Slutgarden

The Drowning Prince

His name is Eric and he is every sunrise I have ever seen.

There are oceans in his voice, I am drowning with every word. His eyes are brown and strong like tree bark and I fear they see all the ugliness in me. All the illness and rot and loneliness.

But he is so kind. So beautiful. Spilling beer on his chest and banging the back of his head into the concrete when his own thoughts overwhelm him.

I lay sideways, watching him while he watches the stars and tells me what the world would be like in his hands. I feel safe and clean and human.

He finally looks to me, laughing so hard it forces the sharp edges of my mouth to loosen. The muscles are weak and sore from months without use.

Eric stops laughing and blinks.

"Christ."

I am quick to cover my mouth with both hands, well-aware of how filthy rotten my teeth must be by now.

"No, no." He tugs my wrists away and smiles like a small boy. "Smile again, it's cute."

It makes me angry and I do not know why. I fight his hold with the brittle strength stored in me and sit up. The weight of my hatred bears down and I am too dizzy to stand. I drape my arms over my knees and lean forward.

"Don't touch me." I warn him, moments too late.

He says nothing for a while, but his sleeping bag rustles. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Ever. Not around me, at least."
Kind. Too kind and too young and too clean and too perfect and too god damned good.

If I stay, I will poison him. I should leave. I have to leave.

But I seal my coffin instead. "Dolora."

"Huh?"

"My name. It's Dolora." He rustles again and I turn my head. His smile is crooked. His hand hovers in the air, aching to rest on my leg. "You gotta nickname? Dolly? Lora? Lo?"

"I don't care." He makes me feel warm.

"I like Lo. Ever read Nobakov?"

"No."

"Don't, it's overrated." He smiled and sailed back into the sleeping bag and I have never seen anything more wonderful in my life.

His name is Eric and he is every sunset I have ever seen.