I just came back from talking to them,� she stated, with her voice growing cold and metallic. �If you want, I can get the rest of your stuff before they throw it out.�
The room, despite the white walls and gaudy floral-printed couch, became somber, and I rose from my supine position. My back ached, as if my muscles aged and became stiff, and my arms felt like rubber, but I sat erect anyway, beside Heather, and propped my chin up in my hands. �No,� I replied, feeling distant from the scene, as if I were watching my ephemeral words escape from my mouth like cigarette smoke. �I brought some things with me. And, anyway, I don�t need much.�
�I�ll buy you a few things when we get to Detroit. Some new clothes and shoes � things like that.�
My excitement was minimal and transitory, for my mood reflected the state of the room. Yes, new necessary objects, I thought, but the same vital life � in solitude and desolation as a pariah. �I grabbed some this morning,� I said. �Enough for a few days. And I took a few tapes.�
Leaning back into the sofa, I felt the soft, puffy material surround my angular shoulders. Resting my head, I felt the material cushioning my spine, making me buoyant, as if to carry me away from this internal, melancholy state I was prone into. But I closed my eyes for a transient period, feeling myself rise above the weights that kept me mortal, and felt myself dissipate.
�You know that we are leaving in a few days, Jesse.�
The weights crashed upon my neck, and I lunged forward � literally. �N-no,� I stammered. �You didn�t tell me last night.�
�Well,� she smiled slightly at her mistake. �We�re leaving this weekend. I�m driving out to Detroit Saturday morning, but I�ve still got to straighten some things out here. Legal stuff and no-so-legal stuff regarding who now has custody of you.�
Custody � what an ambivalent word. I was sixteen years old, and I could be living alone � in an apartment or on the snow-covered streets, replete with corruption. I desired to flee this surrounding � to walk through dry, flat streets, to feel accepted, to have no shame � but I was apprehensive about the obstacles that stood ahead of me. Upon a road, I stood, with potholes, fired, and rusted cars behind and a straight, flawless stretch of asphalt leading ominously into the horizon ahead.
�What�s going to happen?� I voice quivered on the last syllable.
�They�re moving out to some place in western Pennsylvania � Somerset county or something.� She halted, looking away from me but at my books. �I don�t really know what�s going on. They called me two days ago in the morning after the night they took you back home. You were probably in school then. You�re sixteen and they say you�re almost an adult.�
�I guess they assume I�m going to start welding iron now,� I joked weakly.
Images from that day passed in my mind. The rose. The decaying walls of Vince�s apartment building as Mike attempted to prove my lack of masculinity. Vince, in flowers, as he kissed me in his room. The bathtub, as I shaved my hair from my pale legs once I returned home. Here I sat in this apartment, a room full of unfamiliarity, and faced a life of uncertainty. But, amidst the apprehension, I felt apathy. Here I sat on the couch � this clean, smooth, unsoiled couch � and gazed furtively at my sister, whom I saw every two years on a whim. But, nevertheless, I loved her for what she was, although I myself lamented leaving this wretched city for the mere fact that I was leaving Glynis.
�I wish I were still at Vince�s,� I mumbled, holding my face in my hands again.
�Vince?� she asked.
�He�s the guy I lived with for a month before I came home a few days ago. I don�t understand why they forced me home, away from him, and now they�re forcing me away again.� My words seemed to plead, but I did not. In fact, I merely sat on the couch and that was all. I sat � and stared at my sister. I sat � and superficially contemplated fate. I sat � and lamented, for Glynis and for Vince. But, I merely sat, feeling my body sink into the cushions, as if I were a body, deprived of life, slowly sinking into a deep body of water, and sat like an emotionless mannequin.
�Glynis told me about him a but as you were resting,� she informed me in a placid but mechanical manner.
�Oh,� I replied, sensing I was impeding our conversation with my melancholy mood. Neither of us mentioned Vince�s death, although as I recollected the month I lived in his apartment, going to Purple Fingernails and conversing at night upon his bed, my apathy began to viscously dissipate and I rested my chin on my hands again. But, I forced myself from crying.
�But back to the issues,� she stated, her voice growing cold again, as if she had become a teacher with the task of lecturing a large, uninterested group in a monotonous fashion. �Tomorrow�s Thursday and we�re leaving on Saturday. You don�t have to go to school on Friday if you don�t want to, since I know you hate school. But other than discussing some final things with them, I�ve got to � or you have to � get your school records transferred to your new high school.�
�Where am I going?� I asked, sounding uninterested and feeling apprehensive about starting another educational institution again.
�A high school a few blocks away from our house outside Detroit. It�s not a bad school, but you�ll make your way through it.�
�Should I then talk to my teachers tomorrow about my grades?� I asked, almost ecstatic about leaving the decaying red brick building of North High School permanently.
�That would be a good idea,� she stated. �I�ll stop by later, while you�re in class, to fill out the paper work.� She paused, looking in the direction of the kitchen. �You want me to make some dinner?� I bought some soup while I was out.�
�Sure,� I wearily replied, staring at the carpeted floor, unsoiled by living. �Yeah.�
***
The monolithic, ominous building of North High School glared down at me, as I stood on the steps, facing the doors, the following morning. This will be the last time, I thought to myself, smirking with delight at such a notion. But the cycle would continue, I realized, as I bent my head downward, staring at the steps. Such hideous gray steps, like slabs of soiled marble stacked upon each other, with worn surfaces after years of treads. But marble slabs merely described their physical, superficial states. Soapboxes, stocks, and guillotines aptly surfaced upon these stairs and transformed simple, harmless marble slabs into instruments of humiliation and destruction. Assert your beliefs and become mocked in place for your statements. Vocalize your thoughts, and then lose your head. But, outside, as I stood amidst the mounds of snow, encrusted with trash, that guarded the school like indolent, somnolent police officers, I lifted my head, and my gaze became fixed on the doors in front � red-painted metal, revealing the desolate beige hallway inside. But, I regressed, turning my angular back to the building and facing the street. As usual, few cars passed through the streets and no stores turned on their lights to illuminate their fronts and invite denizens, like I was, inside for a diversion from the frigid air. No students loitered on the steps yet, but I stood alone, watching the gray sky turn colorless, as the sun rose and touched the monochromatic buildings, cars, and snow with its rays, and removed a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket; in a habitual fashion, I removed one, placed it between my lips, and lit it with a lighter, nonchalantly. I stood in front of the school as an overweight, cigarette-smoking, androgynous person. However, this was merely typical, and I sat down on the steps for a few minutes, deciding whether I should enter for one last time or never return. The smoke escaped my lips and from the burning end of my cigarette into the air in thin, ethereal streams of gray before dissipating. Naturally breathing, I noticed that my breath, in this weather, looked no different from the smoke emitted from my cigarette. Euphoria, I thought, observing my solitude and sensing the smoke from my cigarette enter my lungs � feeling as if I were consuming ambrosia � and the air, but I didn�t know if such a thought was in sincerity or not.
But what was sincerity? Was it synonymous with empathy or was it posturing? Posturing to be ardent, posturing to agree, posturing to empathize � I didn�t know. As a sixteen-year-old, overweight, cigarette-smoking, androgynous youth, I didn�t know several things, from the simple to the complex. But, perhaps they bled into each other, and I was replete with the nonsense and innocence of this world � but not of life. I lived here, amidst these streets in this city, for most of my life, in the same house, with the same parents. Beyond that tenuous realm, however, I knew very little. But standing on these steps, as a youth of several disillusioned others, I recognized sincerity. His face surfaced in my thoughts; his black eyes reflected my confused visage like onyx mirrors; his hair parted in the direction of my beliefs. And he would agree, by replying with a �Yes,� from his crimson, thin lips. Embracing me, he wouldn�t think of pushing me away to heighten my disillusionment even more. I believed him and he refused to lie to me.
The doors, the color of a raging conflagration, again faced me. The fire spoke with such insincerity, mocking me and forcing me back to the steps to smoke my cigarettes � the whole pack. �Go right ahead. Come on in,� they sneered, while my cigarettes beckoned me back to the edge of the steps to smoke them. Light them up, consume the toxins, and crave for more.
Insincerity dotted my life like the snow did to the streets, in piles, melting and freezing again, with human waste embedded in its millions of crystals. The pristine compound was spoiled, soiled my trash discarded by youths like me who loitered on the steps before the day commenced. I removed the cigarette from my lips and threw it at a pile of snow, one perhaps that was only a foot high but riddled with dirt and cellophane. Perhaps, when the burning stick of carcinogens hit a spot of white, it melted a few crystals as it landed.
And now, the conflagration stopped, after such a transient period of brilliance. Brilliance of what? Of thousands of flames mocking me in my stance? Of flames mimicking voices that spoke in haughty, belittling fashions? Strange, I thought, but what was normal about an illusion? However, with the dead fire in front, I then proceeded through the doors to end this travesty of a chapter in my life.
Few bodies dotted the hallway, and I saw the end, as if I were viewing a distant, but approachable, horizon. As I slowly meandered down the hallway, lined with tall-beige colored lockers and matching faded linoleum tiles, I unbuttoned my coat nonchalantly, but no one stared, aghast and agape, at me. Within minutes, I stood apathetically in front of my locker. This rectangular space was reserved for me � yet, I knew it was not mine. Like a mirror it reflected me, both the inner and the outer � the introspective androgyne and the faggot. Removing the combination lock and opening the door, I viewed the inside, gathering the books from the bottom to return to my teachers later. The pictures I taped to the inside of the door in the beginning of the year now faced me, and, like the books, I removed them as well, peeling them off the metal and placing them into my bad. Now, an open metal void glared at me, desiring for me to close it. Closing � not a clamorous slap of meal upon metal, but not a purposefully quiet closure, either � the door, I stared at the words � scratched, etched, and written � on the front, but apathy seized me again. The words had no significance, although I frequently cowered at the mentioning of them. Faggot. She-man. Queer. I walked across the hall to my first class, feeling like a deflated balloon, until I saw Mrs. Smithe, sitting alone at her desk and grading papers, and my heart then plummeted into my stomach.
My boots clashed with the linoleum and the sound broke through the silence of the hallway. Setting the papers delicately down onto the desk, Mrs. Smithe shifted her gaze from the desk to the doorway, where I demurely stood with my sweating, balled fists in my coat pockets.
�Jesse,� she said, startled by my abrupt entrance that disturbed her work. �You�re � you�re here so early.� She glanced at the clock on the wall above my head. �School starts in a half hour,� she stated, concerned and confused. �What is it?�
�Well,� I stammered, with my gaze vacillating between her moist, glassy green eyes and the sordid beige floor. �I know this might sound odd or strange.� I focused on her. �Maybe abrupt, even.� But the floor fully captured my gaze. �I-I need to have my grade f-finalized and given to the m-main office to be puh-placed on my trans-transcripts, to be tr-transferred soon.�
Abruptly, her countenance changed. Previously reflecting slight worry with my strange presence, it now mirrored her stymied state. �So soon? But the term just started. There are still eight more weeks left.� Opening a drawer in her desk, she pulled out a laminated, blue-covered grade book.
�I know,� I mumbled or murmured. In either manner, I spoke in a low, maudlin tone. �But, S-Saturday, I�m leaving for De-Detroit, with my sister, and, uh, and -� I stopped, hanging my head with a sudden surge of shame. �I�m m-moving there p-permanently. I�ll be going to a new hi-high school th-there.� I halted my speech again. �It�s sudden, I know, but most of this happened last night. I-I�m really sorry about this.�
�No � no, it�s fine,� she stated, closing her grade book and turning toward me again. �I�ll average the assignments I have here and hand in your final grade this afternoon.� She paused, and her demeanor changed to one of a more amicable, casual manner. �Which high school are you planning to attend?�
Stepping farther into the room, I said, �I don�t know yet. I-I guess it�ll b-be the one wh-where my sister lives. Sh-she doesn�t live in the c-city, but on the outskirts, I, um, th-think.�
�I think you�ll do fine wherever you go, Jesse. You�ve always done well in this class, but you probably should become involved in a few extracurricular activities, especially since you�ll be coming in the middle of the year.
�Maybe,� I mumbled, feeling ambivalent about beginning a new life, of sorts.
�Perhaps you might see if the school has a newspaper or a literary magazine. They�ll probably accept a new writer, especially one that writes with as much sincerity and conviction as you do.�
Sincerity and conviction? I was replete with apathy and felt ambivalent about the rest of my existence, if ambivalent was the apt word to use. Ambivalent? Maybe, but I didn�t care. As I stood in my callow stance in front of Mrs. Smithe, I felt like an hourglass, with the sand slowly passing through my middle to my feet and gathering weight at my base. My feet bolted to the floor, but my head drifted upward to the ceiling like a balloon. Yes, indeed, the juxtaposition seemed drastic, as I mentally drifted but physically remained like a brick of lead.
�Jesse?� she asked, and I returned to the room for a transient period. �You really should consider looking for an activity like that.�
�I-I know,� I murmured.
�I�ve read the poems and stories you�ve written for this class, and I honestly think you should do something with your talent.� She halted her speech, staring at the smooth, wooden surface of the desk. �I remember telling you that a few weeks ago when you write that poem about cigarette addiction.�
�It was trite,� I morosely mumbled, with my words inaudible to any ears but my own.
�What?� she asked, looking toward me again.
�I�ll th-think about it,� I tepidly stated, loathing myself at that moment for lying and for refusing her slight praise.
�That�s good to hear. Anyway, if you join any organization, even a model car collecting club, you�ll meet a few people. It�s a shame that this school has so few organizations that cater toward underclassmen.�
The placid tone of her voice mollified my apathy, and I fully returned, noticing every miniscule aspect of the room. The blue pen graffiti on the tops of the desks; a small red dot on the collar of Mrs. Smithe�s white blouse; the crooked scratch on her glasses; the inconsistency of the eraser marks on the black chalk board behind her; the crescendo of voices in the hallway; the continual, monotonous ticking of the clock above the doorframe that read seven hours and forty-three minutes.
�I�ve got to t-talk to a f-f-few other teachers before class starts,� I asserted. She seemed agreeable, although I wished I could have remained in her room all day to talk to her about everything. Anything. I�d converse with her as if we were friends, instead of an amicable teacher and aloof student. Within minutes of leaving her room, I now stood in the hallway of gymnasiums and offices, as if I were a masochist who enjoyed the pummeling if fists upon my perspiring, pale flesh.
But, I stood in my stance, slouched with my shoulders bent forward and my scowling countenance facing the floor. The office I frequently dreaded glancing upon faced me, and I glared at it � the plywood paneling, the cinderblock frame surrounding it, and the typed nameplate on its front. Stood, I merely did, watching other students walk into the locker rooms to change into their uniforms for another dreary first period physical education class. I, however, loathed that term �physical education,� for the course was no typical form of gathering and assimilating knowledge and instead mirrored the rigorous, sadistic purpose and format of military training. Training boys to become masochistic, chauvinist killing machines, I thought and imagined my peers as trigger-happy, bazooka-toting marines in an apocalyptic wasteland. But literal marines they were not, for they carried to blatant weaponry. Metaphorical, they were, carrying revolvers that shot out epithets like �faggot,� �pussy,� and �cocksucker,� rather than material bullets. I desired to own my own verbal gun, but what would it shoot? I�d inevitably carry a machine gun that spat out tuttered, meaningless phrases.
The �war� continued to ensue in class, later that same day; I refused to be a part � the victim, a casualty � of the whole sadistic, violent endeavor. Once I left English class, heading toward the locker room to change and masochistically make a mockery of myself, I stood in the same place as before, in the same stance of reluctance. This time, as I noticed my pallid reflection on the linoleum floor being tread upon by others, I buttoned my coat to the collar to continue my quest of ambiguity. Everyone knew, and so did I. With my neck bent and my chin to my chest, I refused to endure another forty-five minutes of mockery and infamy. Beneath my coat, my skirt brushed against the backs of my legs, and my necklaces buried themselves into my chest. In my reflection, my makeup of purples, pinks, and blues was most prominent against my flesh, as if the strokes I made that morning in the mirror were graffiti on a brick wall. I knew who I was; I knew where I was, as I stood in my cowardly position. However, a coward I was not, for I endured this mockery, this forced self-exploitation for years, as I questioned myself � in my room, alone � and Glynis if my desire to at least appear feminine was sinful � like gluttony and lust, to mention the few I could remember. But, were those things, inevitable aspects of human faults, truly sins? I didn�t know, and, as I stared at my gaudy reflection, as I stood alone now, I refused to repent and enter the �war.� My gym clothes were shoved to the bottom of my bag, beneath my books, and I refused to remove them or even walk down the stairs, through the air saturated with perspiration from my male peers, and enter the callous atmosphere that asserted the masculine stereotype and shot down androgyny, as if it were a bird being killed with a rifle.
I looked away from my muddled reflection and stared at the ceiling. Beige panels covered the vast territory in all directions, but the paint on its surface cracked and peeled to give the panels an appearance of a drought-stricken terrain. Once I focused on the present, the hall that surrounded me but was devoid of any students once I studied it, I languidly walked to class � in my trench coat, which was still buttoned to the collar.
The gymnasium, which was archetypical to that of any high school, faced me. The floor shimmered with glossy brilliance, and the windows allowed the light of the late morning to be cast about the room of white walls, wooden floors, and bleachers that stretched to the ceiling like miniature skyscrapers. The males and the females in their white and gray uniforms loitered about the pristine setting, waiting for the instructor. I entered, like an enigmatic cloud of dirt whose sole purpose was to disturb the scenery. The floor now reflected my image � as a mottled black figure of amorphous form. The inane, puerile antics of my peers halted as soon as the doors abruptly closed behind me. I glanced at all thirty-three pairs of eyes and said nothing. A few of them mumbled the trite words of �faggot,� �freak,� and �fairy.� But, nothing changed and I turned away to sit in solitude upon the bleachers.
�Don�t you know he�s leaving?� someone said nonchalantly to another body.
�Would anyone care?� the other answered. He already knew the response to his rhetorical question.
The metal bench groaned from my exertion of weight upon its surface. With my feet planted on the bench in front and my hands in my pockets, I disintegrated into the setting upon the arrival of the instructor. My presence was like that of a cigarette, for a moment, I was whole, before igniting, and then disappeared into ash and smoke in minutes.
From my bag, I retrieved a spiral-bound notebook and tore out a sheet of lined paper. A virginal white space lay before me, and I had the tools to corrupt it. But what was I to write?
The gymnasium was divided in half, along an invisible line to separate the sexes � boys to one side, girls to the other. And, yet, both played the same game � volleyball � with identical nets and formations of players on either side. Upon the periphery, I sat, beneath my black coat and purple locks of hair, with a sheet of paper and a pen. Yet, as I stared at the banal picture, as if I were viewing the image from behind a wall or in a museum, I cogitated. Upon the paper, I scrawled �Juxtaposition� at the top; my hand continued to move, to scrawl, and to corrupt further the virginal white plane that stretched before me.
Juxtaposition �
The gray
Line that divides
Something from the other
Side. But I don�t
Care which side I�m
On, for there is no
Difference once you�ve
Reached the perimeter.
I stopped to read the unrhymed words of metaphorical, symbolic nonsense I wrote, cringing slightly but laughing to myself, and continued to scrawl.
Androgyny � the
Purple vastness
Between the
Pink and blue
Skirt and pants,
Respectively,
That clad infants
Until they scream their
First words.
I, however,
Never screamed as an infant.
I accepted the forced blue,
Like the murky sky above,
Before questioning fate.
Fate is the heavens,
Fate is this shroud,
Fate is like the pinkish-purple
Dahlia�s, I recall, in a
Water-filled tub at a florist�s.
I could bet you $10
None of them survived
More than two days.
But the roses lasted longer.
Perhaps three days,
Perhaps four. I could
Care less that they
Took my life nonchalantly
Like a novice street hustler�s
Virginity.
The rose in the flower shop, stem cup and wallowing in dirty water with others like it, surfaced in my mind. Then Mike, after stalking me after school, forced me to the ground, spurning me and spat on me. I really had no knowledge � and still don�t, really � of what Glynis was doing with Lena. I recalled the rose-patterned dress I always wore beneath my trench coat, before I slid a blade between my thighs in an attempt of suicide. That dress remained in the closet of my former room that would become desolate in days. And I didn�t care. In fact, I loathed that house. Each day, as I meandered through the snow-covered, trash-strewn streets, I dreaded to enter its doors, becoming ensconced in the cold, melancholy atmosphere. The stiff lace curtains in the front and the stiff drying clothing that hung from the clothesline in the kitchen filled me with antipathy. How I desired to tear down those curtains and clothes and light them with my cigarette lighter in the center of that kitchen, which always smelled pungently of detergent, coffee, and macaroni.
Destroying those fabrics was not enough. I desired to dine in a different room of the house, away from the blaring television and card table. I longed to feel unadulterated bliss and absolute freedom in my room as well. No, such a minor conflagration was not enough. For years, I lay coveted by my threadbare covers as the Coward. In a supine position, with my pants to my knees and my skirt lifted to my middle, I�d masturbate, with my hands between my legs, in shame. In shame, as I, as a child, elevated my sister Heather to an almost mythic status, for I sensed the boundaries that prevented me from becoming like her. But I was an innocuous child that transformed into a disenchanted, confused teenager.
Within minutes, the brash, repetitive sound of the bell that signaled the change of classes broke though the monotony of the gymnasium. �And perhaps you may find this,� I wrote at the bottom of the page. Perhaps not. Apathy was an excuse for lassitude, and I slunk through the rest of the day� like a lonesome coward lurking in the shadows, before returning to an empty apartment.
The apartment building in which Heather was staying stirred neither hatred nor excitement in me. The hallways on each floor had identical forest green and white decors. The placid scenery made me feel indifferent, for our stay here would be merely temporary. In days, I would be submerged into the dull world of grays again, as if I were trapped in an interminable black-and-white film; this apartment building was a Technicolor short feature. The green, lining the top of the wall, seemed too unnatural, as if someone arbitrarily painted a white hallway with green streaks only to add variation to the monotony.
Soundlessly opening the door to the apartment, I observed the room; no sounds could be heard, aside from my footsteps. But such a scenario wasn�t like arriving at my former home, as I walked from one dreary, antipathy-laden room to another. Heather had no qualms about my behavior, and, thus, I placed my books on the floor and lay down on the hideous flower-printed sofa to watch a few hackneyed afternoon shows on the television. Upon turning it on, however, I noticed that my trench coat was still buttoned to the collar; such a habitual practice, for the moment, would no longer be necessary. My father, with his scalding phrases and spurning words, no longer had a significant presence in my life; in fact, he had no presence, and I accepted this fact without qualms.
Removing my coat, I planned to set it down near my schoolbooks and novels I took out from the library and would never return. Their disappearance would have the significance of the impact of the hospital bill on my life. But, upon placing my coat near the piles of books, I noticed a folded sheet of paper. Perhaps Heather left me a note, I thought. Perhaps she�s leaving me like my parents, like Vince, when he permanently left this mortal life, and like me, who was now leaving Glynis. Once I actually opened the note, however, I knew this was not from Heather. Although I had not seen her write in almost four years, I knew that this sloppy, angular handwriting was not hers. She also wrote in grammatical sentences, I assumed, since she spent four years in college, and properly spelled the words she used. In this note, the writer wrote as if he or she were speaking, thus spelling several words incorrectly. But, within a cursory analysis of it, the note appeared, as the realization suddenly surfaced in me, that Glynis had written this letter. I did not see her write since we were in school together, but only she could have attempted to write a meaningful letter and failed with the mechanics of it. But when did she leave it here, I asked myself, confused about how she could�ve entered the apartment. It didn�t matter, for, in days, I would be gone � absent from this decaying, economically-plummeting city � and had no intention of returning. Nothing would be left of me, not even a footprint upon the snow, for the sordid piles were nearly nonexistent on the sidewalks now. The streets were sparsely covered with any hint of a snowfall, although the weather itself still did not indicate spring. Each remaining pile was a cross-section, depicting the first and last snowfalls of the winter months in gradients of white and gray. About the piles, trash lay � waste that no one collected over the past months and was now left to rot. Looking past Glynis�s letter and out the window, I felt pleased to be inside, away from the decay. In a couple of days, such a travesty would also become a mere memory in my mind � and in Glynis�s as well.
According to her letter, she would be leaving soon, residing in California in a few days. The sun, she mentioned, and the girls. She ecstatically awaited her flight from the city, she informed me. As I stood, reading her crooked cursive and blatant misspellings, I could assume that she was now packing a suitcase full of jeans and flannel shirts. But what use would they be to her in California? She would be in the sun, with the girls. Her aunt might buy her new clothes once Glynis arrived, but did any of it matter? She also stated that she ecstatically awaited military school. And, I, usually dour and somber, laughed, setting her letter down on my books as my cheeks reddened and forehead grew hot. My eyes grew watery, but not from tears of sadness, and, from slightly chuckling, I hysterically laughed, doubling over on the floor because of it. Glynis, in a military academy? The picture, the phrase � both seemed incredibly ludicrous to me. In a superficial sense, the proposal seemed comprehensible; she�d appear more masculine, with her hair cut short and an asexual uniform. And she�d be around other sane criminals. But, I knew that she would be prone into more trouble than she was at Emerson Junior High. With her loose ethics and sardonic words, Glynis would become the automatic scapegoat for any problem, no matter its grandiosity or insignificance. Unlike me, she seemed to possess some kind of primeval survival skills, which allowed her to persevere through this urban wasteland. We lived amongst the trash and the snow, and she repeated eighth grade twice. From my perspective, she possessed enough audacity not to debase herself into the archetype of a pariah, unlike me, who managed to live and survive at the social periphery.
Perhaps I was a cynic. Yes, indeed, as I sat on and became assimilated by the gaudy pastel flower-patterned sofa of this apartment, I tasted my cynicism in my saliva. Like saccharine, it was bitter, but it lingered upon my tongue nevertheless, refusing to leave. I had become one of several soldiers in the Apathetic Army, driven by cynicism but too indolent to learn to use a firearm. I never wanted to learn to use one, for I�d probably blow my own brains out, unwittingly, and the rest of the world would have the privilege of seeing my neurons on the nearest wall.
In sitting upon this sofa, I felt the ground beneath me � trite as that may sound. My feet touched the floor and felt rooted there, as if they had suddenly transformed into blocks of lead. My hands sank into the surface, into the unblemished material, becoming seeds one embedded into the earth. Perusing over Glynis�s letter again, I knew I would write her in a few weeks. I needed a companion, an element of a sane existence, a constant of solidarity, to keep my persevering. My apathy and cynicism kept me in the past, in the dark, like the Coward, who masturbated beneath a blanket in a corner. And, likewise, she needed me. Probably not as much as I needed her, she also needed that element of sanity, but I served as a weight, keeping her on the floor, instead of allowing her to float to the ceiling and beyond. While she defended me, I forced her to be nothing more than the sane criminal she proudly decreed that she was. However, as this weight, I permitted her to travel to that boundary between the sane and insane. In the years I knew Glynis, she may have occasionally sat on that boundary, especially with her coveted drinking habits she seldom told me about, but she never dared to cross it, in order to protect herself and my fragility.
But, at this point, watching the creased paper atop my stack of library books never to be returned, my laughter halted. From a vermilion complexion, my visage assumed its usual pallor, growing cold as the air that characterized the weather nearly yesterday. Perhaps the air continued to be cold, and the sensations of sore cheeks and cold sweat upon my palms had become innate to my existence.
Perhaps Hell itself was indeed cold, I cogitated, reclining on the sofa and allowing it to assimilate me again. Instead of the trite fire and brimstone picture and eternal damnation � for being as sinful as to consume too much � belief, instilled upon you once you could comprehend the tangibility of your existence, Hell is a frigid, endless cave, with low ceilings supporting the icicles hanging from them, next to the stalactites and stalagmites. These formations of rocks and ice have the same purpose as the bars in a jail � to keep you ensconced in a small space and isolated from the rest of the world. Of course, I realized, once you�re dead, the outside world is as plausible as a plan to breathe again. But, unlike roaming in and becoming burned by a pit of fire, you become frostbitten, with your skin becoming a bluish-black, until you can�t feel it anymore. Then again, an enclosed cave has no light, and, thus, you can only imagine your skin becoming blue in the dark.
Indeed, to sound like a disenchanted, angst-consumed teenager, I perceived this city as Hell � my own hell, in which every action of mine was deemed a sin and I was spurned for it. But, my skin would neither be burned by scathing fires nor become bluish-black in the dark of a frigid cave. My hell fell in between the two extremes, and, thus, I kept my skin, for it was the only skin I could manage to live in. In my skin, I thought. In my own skin. In my cold, clammy skin as I cried alone in my room. In my skin as I had a discourse over coffee and doughnuts with Glynis about androgyny. We talked about our skis but not about our hides, as if we were cattle, about to be branded and soon to be slaughtered. She comprehended her skin, even the dead cells that fell from her arms into he lap. And I listened, for she understood my skin as well, and saw the beauty in it. Her Goth rock star, I was, with purple hair, this trench coat, and mascara dripping down his face. Or, perhaps the Goth rock star was a she, but that had no significance. Maybe neither. I don�t think either of us knew or cared.
I promised myself that I would write Glynis in a month, once she began military school. Although we would be separated by thousands of miles, our existences were still elemental to our beings, with the same caliber and intensity that they would have been if we were still in the same city.
However, I imagined that she was packing her suitcase this moment, while I gazed at this television program, with my eyes glazing over from its inanity and implausibility. I would read later, to find myself lost in the arms of intangible characters that I empathized with or desired to be. I was always an outsider; I longed to be Orlando, but inevitably became Holden Caulfield. But, even with these old books in a new location, I accepted the fact that my existence on the outskirts of Detroit would be no different.
Boredom and lassitude pervaded my afternoon, as I vegetated on the sofa, in front of the blaring television, without opening any of the books. Archetypes and stereotypes conversed before me, but, as usual, I was not a part of their frivolous discourse � not that I desired to be. I merely watched, saying nothing and thinking nothing. At one point, I stood up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen to rummage through the refrigerator, finding powdered doughnuts and instant coffee. Both, like most foods, seductively stared at me, causing my stomach to audibly growl and my hands to grab. For an improvement over the past month, I took only three doughnuts, as opposed to the entire box, and brewed only two cups of coffee. As I sat alone in the kitchen, upon the cold, hard, and indifferent chair, the television was still audible, although the hackneyed words of the forgettable characters had as much meaning as static � like sharp nails dragging themselves across a chalk board, like an off-key whistle, and like the cacophonic traffic outside. Finishing the doughnuts and brushing the white powder off my black shirt and vest, I anticipated the silence of an empty apartment once I shut off the television. And, indeed, silence was what I received without reluctance.
Silence � the silence. The penultimate period, in which no being dares to breathe for he knows that if he does, he will disrupt the perfection. I remained in the kitchen to revel in the silence, sitting on the edge of my chair, with my hands planted in my lap. Boredom usurped me, for I had no friends and no homework to do, and, thus, for the moment, I embraced this euphoria, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the coffee and listening to the immaculate sounds of the apartment. Nothing ensconced me. Nothing pervaded the air. Nothing could be heard, aside from my breaths and heartbeats.
What was euphoria? I could not aptly define it, although I had always been searching for it. On a transitory level, euphoria, as I thought it to be, was cigarettes and the scent of coffee. But, at the moment, I desired to cigarettes and the taste of coffee overpowered its aroma. Had such an escape become defunct? Or had reality tainted all I loved? Like most instances, I had more questions than answers and could not answer my own inquiries immediately. To these, however, I indeed knew the answers, although I remained reluctant to vocalizing them in my sole presence. By opening my mouth, I would disrupt the silence � such immaculate, pristine silence. But what was silence in a horrid, gaudy room, I asked myself. I sat on this pastel flower patterned sofa and stared at the white walls, bordered with forest green. The scene disgusted me, no matter the slight amount of cogitation I did.
I sat in the kitchen, again � another ponderous room, but lacked in gauche furnishings � with an empty cup in front of me. The cup was neither half-full nor half-empty. The white cylinder was completely empty, with only a slight residue of coffee and sugar at the bottom � the bitter and the sweet as the dross. I, myself, could not feel bitterness toward the world, no matter the degree in which I loathed it, but I could not feign sweetness, either, to be grudgingly accepted by society. I didn�t know what to be; I didn�t know what to do. Thus, I leaned back into the chair, feeling its hard surface against my back and nape. At least the sofa welcomed my presence, I thought, but what kind of empathy did inanimate objects offer? They spoke no words and remained in place until you moved them. Almost like my existence, I recollected; what a paltry existence and inevitable fate.
What was the inevitable? For that question, the answer was intangible, eluding my thoughts. I didn�t care, really. I might be shot, run over by a bus, or poisoned from my own stupidity. Then again, I may just die in my sleep from natural causes. Perhaps I�d become like Vince, drowning myself in my own bathtub. But, I had no resolution to this conflict and anticipated whatever I might do.
Maybe I was an impulsive person, I thought, too impulsive, perhaps. I hated my former residence and even this apartment, feeling trapped inside a cage. No matter where I moved, the confinements would assert themselves, towering over my to display their strength and my weakness. What irony. What fate.
The apartment, however, would not serve as my prison, even unwittingly. There was nothing to do and no place to go, even if I had a definite destination. Detroit would serve as a transient destination, but where would I go after? Would I become static, remaining in one place without any direction, like this city? I desired not to have a fate like these moribund streets, decaying in their own filth and remaining stagnant with every snowfall. Outside, no snow fell, but the streets were still congested with cars. Reds, blacks, and blued � like wounds to the skin of a defenseless creature. Or, perhaps the creature still fought and lost. Was he still a failure with the bruised skin and black eyes?
A mirror, elliptical and flawless, hung in the bathroom, above the sink and in front of the toilet. The tiles in this bathroom were like those in school � green and covering the walls of the room. But, the similarity ended there, for these did not decay and did not feel brittle upon my touching. This bathroom did not pungently smell of urine, and the toilet had no stains, thus not having the appearance of unclean teeth. The sink dripped with lonesome, melancholy drops falling from the faucet to the basin in seconds. False suicide, I thought. They�ll go down the drain, go through the sewer, and eventually drip from another faucet in a few days. If I were to attempt that, I would have no chance of survival, even in the basin, before flowing into the sewer and sinking into the abyssal bottom.
In the mirror, I stared at myself, like several times from the past. My hair, still purple and parted to one side, appeared no different from a few months ago. It may have grown an inch, but I barely noticed any change. My skin retained its pallor, with small red pimpled lining my jaw where hairs should have been growing. I was sixteen years old, but appeared like an overgrown twelve-year-old. Then again, perhaps such a transition into the throng of masculinity was not necessary for me.
In an hour, I stood outside, in my trench coat again, observing my androgynous reflection in a storefront window. I knew where I was but wished not to be here. In this stance, I was out of my cage, and in the streets, to pass time before Heather returned to the apartment, whenever that would be. Instead of watching the television, I watched the other people on the street, loitering outside a dance club of some kind. From the sidewalk where I timidly stood against a brick wall, I heard the music from inside, and none of it rang with familiarity to my ears. But, the people did not appear familiar, either. About my age, they stood together in lose groups outside, appearing coquettish only in their circles, but nowhere else. The street lines shined down on them, casting their silhouettes upon the sordid pavement. Their figures, however, were pristine, and I stood in my callow, timorous stance in the dark, watching them as they talked and moved, before returning inside to dance and drink more, I assumed. Androgyny had no presence, and, thus, I awkwardly leaned against the bricks, feeling my perspiring fists and a pack of cigarettes in my pockets.
Upon the pavement, patterns from the streetlights and the loiterers danced, augmenting themselves in various variations of black and white. This �dance� was not to the music coming from the club, but to another beat instead. Another beat that did not resonate in my ears nor sway my body with its rhythm. No matter the degree in which I attempted to follow, I stumbled. If I returned to my feet, I would only fall again and continue to fall until I surrendered my dignity.
Indeed, I could lay prone, never returning to my feet from the complacency gained my living in the dregs of society. I was the dross � the sordid residue that was left upon an immaculate surface, needing to be washed away. Thus, I stood here, against this brick wall, and vicariously went back into the club with the others. I was a parasite and I craved blood; I craved life, of any kind � my own existence.
My keys and a pack of cigarettes caressed my palm, as I loosened my fists. The former, with its jagged teeth and cold metallic surface, mockingly reminded me of my past. �Return home,� it told me, attempting to seduce my slight reluctance of leaving. �You have the tools. And the motivation, if you wish it.� However, wishing no longer held its appeal with me. If I wished, nothing happened. Upon my bed, I could sit, inundated with depression, morbid thoughts, and images of fire. Naively, I could desire them to leave, but such misanthropic things would reign supreme. The fire could consume my room, the deaths could occur, and I could put a razor to my pale wrists, lined with red and blue veins like rivers on a frozen tundra terrain. Nothing. I would remain in one position, without changing my direction, with infinite inertia.
Perhaps this would be the last time, I thought but doubted it. Taking a cigarette from my pocket, I placed it to my lips. Each time I did this, I loathed myself, I admitted, but felt like a puppet to my addiction. In the dark, the cigarette appeared like a finger without an attached hand; a finger drained of blood, lying in front of me, in my own hand. By placing it to my lips, the cigarette was merely white paper filled with tar and poison. Once I brought the lighter to its end, it emitted the usual clouds of gray smoke that surrounded my face and secluded me from the rest of the world. Once I lit the cigarette, bringing the lighter with its vibrant flame near my visage, I distinctively caught a glimpse of my own melancholy countenance in the window that ambiguously reflected me. No longer was I invisible, for the people loitering in front of the club suddenly turned in my direction, loosing any coquettish charm they once possessed when I merely observed them. From expressing mature satisfaction previously, their faces grew dark, indicating their malicious intent. The moving patterns of shadows and light on the pavement halted, and the music in the club augmented to a series of diminished chord progressions. Run, I told myself, escape from such a bizarre surrounding. But what was truly bizarre, I asked myself. Then again, what was normal? To be trite?
Deciding not to foolishly flee, I turned toward the dark street before me, beginning to morosely walk to another desolate destination to finish my cigarette. Behind me, everything � the people, the pavement, the music � resumed its usual routine. On the pavement beneath, my boots did their usual pattern; once my heal struck the surface, it instantly released itself before striking again. This repetition was my lament, as I left the scene, replete with shame and mortification. Few cars drove along the street, at night, and desolation pervaded the surrounding. I was the lone man, the only soldier who survived the massacre. But, my gun had shattered out of incompetence, my blue uniform was soiled with blood, and the brass buttons, once upon it, were torn off by a turncoat.
As I inhaled the intoxicating smoke from my cigarette, I heard a distant noise behind me. Laggardly, I turned about, waiting for the inevitable insane criminal to be pointing a revolver at the center of my forehead. As I glared, searching for the one who disrupted my transitory moment of euphoria, I only noticed another lone figure, clad in black and white and standing half a block away, gesticulating to get my attention.
�Hey, you!� he called. His voice sounded unfamiliar to my ears, even aside from his distinctly British accent.
�You, in the trench coat!� he called in my direction. I turned toward him. �Yes, you, with the cigarette.�
Knowing that all he wanted from me was a cigarette, rather than to see my neurons on the pavement below, I slowly walked toward the figure, removing my cigarettes from my pocket as I approached him. As I observed him, once his image became lucid, he appeared like no one I had ever seen in the city. Unfamiliarity? Perhaps, but even in the dark, I could still see his skin, which appeared as if it were glazed lightly with honey. I glanced ay my own reflection in an adjacent window and cringed at my own pallor. His hair, falling to the middle of his back and pulled back, was a dark shade of blond; his features, however, were like those on a statue � carved and chiseled to perfection. If I were any ordinary man on the street, I would have reluctantly given him one of my cigarettes. He stood as nearly as tall as I, although his presence, from his firm stance, radiated more than mine did. His clothes � black pants and a vest and a white shirt � enhanced this, for he appeared like an extension of the pavement outside the club, waiting to vibrate and gyrate to his own internal rhythm.
�So, I see,� he asserted in a warm, amicable tone, once we stood a few feet from each other, �that you have cigarettes.�
I paused, trying to covet my astonishment from his blatant statement, but lost the ability to reply. His blue eyes, like sapphires on a plain silver ring, captivated me, and I outstretched my hand holding the cigarettes.
�I�ve never seen anyone here with them,� he murmured, taking the cigarettes from my hand, as if they were scarce ambrosia. �But I haven�t ever seen you here before, either. Who are you, the mysterious Cigarette Boy that appears once a decade?�
I laughed slightly at his remark, at the last statement, and at the irony of the former. Most everyone I had encountered before smoked, out of habit and heavily, but to find someone who craved cigarettes from the fact that he himself couldn�t find any was rare.
�No,� I demurely replied, speaking in his presence for the first time, and felt my face burn � from embarrassment or anxiety, but I didn�t know. �I just smoke, out of habit, I guess.� Strangely enough, I did not stutter in response.
�Even if you�re not, would you still mind if I had one of yours?� he said with a grin that glowed with the luminance of embers in the dark. He already had one, but I still tremulously handed him another. �And a light?� Removing the worn lighter from my pocket, I held it in my outstretched hand � the singular burning object between him and me. Cautiously, he moved his hand toward the fire, creating a slight confluence between the bluish flame and the white tube of toxins. Then, once the paper began to emit the familiar stream of grayish smoke into the air, he drew the cigarette to his lips, inhaling with certainty.
For the few moments he stood in front of me, smoking his cigarette as if he were consuming ambrosia, we stood in silence, although he continued to grin in my direction, as if the flame from the lighter still burned its blue hue between us. I, however, remained stolid in my stance, but not stoically, as if I were proud that he approached me for a cigarette. As if his electrifying presence pulled me into its field, I merely stood, smoking my own cigarette, as if I actually had euphoria to run into and immerse myself in.
�I know I haven�t ever seen you around here before.� He asserted another obvious statement, but I expressed no emotion, not even the slightest hint of a smile. �What�s your name, so I won�t have to continue to think of you as the Cigarette Boy.�
�Jesse,� I mumbled, noticing the few sordid piles of snow and trash about us on the sidewalk again.
�Jesse? That�s not a bad name. Do you go to South High, by any chance, or are you new to town?�
�Neither,� I replied, feeling like a machine anticipating meaningless strings of data. �I�ve gone to North High for almost two years.� I didn�t have a reason to tell this stranger that I was leaving on Saturday for Detroit, never to return to this decrepit community of deteriorating denizens.
His visage, appearing its glowing-embers quality, mirrored his surprise. �North? Certainly you seem to gentle to go there.�
�Perhaps,� I replied indifferently, attempting to terminate this banal conversation.
�Well, perhaps that�s why I�ve never seen you before,� he repeated my simple statement. �But, perhaps I wish I could have seen you more.�
Continuing to smoke my own cigarette, I sighed. �For the cigarettes?�
�Well, it seems like a good reason, but it�s not enough, just for cigarettes, I guess,� he stated, removing the cigarette from his thin, colorless lips. �But the banality, the platitudes. It�s kind of a paradox to belong to such an elite crowd and to feel isolated at the same time.�
�I wouldn�t know,� I murmured, still holding my cigarette between my lips, which I attempted to keep from trembling.
�I know.� He hesitated purposely. �But I also know that you seem to be quite a beautiful enigma.�
My cigarette stopped burning; my fists in my pockets grew cold; a lukewarm wind brushed against my nape. But I said nothing, remaining silent and watching the red tip of his cigarette move like a flashlight in the dark.
�I assume no one�s ever told you that before.� Tepidly, I nodded, but my cigarette lost its smoke; perhaps the gray clouds and ashes were inundating my mouth and throat.
�I was always told that I was supposed to be handsome,� I croaked, feeling my fists plummet further into my pockets.
�Certainly you�re not handsome but, rather, beautiful instead. You do know the difference, don�t you?�
Furtively gazing past him, I noticed that no youths loitered on the sidewalk in front of the club anymore. The time didn�t matter, although the sky was dark, and had been for the past few hours, casting its shadow upon the city, and the streetlights were burning like erect cigarettes upon the pavement.
�Don�t you?� he asked again. I, then, began to focus on him.
�I-I, uh, ah-assume I do,� I stuttered. �But should it matter?�
I received no direct answer, although he asserted, �Follow me,� as if he were the owner of the club. In front, we stood � two lone loiterers, listening to the drone of jarring, cacophonic pop music. The light from the streetlamps streamed down upon us like artificial sunlight, although I imaged that the moon was giving off such light. But the moon did not surface in the murky, sordid sky tonight, and neither did any star � complete darkness, an abyss of infinite depth.
His cigarette had reduced itself to a mere stump, with only a few paltry streams of smoke emanating from it, but he did not ask for another. Casting the stump onto the pavement, he moved closer to me, standing less than a foot away. His eyes were the color of the ocean; his skin, of sand; his hair, of the sun. Before him, I stood like a cowardly ghost, paling in the light, clad in black, and tremulously shifting in my stance. What stance? I was captivated by his spell and didn�t flinch when he caressed my purple hair and pale cheek. A tear, cold as any crystal of ice upon the ground, escaped my eyes, falling down my flesh and onto his fingertips, as flawless as they were. He didn�t seem to notice, although he smiled slightly.
�No, indeed, you�re not handsome,� he asserted, slowly and tepidly removing his hand. �Purple, white, and black � like irises, my favorite flower, in bloom, in a cloistered garden for only me to walk through.� Nothing. My face grew hot and I unwittingly distanced myself from my hair. �Would you like to come in? It is cold out, slightly.� His stance resumed itself again, and, clad in black and white, he blended in with the pavement.
�I have no money,� I mumbled, taking another cigarette from my pocket to place between my lips.
�No one will notice, especially if you�re with me,� he added, transforming into a god again. Outstretching his tanned but calloused palm, he then said, �Come on. We can smoke inside.�
Outside, the streetlights grew more brilliant, becoming like balls of silver in the sky. In juxtaposition, the black from the celestial vault above engulfed all upon the ground � a gloomy wasteland. However, turning toward the red door, with a patina of chipped paint, he clasped the handle in one hand and my palm in the other. Turning away from the light, I clutched his hand with excitement, surreptitiously looking over his shoulder at the realm before me. From the wasteland, we entered a room of polished floors, mirrored walls, and coquettish, onyx-clad youths. The music pulsated through the room like a domineering conversation, possessing every individual to reply agreeably. Color lost its luster, but I felt myself assimilating into this synthesized paradise. With the door audibly closing behind our backs, he turned toward me, caressing my hair and face again. This time, both of us were in mute agreement. The other bodies clung to the reflecting walls like black fungus. The floor stretched before us, like territory not tread upon by corrupted vagrants. The mirrors were reflected in his eyes, and we were reflected by the mirrors. About us, the other myriad of disenchanted youths dissipated, and, perhaps, we were still standing on the sidewalk, but I didn�t know. Honestly, I didn�t. My footsteps no longer resonated, but I sensed the polished floor beneath my sordid boots.
�Haven�t you ever danced before?� he coyly asked, grasping both of my hands into his and pressing both into his chest. I desired to blend into the walls, to have a mirrored image that would reflect his, Vince�s, and Glynis�s.
I desired euphoria, but what indeed was euphoria? The scent of coffee? Cigarettes? Androgyny? Perfection. In my stuttered speech or in my lucid mind, I could not fabricate a definition for this ambiguous word. But, did I have to? Was such an impossible task required of me?
�I�ve never danced before in my life,� I murmured, but my own words were inaudible to my ears.
�Of course you have.�
�I- � He severed my speech.
�Everyone has. Just move to the beat, no matter how syncopated, irregular, or fragmented. Allow it to assimilate you. Just become lost in it.� His words seemed absolute, as I felt his pulsating heart below my palm.
Moving farther into the room, captivated by his eyes and hands, I glided behind him. �Follow the beats, the pulses.�
His hips, his arms, and his hair fluidly intertwined with the music, but he still held my hands lightly in his. The wall of sound ensconced us; I mimicked his movements; his heart melted into my veins.
Another mascara-laden tear streamed down my cheek, falling onto my lip. I lost my voice in the morose, melancholy sea of sound. I sold my blood to his heart. Another cigarette burned between my lips, but �Euphoria� refused to escape my throat. With our movements, our hair became undone, shrouding our faces, but the mirrors still shone in his eyes. I saw my reflection � the flowing locks of purple hair, the thin lips, the deep-set eyes. And, righteously, I could say I was androgynous. For the brief moment, captivated by his pulse, we stared at each other, Jesse and I, before dissipating into the darkness of euphoria.