His spirit was bleak, his blood was cold, his eyes were exposed and violated. He could feel the red, brittle skin just below the eyes, burning and crying. He didn't know what could be worse; a pain in the heart or the state of nonchalant oblivion. At the moment all he could feel was the latter, he was detached from anything and everything. He stood at the podium, where the pixies were trying to eat at his expense, trying to feel something. Their eyes were all he could see through the blur in his eyesight. He bet they could smell the alcohol in his breath from where he stood. He knew that they wanted him to talk about Calum's troubled past and his history, of his family and of his habits. They looked hungry for a good story and Luke was more than capable of feeding them, however, the only thing he could think was how Calum would've liked the frown on the minister's face due to his reek of a pub whore.
He'd probably been standing at the podium for over two minutes, when he finally coughed out his sorrows and put on a fad. He summoned his spirits and tightened his sinews, then he spoke from his chest--the way Calum would've liked.
"A lot of you have misconceptions about who he was. I don't care to add kindle to that fire, but I want to destroy that flame. Because none of you will ever know who he was. I won't..." He could feel tears and the quiver at the back of his throat, ready to overcome him like a wave. Strength was something he lacked, but also something he owed. "I wont be talking about him. instead, I will be reading a poem by one of his favourite authors, Countee Cullens." He gently pulled out the crumpled papers in Calum's hand writing, something he'd found amongst Calum's belongings. Even the sight of his handwriting felt like a dagger below the rib; the loss of his future.
Luke then read the distorted poem:
"All through an empty place I go,
And find HIM not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write HIS name
Or draw HIS face the way HE looked
That legendary night HE came.
The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.
My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.
The heavy cows go laboring
In agony with clotted teats;
My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.
I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse."
..........
Luke Hemmings also died that beautiful, sunny evening.
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The Perfect Sinner (cake boyxboy)
Fanfiction"Love like this must be sin." Chapter 1: The Perfect Sinner Chapter 2: The Mad Sinner
