Perfect II: The Art Of Living

Prologue

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Download the whole book there for FREE. The book contains the revised and more organized version of the text. Also, the epilogue and some final scenes. Disclaimer: There are formatting errors since this is my first time doing this. Thank you in advance.

Prologue

The purple night sky had been sly and unconvincing as Damon shifted every now and then throughout the area of the couch. Scoot here, scoot there, scoot in the middle, lay like a dog, lay like a guinea pig, slouch like a llama, any pose wouldn’t do. It couldn’t hold back what the twilight had offered him; discomfort, longing, worry and agitation. Stars twinkled mockingly as there wasn’t anything beautiful that night. His bone cancer bothered him every time he tried moving so he just let the movie on the T.V. play until Chris would arrive.

        Hon, why you no go home! Damon texted and tossed his phone on the coffee table.

        He grunted and laid his head on the arm of the sofa. His phone caught his attention, enticing him to sit back up and reach for his phone again. He sighed after the three-meter struggle to grab his first anniversary gift from Chris.

        A picture of a light brown haired man, in his late 20s, blurted out from his screen with a caption; you made my seven months, thirty four, big guy. He paused Brokeback Mountain that had been playing on the DVD for ten hours straight and went directly into his message box. It was four in dawn and Chris’s last message was sent six hours before which was utterly impossible to occur. He contacted anyone from their group to ask if anyone saw Chris but all returned him the same negative response.

Damon peeped between the tiny slit of the curtains and witnessed the light purple agony that glorified the twilight sky. He felt giddy and reached to return his phone back on the coffee table after messaging Chris for the seventy ninth time starting in the past six hours.

“I love you. Please come back.”

“I miss you. Please return.”

“I’ll watch Brokeback without you if you’ll not be home at 11.”

“It’s twelve. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!”

“Chris, sorry.”

He couldn’t think why he asked that. Maybe he indirectly yelled at him on the phone because he took another overtime at work. Probably that, yeah. Or maybe his boss liquored him to death or his co-worker murdered him for being an over achiever. Thinking all of that made his stomach twitch (figuratively). He slouched and scooted on the right side. Ouch. There was a sting on his femur. Ouch. Ouch. The sting became a crunch to his thigh. It turned into something wicked that made him writhe in definite agony. Chris… where are you? Help me…

His stage IV bone cancer resurfaced. Twisting from indefinite physical pain, he fell on the ground which made things even worse. His head slightly bumped into the glass coffee table and lacerated a small portion of his forehead. He screamed in pain.

“Chris!”

His door roared open.

“Kill him!” a federal agent ordered someone from outside.

Damon grew cold and confused. What is happening? What the figgin’ hell is happening now, America!

“Are you a homosexual?”

He absently nodded.

“Confirmed.”

The last thing he knew was Chris’s corpse landed beside him; his favorite dress shirt tainted with the smell of iron. His body was now cold, inhumanly cold. Damon forgot about the stings in his femur and just lay to hug Chris’s bloody corpse.

“Happy Anniversary, hon. I love you.”