On Etherealism and Its Taintedness

For Lou, and all the shit you put me through on a daily basis.

Mark is the universe, built on forgotten dreams and dying stars. You fall in love with him by accident, and you start to wonder why.

           Mark is stubborn; a kid built on impulses and aggression. He eats, sleeps, fights, and repeats. The only thing that quells his insane thirst for fighting was singing, performing, but his friends “weren’t into that”, and if they weren’t, so was he. Every day he’d come home with a new cut, a new violet patch on the corner of his cheek that spells trouble, and he’d not once bring it up, so no one else does.

            That was, however, until he met you.

            You sit on the edge of the bed, dabbing ointment at the cut on Mark’s cheek. You sigh for what was the nth time since you started dressing his wounds, but say nothing else. A single sigh from you was worth more than a two-hour scolding, and he knew that. You secure a bandage on top of the cut and make your way to the kitchen to get a hot water bottle for his two-day-old bruise.

            You tilt the kettle to fill the hot water bottle and start when Mark speaks up behind you, his velvet voice music to your ears. You loved his deep, melodic voice more than you’d like to admit. It was music compared to your own, and it didn’t help that he liked to rap and sing while doing homework. Honestly, you fell asleep to the sound of his voice, having memorized the waves his vocal cords made when they vibrate. It was the soundtrack of your soul. It was something you could never get used to.

            “Is this you?” he asks, his eyebrow raised at a portrait of a five-year-old you eating mint chocolate chip ice cream at an amusement park holding multicolored balloons in your other hand. He steals a glance at you and goes back to running his hands over the dusty shelf, shaking his head at the poor maintenance of your house.

            “Yes, that’s me,” you confirm, twisting the top of the hot water bottle and wrapping it in a towel as to not burn Mark’s angelic face. You make your way to him and hand him the hot water bottle, instructing him to place it over his bruise gently. He puts it up against his bruise harshly, and he starts a little at the heat, and you shake your head at his innate need to disobey. He shifts his gaze to you and asks, “What?” But you shake your head, “Nothing.”

            He marvels at the numerous picture frames adorning the wall above the shelf in your living room, and he stops to ask about them every once in a while. You stay at his side, never moving an inch, and you tell yourself it’s because you can’t trust a person you just met to wander off on his own in your house, but something else tells you being next to him made you feel like a turtle retreating into its shell—at home.

            “Mark, you need to take better care of yourself,” you bring up finally, not turning to face him. His muscles tense, you can tell without even looking at him, and you can also tell he’s trying to think of a witty statement to say in response.

            “Says you,” he says, and you feel him eyeing your scar-lined wrist. You pull your sleeve to cover your arm, shame rushing to your head, and refuse to meet his gaze.

            “This is different and you know that,” you tell him, turning away from him but making no move to walk away. Maybe you wanted him to touch your arm and ask you to face him; maybe you just couldn’t bear his scrutiny any longer. You fiddle with the edges of your sleeves, waiting for him to move from his place in front of the frames. He doesn’t do so.

            “Why do you care so much, anyway? I’m just your tutor,” he says, voicing the inevitable question. You tense up at his question, a question you’d asked yourself many times in the past, a question you’d made up plenty of answers for, even when you knew it all came down to one reason.