Memoirs of Melancholy

Entry three 1961 {Part two}

[Entry three; continued]

The next morning I was awoken by quiet murmuring and the distinct sound of pages being turned.

It was too early for me, but I had a feeling Paul had been awake for quite some time. He was an early bird, that boy.

My eyelids felt like they were permanently sealed shut, so heavy that it became a struggle in attempt to open them. Light shined in brightly from the morning sun, which warmed my face and chest and radiated within my tired muscles and bones. Slowly things became visible as I licked my lips, blinking until the blurriness sharpened a bit.

The large window had been opened already and I could hear the life outside on the streets; people chatting, cars moving along and the wind breezing past. It was going to be a nice day for sightseeing, and I hoped that Paul would be up to another trip to the Eiffel Tower.

I sat up, stretching my arms above my head and yawning. My eyes roamed around some more until they decided to land on Paul, who was still lying in bed, to my surprise. His hair was a mess and he still hadn't put on a shirt, but his underwear had been retrieved sometime this morning.

"What are you reading?" I asked lazily, squinting my eyes.

It was a horrible pain in the arse sometimes, not being able to see very well.

He froze for a moment, not glancing towards me at all as he shut the little book or journal or whatever it was and tossed it to the end of the bed. The cover was worn out, blue with scrawled handwriting across the top and bindings that barely held the dingy pages together.

I recognized it immediately and exhaled sharply, biting down on my lip.

He's fucking dead. If I don't die of a fucking heart attack, he's fucking dead.

I yanked the cover off of my legs and stood up, although shakily and with an uneasy feeling in my lower stomach. It ached uncomfortably, as if I were going to be sick.

"You fucking - you prick! What do you think you're doing?" My voice rasped harshly, striding over to retrieve my journal and holding it defensively against my chest.

No one was ever supposed to see inside of it, because quite frankly, I never thought to censor myself on the safety of those pages. It was the only place I could express the most forbidden of my thoughts and rid myself of a guilty conscious.

I found that my hands were trembling so violently that it was difficult for me not to hit him. I should be beating him to a pulp, but he kept staring at me. His eyes were reflecting so many conflicting emotions that I couldn't understand what he had on his mind.

There was something cold in those hazel irises at first that felt a lot like betrayal, or maybe a piercing stab of indifference.

My fingers gripped the book a little tighter. I felt weak and unable to supply my lungs with sufficient oxygen, like someone had punched me right in the stomach.

He must know.

He read about himself in those pages, saw my scribbly penmanship that regrettably admitted how fond, how endeared I felt towards him.

My throat clogged up with my unforgivable thoughts and emotions, and my breath was only coming in short, rapid succession.

"I didn't know it was going to be so personal. I mean, it's fine. Lots of people have diaries." He whispered, his boyish expression holding a darker, more knowledgable depth that I've never seen before on him.

My shoulders slumped a little as his words rung in my ears, anger subsiding from my being and in it's place, a dull ache of doubt found a home.

A diary. That was such an effeminate word, but wasn't it true?