Clair De Lune

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petewentzisdead

Grass tickles his ears. Dirt presses against exposed skin. The sky is above him, blue and completely free of clouds. He is far from peace.

Somewhere in the distance he can hear a bird chirping. He opens his eyes and trees are swaying in the breeze. His hands tremble as he pushes himself off of the ground. There's a path leading to the trees, to the forest, and he follows it with heavy feet.

Everything feels like this reoccurring nightmare he'd had. He's running, he's not sure what he's running from. There are a billion glowing lights around him, lanterns, streetlamps, torches, tealights. He thinks that he may be in water, by the reflection of the lights around him, but it doesn't feel that way and when he looks down he can see where feet meet land, even in the dark of the night.

But he is running from something. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips, he can hear the blood rushing through his veins. His head aches and the path he has covered crumbles behind him. He cannot go back. He doesn't want to go back, because back is where that thing is.

He makes pitiful attempts at running. His legs refuse to move, like they're covered in concrete. His entire body shakes with effort. A foot lifts up , everything is moving in slow motion, then he is awake with a start, heavy breathing drowning the sound of his heartbeat.

He stumbles towards the forest now, everything is moving in slow motion. He walks until nothing but trees and the sound of a nearby river surround him. He walks until civilization is not something he can even begin to think of, until the thought of people is erased from his mind. Everything is background.

His foreground thoughts are washing over him. Blood, blood, so much blood. Falling heart rate. Nothing we can do.

Silence.

The silence creeps over him like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. It chills his bones and makes his skin crawl. He is scratching at his forearm, leaving bitter red lines. He's collapsing against a tree, voice hoarse as he begins to scream.

His hand moves to his face where he continues to scratch, pressing harder and harder and harder until he's drawing blood with the blunt force of his nails.

"Is anybody out there?"

His voice is cracking, his voice is raw from crying, his voice has only one use, to scream until he feels satisfied. But satisfaction doesn't come from screaming. Satisfaction comes from the press of his hands against his own. It comes from lips brushing in the middle of the night, from laying outside under the stars and contemplating everything.

He wants to feel his fingertips on his neck once more, pulling him in until their lips touch. He wants to see those lips forming words meant only for him.

Satisfaction doesn't come from screaming it comes from him. But he's gone now and all he has left is screaming. All he has left is the repetition of phrases and words and sobs.

"Is anybody out there? Please! Is anybody out there? I need you to be there!"

He's choking on his sobs, he's weeping. The trees peer down at him and nothing is making sense. They're making fun of him. They're screaming back at him.

He is remembering the way that he used to look at him.

Josh looked at him with eyes so soft and caring, so pure, so devoid of hatred that all he could do was cry. And of course he was always there with open arms. Josh looked at him as if he had hand-crafted the sun to greet him every morning and the moon to greet him every night. Like the stars and the birds were something he'd created to please him. He looked at him as if he were something divine. He is a temple, a god, and Josh was made to worship. Now he doesn't look at him at all.