Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

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Reaching into my desk drawer, I pull out the envelope Zachary presented me with the other day. I'm planning on writing for the first time in months, but I need a little motivation. The paper before me is blank and the possibilities are frightening.

I untuck the flap and pull out it's contents slowly. My stomach churns with anxiety.

"Are you ready for this? It could be something you don't want to see."

But it's just a stack of photographs. The first one is of Timmy, head thrown back in that kind of teeth-exposing laughter I'd give my life to hear. There's a boy sitting beside him, arm around the blue haired boy's waist. Zachary's hair isn't green or long in the picture, but the kind eyes and high cheekbones are the same. I flip the picture over. On the back in neat cursive scrawl, July 25, 2009, is written in black ink. There's nothing besides a date, and I set the picture down on top the notebook in front of me.

The second picture is taken from the back. Once again, the boy has his head thrown back, but all that can be seen is a crop of messy blue hair. No smile. No sparkling eyes. No relaxed features to make you feel better about life. It's just the back of Timmy's head. I turn the photograph over out of curiosity for the caption.

August 28, 2008. Last day of summer.

I miss this.

Highschool sucks.

The third is of a concert. It's taken from the back of the crowd, but squinting, I can make out a familiar banner. Squinting even harder, the blue haired boy standing atop the crowd is barely visible. Two muscular guys hold his legs by the ankles. On the flipside:

July 30, 2009

Never seen him so happy before.

I drop it down into the pile. There's at least half a dozen other photographs, but I've found my muse. Sliding the photographs to the side, I begin to write.

I'll be damned if it's not the best goddamn feeling in the entire world.

By the time I've finished, everyone is downstairs. I can hear my mother in the kitchen and my father and brother in the living room, cheering at the TV. They sound like a normal family. And their other son is writing poetry in his bedroom with the door locked. Everything fits into place. Maybe I'm not the happiest person in the world, but this is where I belong. This is my place.

The phone rings and breaks the picture. It seems for a second, everything goes dead. I can feel my heart hit the floor. My breath sticks in my throat while it's quieted with a, "hello?" spoken into the receiver.

I wait, the panic clawing me up from the inside. Everything was going fine. Everything was good. Now all the time I spent writing just feels like a waste. I glare daggers at the paper, innocent handwriting covering it's surface.

"Damian!" a female voice calls up the stairs.

I can't breathe. Oh my fucking go-pause for a gasp of air-d I can't fucking breathe.

"Damian." There's footsteps on the stairs and I count down until I know there's nothing left but the three steps to my door.

Three.

Two.

One.

And then, nothing.

"It's for you, Damian," she says, knocking on the thin wooden barrier. "Come on out."

Slowly, I turn the knob and peek around the edge. My mom holds the cordless in her outstretched hand. "Mrs. McKinnon," she mouths and however deep my heart had already sunk becomes instantly deepened.

I take the phone from her. My palms are so sweaty and it barely stays in my hand. It takes everything I have to keep from letting it fall to the floor.

"Hello?" I whisper into the receiver, cringing as my voice cracks.

The response is breathy and light.

"Oh Damian. How soon can you get to the hospital?"

He's dead.

"I...I can get the-there in twen...in twenty minutes..." I stammer out. "What's....what's wr-wro-wrong?"

There's a rustle in the background. Oh no, it's too bad to tell me. She had to hand it off to a nurse. She can't tell me what happened. Shit, it was painful. He died painfully and she can't tell me herself or else she'll break down.

"Damian?" a sleepy voice asks. "Damian is that you?"

The phone crashes to the floor.

"Get the car," I order my mom. "Get the car now."