Oneshots

"Keep your eyes closed."

“Keep your eyes closed.” That’s what he told me. “Keep your eyes closed.” That’s what I did. “Keep your eyes closed.” That’s what I promised. “You don’t want to see this.” That’s what he knew.

But keeping my eyes closed couldn’t have stopped me from hearing it. The shots that were fired, the sound of a round of bullets being emptied, his ‘love letters’ being delivered. The screams and shouts of people around that were there to witness and to help, the sounds of people running to get out of the crossfire.

The sounds of my lover destroying the pitiful world that we existed within.

Though it didn’t help much I knew that he was trying to protect me, my eyes that were believed to be innocent. That was why I stood beside him with my eyes shut tightly in order to ease his worry, as though it blocked out everything else. He was trying his best for me.

I never went against anything that he said, not ever. Not because I was scared of him but because I loved him that much. He knew what was best for me and he knew how to give such things to me. I would never go against him- the guilt ridden love of my young life.

--

“Why do you call them love letters?” I asked him as he reloaded the silver gun. He took a few minutes to answer as he needed to focus.

“I was wondering when you’d get curious.” His voice had the tiniest trace of amusement mixed with something unidentifiable.

“I’ve just heard you say it so many times.” I watched as he stood up and moved over to sit in front of me on the bed, the gun resting between us.

“Love and hate are kin to each other. If I hate someone- I’d want them to know, hmm?” He stroked my hair gently as if to coax me into understanding. I always loved the feeling of his hands on me, skin against skin. “A letter is given out when you want someone to know something. The bullets that fly out of this gun are my letters that tell people exactly how I feel about them. That’s the main reason.”

I understood him more than I thought I would. He was clear but distant in his explanation, every word was chosen perfectly. That was always how he was with me; answering my questions and explaining until I understood his words.

He was perfect like that.

“A bullet is known for being something ugly. I don’t want these to be considered ugly and in a rough light.” He looked at me, eyes begging. “It’s not ugly- right? What I do with them, it’s not ugly, right?”

“Of course not. It’s not ugly.”

Though he was older than me and much tougher, deep down he would always be a child in need of reassurance. I knew that by then. He needed me to tell him that what he was doing wasn’t frightening or ugly or bad. He needed me.

I was the person who held the gun in my hands, the one whose finger was on the trigger and waiting for the signal to shoot.

“You understand it. I don’t do it because I want to.”

“You have to.” I whispered gently against the darkness in the room. He smiled and pressed himself against me, the cold metal of the gun pressing against my abdomen.

If it made him feel safer, it made me feel safer.

If he needed it, I needed it.

His rough lips fell against mine and my arms locked around his neck on pure instinct. It was the pattern that we’d both created and that only we understood. At that time I was so sure that nothing could’ve broken it. Nothing could’ve stolen that small paradise that we had created.