Greek Tragedy

Greek Tragedy 

When she found him, she didn't cry. Instead she fell to her knees, wrapped her hands over his soft cheeks and delicately cradled his head into her chest. She buried her face into his ash blond hair, breathing in his glory, his pain and his essence. She breathed him.

"Oh, my darling. What have you done?" she whispered to him tenderly.

Young James Dean, they called him. Made for beauty—stardom. If only they had known the truth behind those words. Calling someone James Dean would only end them in a young death. Too much young blood spoiled. Too much borne on his tender shoulders. Oh, how could someone put such a curse on such a beautiful boy? Calling him James Dean.

Oh, the pity.

"Such a waste," she heard people talk as she walked past. "He could have been a success."

"It's wrong," some said. "But surely worse to leave. How could he?"

Her Yaiyai was the most disappointed. He wasn't a good Greek boy like she was supposed to date, but Yaiyai loved him more than she ever would love any Greek boy. He ate what she gave him, laughed at her jokes and hugged her back. He wasn't afraid of her, and respected her opinion. He was better than any Greek boy. Which was why Yaiyai was so incredibly disappointed at him.

"Was no Greek boy," Yaiyai told her to mask her disappointment. "He no good anyway."

Yaiyai would never admit to anyone that she was grieving for this boy with the white, white skin and moon-crater dimples with the blond hair. The boy who shouldn't have been dating her granddaughter. The boy who didn't know what was. The boy who killed himself because he couldn't deal with it. Yaiyai shouldn't and wouldn't grieve for him.

When she found him, his cheeks were still rosy. Pink, plump and so, so soft. She stroked her way up and down his face, holding back emotion. It was all a dream anyway, she told herself, this wasn't real. But after an hour of sitting there, trying not to cry, she cried. And she thought she would never stop.

That's when his mother found the two star-crossed lovers, reenacting a scene from the precious Romeo and Juliet. He had poisoned himself with prescription pills, stopping his heart. All she needed was a dagger. Stab herself in the heart. But, maybe, just maybe, he had already done that for her. He made her heart bleed out all over the floor and sweep her soul out along with it. She could feel where he stabbed her. Oh, how it hurt.

She wondered if his last words were something like Romeo's.

"Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die."

Maybe he thought about her before his untimely death. Perhaps not. She hoped that he didn't want to leave her. You see, there was no way of knowing. He left no note for her. Nothing. Pure nothingness, and that meant everything and nothing to her at the same time. She wondered if she really wanted to know his last thoughts, or leave it to her imagination. That he was thinking about her. How they loved each other. Maybe it was better to have nothingness, because it let the imagination run and run until out of breath.

Maybe she should've called something out when she found him. "Where is my Romeo?" How would anyone reply? 'Woe, he is but in your arms in a lifeless pity with pale lips and rosy cheeks rushed with blood'. Maybe not that line. Perhaps Juliet's last words?

"There rust and let me die."

What an effect that would have had.

Then came the day after him, and she was running late with half her makeup on. A mess, a true and utter mess. She felt it and was it. Maybe her picture was next to the word in the dictionary? She would have to look later. She was sure it would be there.

She thought of his last words to her as she pushed past the people. She didn't know how she remembered, but she just did. Maybe it was always lurking about. Taunting her.

"We'll build a waterslide as soon as I get home," he had told her with a small smile, kissing her cheek. If only she had known what was behind that smile. Maybe she could have done something. Maybe she could have done something...

He left to go home, grab some things she thought, but if only she knew. She waited there. Texted him. Called him. That's when she drove to his house. Maybe he needed help? She walked into his room. Nothing. Spare room? Nothing again. Bathroom? Dear Lord.

She pushed passed all the people surrounding her, caging her like an animal, sending sad glances her way. She hated it. Go away. She wanted it just to go away. They were making the grey cloud above her head start to turn black. She could feel its rain, which was her emotions.

No. Not in the hall. Stop it.

It was probably too soon. But she didn't want to wallow away her day in bed. School would hopefully take her mind off it—if they let that happen. But of course they didn't.

Whispers.

"Such a tragedy."

"I feel so sorry for her."

"Why is she at school? Didn't her boyfriend die yesterday?"

That's when she realized what she was—who she was.

So free up the cheaper seats, the thought to herself. She was now a show. Her own personal freak show. Here comes the Greek Tragedy.