badr al dine

"what if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted?"

I shouldn't have even been awake. On long, nauseous nights like this, the cold of the desert is nearly as vicious as the heat. Empty, chilled to the bone, dead. Everything felt dead, except for the twinkling lights of the strip, so far they may as well rest on some unobtainable planet. I didn't even realize I was shaking, until I groped for the glass of water on my nightstand and nearly sent it rushing towards the ground. I tried to focus on something, anything- the burn of the distant lights, the coolness of the water dripping down my chin. Lifeless, all of it. Even the screaming glow of the city felt lifeless. If it wasn't New York, it meant nothing to me. Vegas, to me, was hopeless. It was the bleak, burning, screaming reality that I would likely never make it back to New York. I hated the desert, simply because it wasn't home. Yet, something kept me here. Something inside of me was content with allowing Vegas to be the pool I finally drowned in. My last mark on this Earth, unseen by almost everyone I had ever known. Shifting uncomfortably, I pushed myself off the bed as slowly as I could, careful not to wake Boris. Shuffling my feet along the floor, I made my way to my school bag, slumped against the window like a corpse. I used the weak glow of the streetlights shining through the window to find and retrieve a notebook from school, and a dulled down pencil. Though I was shivering, I didn't want to go back to bed, worried I'd wake Boris by weighing the mattress down. I instead brought my knees up, placing the notebook on my thighs. Turning past pages of failed math homework and unfinished forged notes "from" my dad ("family vacation next week, Theo's gonna be out a few days"), I finally landed on the first blank page. Though I typically wrote notes for my mother in better kept notebooks when it could be helped, this was something I'd rather have less accessible. Though I was still somewhat drunk, I tried to assume the consequences of this idea. I figured it unlikely Boris would go snooping through my old algebra homework when he had a higher chance of passing the class than I ever would. Sighing shakily, I put my hand to the paper, and the writing became almost automatic.

Mom,
I'm sorry in advance, but today's letter is a bit different than usual. For a quick rundown before I get to the point, this week was nothing special. Just the usual, I'm sure you've got an idea by now. I didn't come to tell you about going out for Chinese with dad, or almost getting caught stealing ice cream bars from 7-11 with Boris. Though I guess the second one is close enough. I don't know what to do. Since you've been gone, I've tried not to change much, I really have. You always told me that no matter what happened, I would always be your puppy, your heart, your son. Knowing you can't-

I faltered, the very idea of the next words still bringing a painful stiffness to my chest. Mustering up a shaky breath, I kept my hand moving.

-be here to see me, I want to at least be the son you remember, wherever you are now. But I'm scared. I feel like a part of me is surfacing... something you would have had no way of knowing. To embrace it means to bring something new to the equation, a son you never knew. A son that wasn't by your side as you took your last breath. I know you would always want me to be happy, no matter where I was or what I was doing. What if being happy means being someone you never got to meet? Someone that dad, if he knew, would squash with his shoe like he was nothing more than a bloodsucking mosquito. Someone who didn't have a crush on Susie in the third grade, who wasn't lying when he said she was nothing more than someone to take turns on the slide with, or swap lunch with when her mother filled her lunch bag with those baby carrots she hated so much. A son that was much more charmed by the flirtatious men on your late night soap operas than he ever would have been with the half naked women in the magazines dad left lying around before he left. I don't want to think about that part of me. Boris is the best thing that's happened to me since you died-

Even the sight of those words, engraved into the paper, made my stomach lurch with uncertainty.

-, but it terrifies me to think why. Why, while every other boy in my class would kill someone to speak to K.T Bearman or any of her friends, I feel completely uninterested. Why, when dad drives me past the "gentleman" bars on the strip, neon figures of busty women shining bright, and laughingly asks if I want to stop by, the thought makes me more uncomfortable than anything. Boys my age would leap at any chance to see women like that, as I've heard him not-so-quietly gripe to Xandra multiple times. He's not wrong, though. Even Xandra, her offhanded comments when my dad asks if I'd like to join them for dinner, and she quiet scoffs something about how I'd rather spend the night with "my little Russki." Or even, why it makes me burn with anger when she says that, while Boris simply laughs when I tell him about it later. But above it all, what scares me is Boris. Not Boris himself. In fact, I'd argue Boris is the only person that cares at all if I live or die at this point. But that's what scares me. In a way, Boris is a lot like Las Vegas. Blindingly bright, filling me with searing heat, an aura of mystery and seduction about him that I feel will eventually drain everything from me. Something so risky, yet so inviting. Warm, inviting light telling you to take a chance, make the leap, give it all you've got and cross your fingers you don't lose. Though I wake up nearly every morning with the previous night completely erased from my mind, like a VHS tape recorded over with static, things linger. Deep purple marks on my neck where I don't remember getting hit. Underwear around my waist I don't remember wearing, and mine ending up loosely, revealingly, hanging off Boris' bony hips. Blankets thrown off the bed and beer, kicked over, foaming and staining the carpet. Boris, unlike me, is not a blackout drunk. It takes him more drinks than me to get wasted, and I often think he remembers more about these nights than I can. But I don't dare ask him. It feels like an unspoken rule. And yet, I wonder why. Why does it terrify me to mention it? Why do I feel guilty facing my father after nights where I can barely remember how I got to bed? Why do I feel that for Boris, his bruises and busted lips he frequented after returning to his drunken father at night, the guilt manifests into absolute fear? How can I finally have something at my finger tips that feels so right, but I would rather crack my skull open poolside than tell anyone how at peace I feel with Boris? I feel disgusting, exposed under the unforgiving Vegas sun. Trapped. Stuck and boxed in, like a bird chained to its perch. A bird who's dying breath was spent, ankle worn and bleeding, collapsing as Fabritius' brush made its final stroke. How can anyone live like this? Follow your heart, they all say. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted? Why, that while Vegas, to any normal man, is an arousing jackpot of breasts and sex straight out of porn as far as the eye can see, am I spending my time choking under the heat of the sun and freezing in the wind and sand, under the stars, my only interest in Boris? Boris, with his shaggy, long hair, his black eyes somehow so inviting, his bruised knuckles and bloody nose, the only thing my mind wandered to night after night. Boris, his laugh echoing down the desolate sidewalks scattered with sand as we ventured back from school, the only company for miles on end ourselves, huddled together under his umbrella like something out of a dramatic film. Boris, who could make me laugh when I was on the verge of bursting into tears, just by cocking his head or throwing some sharp, slurry Ukrainian insult at me, ("Potter, Myдak, don't make me cry too.") Boris, the only person since my mother to make me feel loved, like I mattered. Boris, who brought one thing to my mind day after day. One thing I felt, stronger than perhaps any emotion I'd ever felt aside from grief. The one thing I always wanted to say, but never could. It burned on my tongue with vodka, and flushed down the toilet every morning before school when I heaved and gagged from having one too many sips. The one thing maybe we both knew well enough without me having to say it out loud. Which was, of course-"

"Potter?" It was a raspy whisper, but just loud enough for me to hear. Hastily, I wiped at my eyes and shoved the notebook, closed, hidden away. "Yea?" Zipping it shut, I shoved my bag across the floor, feeling shaky. "Are you coming back to bed or what? I'm freezing." Legs shaking violently, I wobbled my way to a standing position, rubbing at my bleary eyes as I walked back across the room. I tried not to think about how physical and real my notes felt in the corner of the room. How burning hot I suddenly felt, despite clearly remembering it was a cold night. How dizzy I was, my stomach turning as I crawled onto the mattress. "I worry about you when you go off on your own like that." Boris mumbled, eyes already drooping shut again. "I was just..." I looked down at him, his body white and burning bright in the moonlight. He was practically glowing. Something in the back of my head faintly, nearly a whisper, replayed his words from all those months ago ("They gave me an Arabic name – Badr al-Dine. Badr is moon, it means something like moon of faithfulness.") "Eh?" Inching over, he patted the mattress, and I laid beside him. Face to face, I lowered my voice. "I was just admiring the moon." He smiled warmly, before closing his eyes again. "Goodnight, Potter." My heart pounding, I sunk deeper into the mattress. "Goodnight."