laminated lavenders | dreamnotfound

5

5 - ill

~

when clay woke up the next day, a smile was instantly plastered on his face. his fingers coming up to touch his lips. he just had his first kiss, and it was with george. now, he wasn't sure if he liked girls - but he liked george, and that's all he needed to know. love was love, no matter who and whatever he loved, it was still love, and undoubtedly - what he felt for george was pure and genuine.

he was giddy, what were they going to do today? last week was the best week clay ever had, every day - he and george always had something to do, it didn't even have to be something big and grandiose, basking in each other's company was enough. clay also wanted to talk to george about their feelings for one another, surely, george felt the same, right?

clay prepared for the day and went downstairs, surprised to see his parents home on a weekday, or home at all.

"hey mom, dad!" clay beamed, "why are you home today?" he asked, and his parents smiled at each other before responding to clay.

"well, we just wanted to spend time with you, 's all." his dad replied. looking up from the newspaper he was so invested in, and taking a sip of coffee from a mug clay painted when he was very, very young.

"look, clay. i know we haven't been present much, but we're trying our best, okay?" clay's mom started, "but, we also have new job opportunities; less work hours but the salary is higher than what we used to get, which mean we can spend more time at home."

"that's great!" clay said, sitting down with his parents, helping himself with the food prepared on the table. "can i go over to george's for awhile? i promise i'll be back."

clay's parents stared at each other, worry etched onto their faces. "son, haven't you heard?" his dad asked, and clay tilted his head in confusion, a silent question for them to answer. "clay, george and his mum moved out."

the colour disappeared from clay's features, replaced with monochrome sadness. "he's not here anymore? he didn't tell me." clay muttered, he hastily stood up and excused himself from the table.

clay walked over to george's place, wrapping his fingers around the cold doorknob, twisting it to see that it was locked, the blond then remembered what his best friend told him - underneath the seventh window, the one infront of the kitchen sink, was a loose plank, and in there was a spare key; he rushed to the other side of the house's exterior and lifted the plank up, finding the golden key resting on top of loose soil.

the place was empty, it wasn't for sale - it was still george's grandparents' place, but the brit wasn't there.

the blond walked slowly up to george's room, gently opening the door to see that it was barren - except for the pastel blue sheets placed on the mattress.

clay sat on the bed, the foam dipping around him, wrinkling the sheets. when the sheets stretched, a sheet of paper slid out of the lone, thin pillow resting on top of the bed. the blond curiously glanced upon the paper, where his name was written in neat cursive.

-

clay,

i'm sorry for not telling you of our departure, i just don't want you to be sad during my last week here. i wanted us to have fun, and we did! we had so much fun and i was so sad it had to end.

i am not aware of transcendence, for all i have is you, my dignity and our memories together - but they're going to be trampled by anger, common sense and circumstances, leaving a plethora of remnants and scars imbued on our friendship and engraved in my heart.

even so, my veins are filled with determination and hope for tomorrow, a future where somehow - we'll meet again. i wish to be more than just a servant cleaning grandiose floors of what used to be ours.

clay, my dream boy, you're bright like gold, the dawn and the sun. bright like muzzle flares and streetlight skies. i do refuse to call our story finished, there's hope for us.

i'm sorry for leaving you with nothing but bones, bloody knuckles and breadcrumbs; questions without answers and problems without solutions.

i love you so much, dream.

all yours,
george

-

clay dropped the paper on the ground, allowing the tears to fall down from his eyes and onto the floor, staining the paper and spreading the ink around. he stood up, and walked home, silently locking the house's door behind him.

he sped to the bathroom, and hopped onto the shower. george was gone, and there was almost no chance that they'd meet again. clay fell apart inside the bathroom, his feet firmly planted on the cold tiles, back pressed upon bleached walls. clay slid down, and sat on the floor, his knees close to his bare chest as it heaved erratically; the showerhead's sound drowned out the broken sobs falling from the blond's chapped lips, his right hand drifted over to his lips, remembering the way george's lips felt on his. the droplets masked his tears, and the gentle pitter-pattering kept clay grounded. even after he exited the shower and dried himself, he seemed disheveled.

clay felt ink mix itself with his blood as he vomited his guts out, he couldn't breathe; and as he pulled the wings of dead butterflies apart from the mixture of ink and blood, clay wanted to pin it to the walls - a symbol of his yearning. a taste with a mix of bitterness and metallic sludge left itself on clay's tongue.

this wasn't real. he was merely panicking. there were no butterflies or ink or any of that - clay was merely panicking.

what was real, however, was how his skin held a light, yellow tint. and how his abdomen hurts so bad. it hurts, his chest hurts, and his body hurts

he heard the ticking of the clock in his room, could taste this morning's breakfast, could smell his shampoo. clay was fine, he was real, he existed.

even so, clay's legs felt like they were broken, and they couldn't support his body weight. he felt as if he had no choice but to crawl pathetically on the ground, and when clay reached his bed, he hoisted himself up with difficulty.

the bed sheets were cold; and clay could feel every crease and fold in the pastel green fabric as he stared up at the mud coloured ceiling. the atmosphere was laced with a concoction of fog and sleep, like it had always been when he and george hung out in his bedroom, when clay laid his head on george's lap; except the atmosphere is now also mixed with newfound loneliness.

he wanted to jump off of a skyscraper just to feel something, but with his listless, limp form and state - it was impossible. no matter how hard he tried to put himself back together, clay's shattered pieces were desperate to be loved and cherished and treasured. was george even aware that clay was breaking? even so, clay hoped george was sleeping soundly, clay hoped that george was unaware of the fact that his departure broke clay possibly beyond repair.

clay took emptiness over irrationality, dreaming and mourning things that were slain. he picked loneliness over obviousness; wishing that he could change their fates. dreaming of upcoming things for they'll be damaged when they end. aggression over majority, dreams don't come true for the truth is in front of their eyes, they would've seen it if they'd just opened their eyes. clay was too late, he should've told george about the warmth within his chest whenever they were together but he just didn't figure it out sooner. clay should've told george how much he appreciated the latter more, now, he doesn't know if he has another chance to do so and it hurts clay's chest so, so bad.

the blond had fallen for the unattainable - an elusive dreamer at heart. he is being dragged down by ideas so stupid they'd be considered as fairytales, clay fell for the beautiful boy he grew up with. unreachable stars dancing in front of his eyes to the beats of songs and lyrics his fingers are itching to write.

write, that's it! he thought, and with the tiny bit of strength he had left - clay sat infront of his study table and brought out pieces of paper, as well as a pen. unexpectedly, his old, fourth grade mathematics textbook fell over, and with hesitance - clay opened it with careful fingers, seeing something george has left.

he had nothing left to do, but write.

--

02/14/21 - first draft
03/09/21 - edited