Bad Prophecies (draft 1)

III

I was smitten. I may have not realised it yet, but I was. This was my first mistake.
It was April twenty-fourth, a full twenty days since I had met him. To say we were close would be a severe understatement. I had chosen to stay with my parents, mum and I had made our way to my cottage to collect some more of my personal belongings that I had not brought already.
That night, I was restless. I tossed and turned as I attempted to fall asleep. I wanted to get back to work but I also wished to overcome insomnia.
I heard a sudden knocking on my window.
It was at first horrifying, as I slept at the very top layer of the building. When I opened it, I was both relieved and thrilled to see Alex.
"Alexander, what in Their name are you doing on my rooftop at two in the morning?" I said.
"I was hoping you to join me up here?"
"Uh, sure, allow me to dress myself first, I'll gladly join you."
I closed the window, and once I had dressed practically, he helped me hitch onto the roof.
"I just thought the stars were so beautiful tonight, I needed you to see them,"
"So you just go about sitting on your rooftop, staring at the stars in total sabaism?"
"Sometimes, yes,"
"You are a peculiar one, Alexander,"
"I know." He whispered comfortingly.
I then gazed up at the sky, admiring the glorious works my mother helped She create.
"If I lost my mind, I'd want to be in a permanent state of sabaism, that way I could admire Them as closely as I was supposed to," He said, almost as though it were a confession.
"Why do you think They created the stars?"
"I don't quite know, I would've thought you'd know,"
"If They created the stars, millions of galaxies, planets, solar systems, only for the world to end in 6000 years, what was the point of the humans to not even be able to see most of it? A scholar of The Book could not even answer such a question. An Angel likely couldn't answer it,
"Good point."

We sat on the roof, I didn't know just how long, but it was probably a while. It felt like no time at all. Then very abruptly, Alexander spoke to me,
"The preacher could never accept a lifelong friendship between a sacrilegious lad and a religious girl, and my mother could never know my dearest friend, but we could still share a flask of whiskey and dance under these very stars, and if that isn't marriage then I don't know what They are looking for."
I very lightly giggled.
"I promise, it may not be lifelong, but it will be worthwhile. I am simply not suited for romance, so how can you be totally sure that you haven't missed a chance to be with the most exquisite woman you could dream of, because you spent the evening at mass with me?"
"Because I was just at mass with her," He employed a smirk, "Besides, I'm not the romance type all that much either, which makes us excellently suited for eachother, doesn't it?"
We both sniggered. We soon decided he should return to his home before the streets became busier at four, and I watched him hike down from the roof. He waved me goodbye, and I waved too.
I then, too, decided I would go. I would go see the confession booth before the church began mass.
I fixed myself, washed my face and teeth, I combed my hair, and dressed neatly enough for church.
I felt a lot better after the confession, I sat through mass.

The next few hours are incredibly hazy in my memory. I have a journal entry from that day, and it reads:
Faithful as I am, I do not think this will end well. I have never felt quite so existential. I have never been an acosmist, not in eighty-eight years of life, but I have begun to believe so. Lord, save my eternal soul from dread. He puts spring in my step, he is my life-force. These have been the longest twenty days of my life, and I wish for it to stay so.
I don't believe I have a choice.
It feels as though my lungs are filled with a vile black fluid and my heart is a carcinogen to all those who may come close with it.
The next I remember clearly, I had written a letter to Alexander. I have read it so many times I can still recite it.
My dearest, Alexander,
Your voice is soft like summer rain,
You smell of fresh oats and sweet blossom honey,
You are the loveliest boy I have ever laid
my eyes upon,
You are charming, and
your eyes enchant me like
a watercolour painting.
Your freckles are the finest
technical imperfection one could have.
Your creation was blessed
by Aphrodite.
You are the ray of sunshine,
In my gray life.
I am so sorry,
I am immortal.
Find yourself a wife
That will not one day cry
When you are death-bed old
And she is still youthful and bright.
You deserve better.
Yrs Forever,
K H.Crowley
My handwriting got messier and more scrawled toward the end, the paper got soggy from tears and some of the ink diluted. No amount of trying has ever allowed me to restore the letter. I sealed it inside an envelope, careful not to burn my skin with the hot drip of wax while my hands were still trembling. He never read the letter in the end. I did not post it to him. I couldn't. I couldn't do that.
And no amount of tears, no amount of crying, no amount of time lost could make it up. It seemed like nothing could make me feel better.