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“I’m not that moral. I’m not that good. I’m fucking selfish. When I want something, there’s no power on this earth that can keep me from it. When I want something, I take it. I grab it. Without any thought of consequences or repercussions. So if I wanted you now, Helen, no one could’ve stopped me. Not your marriage, not your husband. Not the stupid fucking rules or stupid fucking morality.”
It’s true.
I didn’t have the perspective to understand this.
To understand that I kept refusing Helen not because of some moral code but because I didn’t want her.
I didn’t understand the kind of man I really am.
Until I broke down, broke my own rules, and took her.
Even though I knew she wasn’t – isn’t – meant for me. She’s too young. She’s my student, my sister’s best friend.
Not to mention, she’s meant for bigger and better things.
She’s meant for art school, isn’t she?
I always knew that. I always knew that she’d get in. I always knew that I’d have to give her up one day.
And so it was time.
It was time to set her free.
So she could look to the future. Her future and start a new chapter in her life.
So she could cut down all the things that might drag her down.
Things like me.
A man who hasn’t had a dream in fourteen years.
I haven’t sketched in days.
I thought I’d miss it. I have in the past.
Especially when I go back home and I don’t get to sketch.
But I honestly don’t miss it now.
I don’t feel the need to create. I haven’t in days.
It’s like something has died inside of me.
Some little part, some little fire that made me want to pick up the pen and grab the nearest thing that I could draw on.
I’m not complaining though.
Death is good. Death is peaceful. Death is bliss.
It has given me a lot of free time to study and do my homework, prepare. I’ve always been very on top of things when it comes to my grades and such. And now I’m really on top of things. All my homework and assignments are done before anyone else’s.
I’ve even started preparing for finals, even though everyone is relaxed because they are still a few weeks away. But I think you can never be over-prepared for something like finals.
So as I said, death is great.
It’s when I come alive is the problem.
It’s when my heart jumps and my breaths start up again. When life begins to rush through my veins.
That’s when I feel the agony, the torture.
That’s when I feel the pain.
The pain that I always knew was in my future.
That pain is here now and I feel it when he’s close.
I feel it when I see him. When I hear him. When I hear his deep, authoritative voice.
Just because I’m no longer a wallflower, his wallflower, doesn’t mean the world has stopped.
The world is very much moving forward and as I said, we have homework and classes and finals.
Which means school is on.
And which also means he’s here.
He’s still the soccer coach. He’s still my best friend’s very caring brother.
So of course I see him.
I see him in the hallways when I’m getting my books out of my locker. I see him when we’re out in the courtyard and he’s coming in for the day. Sometimes I see him when he’s leaving for the day too.
And then there are lunches and soccer practice.
So over the days, I’ve developed a system.
A robust system where I only have to see him when it’s absolutely necessary.
It’s really not hard; I tried to do it before. Back when I still thought that I could control this thing inside of me and be a good friend, a good student.
So as per my system, I spend my lunches in the library, always pleading homework or studying for finals. I make sure to carry all my books with me so I don’t have to go to my locker. I spend as little time as possible in the courtyard, especially when I know he’ll be out there — being in love with someone punctual and who wears the biggest silver watch anyone has ever seen has its perks.
I can’t do much about soccer practice but I do keep my head down and clench my muscles tight, really tight, so his voice doesn’t hurt me as much.
Not that he speaks a lot.
He still lets Coach TJ speak for him and opens his mouth only when absolutely necessary.
So I’m doing… okay.
It could be worse. I could be alive all the time.
I could be crying and sobbing and screaming every second of every day.
As it is I only do it at night after my roommate goes to sleep.
So yeah, death is good.
Except my friends won’t stop talking about it.
Or him.
When I told them what had happened — I had to, that very same day even; I was too broken up, too shaken to hide it — they couldn’t believe it. They both thought that it was impossible Conrad would do something like that. They both thought that he was in love with me.
