Short Stories of Mine

I

Ordinarily, the boy would've gone to school as normal; paid attention, gotten homework, studied. Today, something bothered him. It kept him from his usual ritual. What was it, he wondered, that kept him so? His heart fluttered at the thought of the girl he had met, and his mind wandered more until instead of his usual arithmetic, his lips touched hers in a gentle caress he always sought in his mind of minds. He tried to bring her out, to forget of the feelings of affection he felt, that learned emotion he couldn't place. The word he used when speaking to his mother, but he himself never understood. Yet that elusive "love" kept his mind on her, romantic fantasies keeping him from study. When he dreamt, all he heard was her name if he did not see her. Every morning, she was in his thoughts, and to him, his love was a fevered nightmare, because he didn't know what this feeling was. It was a frightening sensation, even though it made him so happy to think of a future, any future, with her. His life was filled with such sorrow that he was afraid to be happy.

When he finally thought to talk to her, she had to leave her home. He doubted himself. Could that life happen? Was there any chance? He was silently relieved that she had left; his heart returned to its almost non-existent beat, and his all too familiar pain returned. He was too much of an introvert to speak to someone so beautiful, inside and out. He was an outcast to everyone. How could he even have a chance of deserving a goddess?

He began to wander away from his home; his hopes shattered by his own thoughts, his will gone a similar route. He was deserving of nothing, he thought, thus searched for nothing.

Every road he took, someone jeered and taunted him at his approach. Every time he turned a corner, he was shoved to the ground and beaten. One boy pushed him too far with only a few words, and the two boys found themselves in a makeshift brawl. The outcast was no muscle-bound thug: he was a scientist at heart, one who preferred to think. Yet still he struggled, until the heckler lay dead at his feet, a metal wire severing his throat. The outcast chuckled at his work; the boy deserved this. But he soon paled and looked away as the young corpse transformed before his eyes into the very boy who looked at him. The corpse vanished in smoke, along with the instrument of murder, for neither had existed at all. The outcast boy began to run.

He found several other hallucinations which met similar fates, some seeking her, some not. The boy was consumed entirely by his terror at his feelings, once suppressed. Fear, hate, anger, these were familiar. But joy? Love? Alien languages he could not speak. So he ran.

In his despair, he ran to an abandoned house. All of his visions greeted him with nightmares he accepted, almost with belief. When he awoke, he saw himself holding a knife to his head, yet the knife bearer stood staring into his eyes. The boy shoved him away, and the hallucination dissolved and crashed into him. The boy curled into himself and shook, realizing that he was that monster. He had tried to destroy his emotions by bathing them in blood, and he had made himself a killer. So why not be a killer?

He rifled through every drawer, looking for a weapon. In one, he found a simple pistol. Loaded, ready for use. The boy smiled. He walked through the house with his last hope to find a victim, and he found a vision of himself holding the gun at him in one room. "I know what I am, now," the vision said. "I wanted to make her happy. I failed. I wanted to let her have a good future. I failed. I wanted to know what love was. All I succeeded in doing was making myself a monster to try and hold out for her. She wouldn't look at me. She's too perfect to want a monster. I did this to myself. I can't be the one to give her joy. But at least I can protect her from me."

The vision began to weep. The boy didn't understand. What was this weakness? Just another trial to endure, he supposed. Another weakness to destroy so he could return to the sweet nightmares, the beautiful darkness, away from the frightening prospects of love and happiness. He raised the gun, and he fired.

The walls stained red. The reflection fell, and so did the boy. He had defended the lover he could never have. The boy knew that his job was done, and with a smile upon his face, he slept.

Days later, everyone was clothed in black. They said how sorry they were, how they had abused the boy and driven him to madness.

All except the mother. The boy's mother knew him. He had been trapped in his mind for too long, been killing himself for too long. She never knew about his forbidden love. One on-looker asked the mother, "What happened?"

The answer: "He'd killed himself for so long that he forgot when it's not a dream."

The boy was lowered into the earth slowly, but no-one commented on his mouth: how it seemed to have a word upon its lips;

The girl's name, and with it the hope that she would be happy now that the monster was dead.