A Promise of Heartbreak

The door slammed shut. I flinch now upon remembering it.

I keep thinking I can hear it, my head turning to the threshold of the room. I think I can feel the air being thrust across the room, an inexplicably strong force. I pretend it is this gust of air that leaves me breathless, that this air has left my eyes dry and in need of the tears which flood them. I try to ignore the dark circles on my blue shirt that grow larger the more I stare at them. And when I start to shiver from the cool fabric now plastered onto my skin I say it’s the weather; I say the cold air has seeped into the room from outside. I simply I pretend that it is not a summer day because I know no warm day should feel this cold.

The room is without light and I am alone, and as I look around I can see that the windows are all in the wrong places and the walls have turned from white to a color indiscernible under the velvet layers of dust. The doorway is too small and the room is without furniture save for the burgundy-red sofa striped with scratches that bleed a pale yellow foam. My bed upon which I had been sitting that day is gone. Instead, I sit on the floor, trying to avoid the dead insects which lie in piles in the every corner of the room. I find myself wishing I was one of them sometimes.

I feel confused, still in a state of shock, but I know where I am. I know that I am not back at my room at home, that I am hiding in the unfinished, forgotten basement of a friend’s house. She snuck me in just yesterday.

                                                                 …

I’m not sure where Robin went. I only hope that I haven’t put him in danger.

I loop back to the train of thought I’ve followed at least eleven times since I first arrived. Robin. He had always been the source of whatever happiness I had, but now when I remember kissing him his lips taste sour. He isn’t to blame, yet my mind has altered how I think of him. I hate myself for turning the precious memories into bittersweet ones. I hate myself for thinking about our time together as a thing of the past, but I can think nothing else when I am incapable of seeing a future. I hate myself for allowing me to love him after knowing I have only caused him pain, because I know how much he’s sacrificed for me. He tolerated the limitations of our situation but now I’ve simply run away.

The silence of the room has not been kind to me. I am in dire need of distraction. Without it, my thoughts morph into shadows that exist without a need for light. I feel them around me always. They observe me, whispering suggestions I would rather not hear. They tell me I can escape, that I can justly punish myself for how I’ve hurt Robin. I tell myself not to listen; they’re selfish thoughts, aren’t they? Robin wouldn’t want this, would he? I don’t know. I can’t differentiate my own truths from my lies; I’ve been forced into a reliance on deception for so long that I have succeeded in deceiving myself.

I find that I am able to hear a distant sound. I think it is wailing at first, as if a crowd of people is shamelessly expressing sadness, as if they are mourning the death of a loved one. But then I hear the rhythmic screech of metal wheels on metal. I let the hum of the train calm me. For the first time in hours, my heartbeat has loosened its fierce grip around my chest. My breath steadies.

                                                                …

Every day the same. Every time I only knew how to respond with silence.

Ages 9-13:

“You have a talent for art, and your father and I are proud of you, but have you considered trying anything a bit less girly?”

“We’re a bit worried about you, your mother and I. We’ve seen you come home with bruises on you face. Son, if people are bullying you, you need to fight back.”

Ages 13-15:

“Ooh honey you have to tell us all about your crushes! Why don’t you ever talk about them with us? Aren’t there some cute girls in your grade?”

“Would you look at that man on the TV! He’s making such a fool of himself. Oh honey he looks just like a girl and I think he’s even wearing makeup! Some of the men these days just need to learn that they’re embarrassing themselves. My God, at least walk like a man!”

Age 16:

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?? You need to explain this to me right now! You can’t look at magazines like this, you hear me? YOU ARE NOT A FAGGOT, and I’m going to make sure you are never like any of those fucking gays out there. They are SICK. You hear me? They are sick!”

Age 17… age 17. My age now. I learned to know better than to be open with my parents a long time ago. I’m distant with them because they have done nothing but shame an important part of who I am. Sometimes it was even the little comments such as the one about the man on TV that stung the most. But all of them hurt me.

There was a time when I was 15 that I had considered telling people I was gay. It scared the shit out of me to even think about saying it out loud, but it didn’t feel right having to hide any longer. I decided I would try to tell my older sister. Having grown up with me, I knew that she wouldn’t doubt me if I told her.

I came to her room one night after school when our parents were out. I remember taking in a breath of air as if I were about to dive deep into the ocean, as if my next opportunity to come up for air would feel eons away. My hand, shaking, formed a fist and knocked on the door three times. I had planned out my confession, and I wanted to keep it short –easier to say. Three words: “I like boys.” With my sister’s every approaching footstep I could feel my face draining of its color. I still hadn’t let out my breath when she opened the door. I think she said “what’s up” to greet me, treating the conversation as casually as any other. I began to bite my lip and shift my weight from one foot to the other. She noticed and placed a hand on my arm in an attempt to calm me. “It’s alright,” she said. “Just tell me what you need to say.”

“I..” I had started to say. She swallowed, and in the silence it was a sound so loud that I could pretend it was my own, the muscles in my throat tensing and choking my words. As the seconds passed, I saw her face change from one of worry to concern. Her eyes had shown me comfort the second before but now they looked at me with a hint of fear and something else. Recognition. I knew she understood what I wanted to say. Nearly a minute passed, or maybe it was mere seconds, but her eyes began to water and her lips trembled slightly as she let out static breaths. Why is she tearing up? This isn’t how the conversation is supposed to go, I thought.

Panicked, I replaced “like boys” with “think I’m depressed.”

I could see her relief. She stopped sniffling nearly immediately, and the edges of her mouth curved upwards. I had told my sister I was depressed and she was beaming. Her smile showed no pity for me. She ended the conversation with “It’ll get better, I promise,” as if saying those words would make up for her lack of sympathy and cure my pain. The one person who I thought would accept me was just relieved by the fact I have depression. Because apparently, anything is better than the shame of having a gay relative.

“I like boys.” Why do those three words still haunt me? Why does knowing I’m gay still not feel right? Why do I even doubt my sexuality when I know it’s true? It was what I was taught. That’s it. I was taught that my thoughts were sinful and perverted, that I was mentally ill. That I had to be masculine and “lacked the courage” to fight other guys when I actually just didn’t see the point of fighting. I was taught that what I felt was wrong.

                                                                 …

There’s a dim light reflecting off the patch of floor beneath the door. I’m not sure how long it’s been there since I fell asleep. I remain quiet, though the voices of human interaction and shuffling of simple movement is nonexistent. My body aches from the mercilessly hard floor, but I’m thankful for the thin blanket that’s protected me from its icy surface. I struggle to remember the last time I ate, but I don’t feel hungry. My friend should be bringing me breakfast soon, though. I can tell it’s early morning; a crimson shadow creeps over my skin.

I begin to wonder when I’ll get out of this basement. It’s not even been a day, but I know I shouldn’t be here much longer. It’s best to keep moving.

The light is still there. About half an hour has passed since I woke up, but I haven’t moved. My foot is frozen in place. My toes curl as an intense pain surges up the arch of my foot; it’s as if someone were trying to rip muscle from bone. I’ve been sitting in one position for too long, but it scares me to even try and move my hand and massage my foot cramp. What’s the worst that could happen if my friend’s parents were to find me here? A call to my own parents would be inevitable. They’ve no doubt let others know of my absence. If not that, then I’d have to explain myself to them, tell them why I was hiding, but no reason, not even the truth, sounds believable enough to me.

Cindy, the friend I keep mentioning, brought me a bowl of Lucky Charms a couple minutes ago. Though the sight of it has awakened my appetite, it’s still sitting in front of me, untouched. There’s a soft hiss as the fish-shaped pieces of whole wheat soak up the milk and begin to drown under their marshmallow companions. The marshmallows follow, leaving an artificial rainbow trail as they become more and more disfigured. It’s as if the milk is acid, working its way through the unfortunate, unlucky charms. The hissing, I realize, must be their screaming. I take it upon myself to end their torture and eat the cereal.

I hear two knocks. The house is empty now. Cindy told me she’d knock on the basement door twice before leaving, and her parents had already left. I guess it’s time to make my move, but I’m suddenly paralyzed. Am I sure I want to do this?

                                                                …

I whisper in his ear.

“I’m about to show you how much I love you,” I say.

My hand combs through his dark locks.

His left hand is pressed firmly up against my chest.

His right arm wraps around my waist and holds me close.

I grab a chocolate from the bowl by the windowsill.

“Hey,” he says, “Give me one.”

I pass it from my lips to his.

We laugh.

…

I gather my belongings –they’re few in number: about thirty dollars I managed to stuff into my pocket, the small pride flag I bought at a yard sale years ago and hid away in the back frame of a painting, and the sweatshirt Robin gave me as I left. To remember him, he said, as if I could ever forget. His smell still lingers in the folds of the sea-green fabric. It’s a mix of lavender and chamomile: his hand soap. I let the scent empower me, excite me, give me the strength to get up the stairs and out of the basement.

I stop by Cindy’s room and leave the money under her pillow; I won’t be needing it any longer. I slip on the sweatshirt despite the summer heat, open the back door, and hop outside.

…

I lay my head on his bare chest.

He leans his head down in an attempt to look at me.

I look up and am met with nothing but chin.

Unsatisfied, I roll over, my hands now on either side of his body, and push myself forward.

Our eyes meet.

We kiss, and I can still taste the chocolate.

I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand and let myself collapse onto him once more.

He takes my hand and lays it on his lips.

I smile.

…

There are puddles on the road. They’re unnatural, holographic –oil. Next to them I see the black burns left behind by rubber tires of cars that stopped too quickly. I follow these tracks. I know where I’m going, but they give me a more interesting route, zigzagging across and off of roads, leaving me wondering about the fates of the cars and people that created them. Could these marks have been their last words?

I hold the pride flag in my hand. Its colors are faded, plastic flag pole snapped in half, and the corner of it bitten through by what was probably a moth. I, however, do not care. It is the symbol that matters to me, not the material thing.

…

“That was nice,” he says, kissing down the side of my neck.

I can’t tell if my heart beats faster or slower now.

His kisses make their way down my chest.

I stroke his back.

I think I hear a thud outside the room.

My parents are out of town all day, so they couldn’t be home.

No, they couldn’t be home.

I brush it off, and guide Robin’s face back up to mine.

I kiss him, and the door opens.

…

I’ve made it to where I want to be. The grass near the tracks is overgrown and thick. I could hide in it and pretend the world around me doesn’t exist, pretend that nothing had ever happened. A thick coating of rust coats the rails the way sand sticks to wet skin. I kneel down and glide my hand across it gently; a copper-colored residue stains the tips of my fingers. The air isn’t thick today, and a breeze blows my overgrown curls into my face. I don’t mind. At least I have no reason to take off the sweatshirt. At a time like this, having Robin with me is my only consolation.

I don’t know when the next train will be here. I don’t have the schedule. It’s alright, though, since I’m in no rush. I’ve decided the best option is to leave my family and friends behind. It’s less painful this way. I know it’s selfish, but it’ll keep Robin out of trouble, I hope. About half a year ago I wrote a goodbye letter to my family in case something like this might happen. It’s tucked away in my desk somewhere. I’m sure they’ll find it.

…

My mother takes one step into the room before her eyes shift their gaze from the floor to me.

She gasps.

It’s breathless; soundless.

Her mouth opens, yet no air leaves her lungs.

For seconds, her body is petrified.

I expect her to come up to me, slap me, yell at me, but her form of punishment is far more potent.

Her head moves from left to right slowly.

She says, in a voice too calm, too soft, “I thought you’d know better.”

…

I hear a train in the distance. In my mind, I distort the sound of the wooden planks shaking under the train’s weight. It sounds like a human whisper now. I convince myself that it’s Robin’s voice. Don’t do it. He tells me. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

…

She doesn’t move any closer.

Maybe I disgust her too much and she simply wants to stay away.

According to her, after all, I have a disease.

“I thought you’d remember what I taught you, that you might listen to me,” she says.

Her voice remains steady.

“Reeve, what you’re choosing to do is sinful.”

“With your acts of homosexuality, you have disgraced our family.”

…

I can see the headlights now.

DON’T DO IT DON’T DO IT DON’T DO IT. Where do the sentences end and where do they begin? I see only a swirl of words now. I can’t understand. What is Robin telling me to do? I’ve stopped hearing the word “don’t,” or he’s stopped saying it. But I can see the other two words clearly: Do it.

…

“Are you proud?” she asks.

Of disgracing you, mother?

Of disgracing myself?

Of being gay?

Of causing you pain?

Of causing everyone nothing but pain?

Of living with this curse that I can’t get rid of?

No, I’m not proud.

But she doesn’t expect me to answer, so I don’t.

…

No! I haven’t done anything wrong. Being gay isn’t wrong.

But that’s not it anymore.

Robin and I would have no future. I gave him the gift of love with the promise of heartbreak.

My parents would want to cure me. I’d be trapped, isolated from the “negative influences” of my friends, supervised mercilessly, sent to a psychologist for “mental issues.” My life would be misery.

I can’t let them do that to me.

…

I don’t speak.

She takes a step back.

…

The train will be here in seconds.

I jump.

…

The door slams shut.

…

Somewhere in my mind I can hear the door again.

Its sound is no different than the one my body makes as the train slams into me.