He Looked Like Spring

He looked like spring. All the boys and girls that had kissed him told me he tasted like blood.

I’d known he was there in the room before I’d even seen him. There was some shift in the light or maybe the staleness in the church air disappeared when he walked in, but I knew he was there. My ears tuned into his foot steps, light and leisurely, I could hear as he dodged people in his path and the hushed mutters of apologies as people parted for him. Then, I’d seen him. And he looked like spring.

His hair was a reddish blonde color that might’ve been ginger once; he was pale and speckled with that same faded cinnamon across his nose. He wasn’t tall but he seemed to tower over everyone, moving at his own pace, unaffected by time and company. His kaleidoscope grey eyes shifted from shades of blue to green in the clear autumn light. The air in the church was musky and claustrophobic but his breathe was cold and lonely. When he blinked it looked as if he’d never open his eyes again, his eye lashes curling and spreading outwards like sunshine against his porcelain eyelids, tiny delicate pink and blue veins etched just beneath. Something was living under his skin. And it was stealing him. It was taking him away from everything.

He smokes Marlboros and breathes toxic into the air, but there’s no way anything out of his mouth is poison. Or, maybe all of it is poison.

“Haven’t they told you to stay away from me?”

He smiles and blinks, for a second I hold my breath, because I swear he’s gone.

“The church wears only beige every day and black on special occasions. You should’ve seen their shock when I came in blue to his funeral. Oh, poor Friedrich Creswell, his son won’t even wear black to show respect.”

His lips are chapped and stretched over; I can tell he hasn’t slept in days. A red line the night before drew beneath his eyes almost makes him look like he’s been crying. But he hasn’t been. The whole funeral he was somewhere else. Somewhere far away from the church and he wouldn’t take anyone else with him. Not even his dead father. Not even me.

The women in the church, superstitious old hens; they say that he’s turning into a demon. Ever since his mother died something in him began to rot and decay. Something was becoming foul and it was beginning to show. He never eats these days. Doesn’t sleep or drink, and only talks when the weather is as morbid as he is. As angry as he must be.

“But, I’m the happiest boy in the world.”

He says this, then he smiles, big and bright and sad.

--Mikee Sto Domingo

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Bravo. ^.^