The Consumption of Beauty and Fear
Word Count: 1538
Dust to dust. And time only for US. He'd read that same line over and over, from a book he'd just bought. Every time he'd catch himself right there, pondering what it meant. And every time, he'd begin to think back to when he was younger, when life made much more sense. Matt was his name, a short four-letter apple-bite that tasted better than his wife ever did. They were sixteen then, rolling around in autumn leaves, nestling against earthly sentinel trunks. No one could say a word about what they did; no one had the right to. Insulated from the judging eyes of the world, from the hypocritical morals and backwards ideologies. Only problem? He believed their lies and they ate away at him. Society was saying no, and he wanted to follow along.
The gambit he abided by allowed him to let it go on, no matter how much Matt's tongue may have explored the cavity of his face, or how much he was turned on by this fiery teenage boy. He looked into those eyes and saw prosperity, riches beyond imagination; a treasure not of gold or weaponry or fame, but of love and truth, majesty of the self and not of an individualistic, greedy desire. Those eyes could cut through him, the glares like bullets from an AK-47, riddling him with their passion and lust. All he had ever known was that being sixteen and having a relationship like this meant that it would never be durable. That scared him, shook him so much that it wrecked his thoughts. To him, this relationship was silk under a flame, slowly burning away in its embers, despite how hot it was. The flame never endures, a breath will always snuff it out, and if not that, then some errant zephyr gone wayward and directionless.
And as their relationship grew and blossomed, he found himself giving more promises than he could keep. Words like, we'll be together, no sweat, college won't tear us apart. Empty whispers into an awaiting ear, just enough to keep him content. All he ever wanted to do was keep him from crying, but the tears never stopped. The fights were explosive, fury unabated. And the sex afterward was just as frenetic, chaotic, crazy. But a lone thought lingered in his mind, and it refused to be shut out. It would keep him up at night, clawing at his dreams, tearing them apart fragment by fragment. When he dreamed, he felt like he was living another life, one prescribed by society's pharmacist.
In every nightmare - because they were never just dreams - he was with a woman, betrothed in a field surrounded by family members old and new. Their cheers and cries of support rung hollow, no matter how benevolent, or saccharine. He professed vows that were never true; lies were easy to tell when your whole life became one. He told the woman in front of him, so beautiful and gorgeous as she was, that she was his everything and all he ever wanted. In the back of the procession, he'd see Matt staring at him with black eyes. Those seas he'd lose himself in became tar pits of hate and disgust. He was the only one in the crowd not standing up, the only one not cheering for his commitment. And soon his poison would spread, the rest of the crowd dissolving into dust. They would be carried on the wind, lost to time, and all that would remain was him and the woman in front of him. Tears fell down her cheeks, a smile wide enough to break the porcelain of her face beaming right at him, but he felt nothing. He could never draw his eyes away from the boy in the back, whose face never changed and whose eyes never left his gaze. It was as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't. No speech was necessary.
He'd wake up in a cold, sticky sweat, languid and restless. He was exhausted in the holy land he'd created for himself, making sure to pray every night, making sure to stare for a while at the cross on his wall, Jesus crucified upon it. His parents would tell him daily how the man died for his sins, and that he needed to follow every verse and every moral preached from the Bible, because he would never be saved if he didn't do so. But every time his eyes glanced over Leviticus, or a number of other passages, he'd feel himself draw away. He'd throw the book against the wall, breaking the binding more and more each time. Yet the more he wanted to turn away, the more he felt compelled to stick to it. His parents' fears and proselytizing did more to his psyche than he ever wanted it to. When he was eighteen, he had to end it. He had to run, it was getting too much. He could never have guessed how lost he'd be without that one rock, the only part in his life that kept him grounded.
He ended up doing what he felt was necessary cutting the limb off before it got infected. They laid together intertwined like two spiders, legs and arms all in disarray, wrapped around one another haphazardly. Matt popped the question one more time, and that was the last time he ever did. He could see the fear in him, as if he could peer into his heart and find every dark emotion swirling around inside, chaotic maelstroms that tossed and turned and painted macabre colors that could never wash off. When that last question came into existence, his only urge was to run away, the Gavin way, the only way he knew. Their secret love amidst leaves and flowers was destroyed, forever desecrated in the name of God or, in this case, in the name of his parents. He could never lose them he refused to, even if it meant giving up the only part of his life that made him feel wanted and needed. Sometimes sacrifices come at a painful cost, but they have to happen, don't they?
He asked himself that question over and over from then on. Life afterward was aimless; he was never sure where to go and had nothing to fall back on. He felt like wanderlust compelled him forward but in truth it was some vain hope that he'd see Matt one more time. He was older now, he could express his feelings with better elocution. But now he was married; his nightmares had come true, and three children came from it. Three children born from lies that needed to be kept safe, locked in a box without a chance of escaping, no chance to breathe. He felt that suffocating his inner desires was the only way to mitigate them; in truth, they just made the whole situation worse. Every morning felt like infinite scorpions stabbing downward, poisoning his every waking moment.
His dreams had changed once more, but they were different now. No longer were they nightmares, in fact, quite the opposite they had become blithe, jovial dreams with which he never wanted to escape. Every vision harkened back to those days when the only eyes that cast down upon them were the birds that flew overhead, the bees that buzzed by, or the shy animal that wandered near. Where sex had become pure passionate release, not something forced upon him by the handcuffs and ropes of society. He'd see Matt every time, just as young as he used to be, and he himself had become the teenager he once was. Their kisses were quick darts fired from flechette guns, and every touch lingered, caressing each inch of skin as if it were new territory all over again. Even when the rain came, and the steam rose from the heat of the day mixed with the fresh dew of the fall, they would lay on top of one another soaked in nature's shower. Every time the dream would end with words he couldn't hear, and every time he'd envision they were words of love and trust and everything he ever missed about him.
The cold sweat upon reality's bubble bursting no longer left him languid, but instead sated, completed. He'd turn over to see his wife sleeping soundly and he'd feel disgust. Not of her, but himself. Always of himself.
The time came for the two to cross paths, and he never expected it. The boyish face had become weathered, aged, but like fine wine it looked just as delectable. The sight left him breathless, and he could tell Matt was feeling the same way. He didn't want the bond between them to become forgotten love, but it had, and now there was a gap between them. The man panicked, despite the doting wife and nagging children. He was caught in Matt's headlights, with nowhere to run.
And when Matt turned away, soft smile playing sonatas upon his lips, he felt the slap. Not to his face, but to his heart.
Dust to dust. And time only for US.
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