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I stand up, shakily, my fast heart rate refusing to slow, as dying adrenaline turns to fear. I stand there, looking down, trying to make my splotchy vision change his mangled form. This isn't how I wanted this to end up.
At least you can be sure he's not going to Heaven...
But, I still won't be able to see him when I go home. He'll be getting tortured and I'll be whispering to politicians.
He'd be scared of me anyway.
He did it to himself.
True. I love him and all he did was play coward. He makes me fucking sick.
You aren't capable of love, you malevolent incubus.
But HE was capable of love! I'm sure of this- he told me every chance he had...
But only me. Limey bastard could never let anyone else know that he loved me, could he?
But his sister- I'd be scared, too...
It's not as if he and I had never talked about that, though. He had safety in me knocking her senseless if and/or when she tried to harm him. And he knew this, well.
Besides, the fear of his sister can't excuse him for everything else.
Anger tickles me behind my ears at the multiple memories of casual public activities and the tight fists at his side as we walked near each other, refusing to acknowledge me as anyone or anything other than his only friend. Not his love or his lover or anything.
But was I ever!
I'm curious now, though- did he know that love exactly my forte? Does he fucking KNOW who I am?! Does he have ANY fucking idea how fucking LUCKY he was to fucking have ANY of my affection, let alone ANY amount of motherfucking LOVE that exists inside my soul?!
It's only because he's so damn proud.
God, how I love pride.
It's funny, 'cause you're acting just like your father; using other people's sins to excuse yours.
My sins. Oh yeah...
I kneel down by his head and my chest swells along with my tear ducts. What have I fucking done? He's the only person- only goddam thing!- that brought any form of contentment, let alone happiness. And now his face is bashed in, his body is bruised in shapes of my fingers and fist. I feel like I'm about to throw up so I do. The heaving of my chest continues even after the heaving of my stomach has stopped. The sounds rip from my chest, grating my vocal chords.
“I'm sorry, my love, oh my GOD, Phil,” I whisper, brokenly, resting my lips on his forehead, away from the crack that has split his skull in half.
I still get his blood on my face and I have to turn away. I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest and I can't keep the tears from forming and rolling down my face, nor the ache in the back of my throat from trying to keep the tears back.
“You could've loved me,” I mumble, pathetically into my arms, sobbing.
Yes, because loving you REALLY seems promising as he lies behind you, beaten to a pulp.
Do you blame him for being ashamed of you?
Absolutely.
I look behind me and another wave of sobs fills my being and I stand up on shaky legs. I repetitively flick my fingers, my hands at my side, and wait for the dead sparks to become bright orange. I open my hands, from the fists they have formed into, slowly and I watch as his unmoving form catches flame, the dry leaves on the ground catching, too, creating a sort of pyre. I don't want to see this anymore, and no one else should.
I fear for any run-in, with him, at home, because it will be different. I will be forced to torture him, but I don't think I could stand doing it again. Forever is a long time, though, to go without seeing one person more than once. My body still shakes with sobs, but I try to focusing on the task at hand.