UNICORNS AND ROSES

Well, we shall begin this thing the way I begin all my stories, setting the mood and boring you half to damn death. You see, I never like to get straight to the point. I like to draw things out, draw them on for ages because I always feel so awkward and almost sad when there’s nothing left to say or do. Like the one time I went to Confession and spent a half hour explaining to the priest what had compelled me to want to confess in the first place.

Sorry. This isn’t even my story. It’s his, it’s theirs.

Let us begin.

It was a summer afternoon.

End of story.

But, it was also one of those waning summer afternoons you always remember even if you really don’t, the kind that comes back to you years later. The kind that makes you feel all nostalgic; deeply reflective, utterly indifferent, just OK. The air hung thick around Ian, like a blanket of hot death. The electric fan he had situated on the edge of his nightstand wasn’t doing much, but it was nice just to know it was there, not doing its job.

In one hand Ian had his third cold bottle of beer and in the other a beat up copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, though his eyes were at present fixated on the sun’s last shimmering droplets of light, the swirling mass of purples and yellows and oranges and reds that were indeed the sunset in all her glory. There was a stillness and a quiet that had settled upon the neighborhood, and for once he was actually in the position of being able to enjoy it. And what was Ian thinking about?

Him.

So, on the other hand, no, he wasn’t feeling OK, just then. He wasn’t feeling reflective and sleepy and hazy and lovely. It wasn’t all unicorns and roses, this story isn’t a musing on some crappy summer where he learned some crappy lesson about love or responsibility or other After School bull of the sort.

To put it plainly: Ian was feeling like pure, unadulterated shit. The lowest of the low! Something stuck to the bottom of your shoe that everyone looks at and makes faces at and judges you about, even though it’s certainly not your fucking fault that you stepped on him, the scum of the mother-fucking Earth.

Because Him had this way of doing that, you know. Ruining a mood, ruining a moment, ruining an entire day. And without even being there! It was honestly the largest insult one could imagine: invading one’s thoughts without being asked to.

Ian was staring at the sky, but not really. He was staring at nothing but if someone had happened to walk in unannounced (as people were wont to do in his household) and ask, he’d have an answer and a reason and the pensive expression on his face would be him pondering the awesome power of the universe, the beauty of the sun setting and all that bullshit. Not something as painfully cliché as a guy, for chrissakes.

But in reality, O in reality, he was thinkingabout the last time they’d spoken. How long had it been now? Two, three months? Didn’t matter. There had been a lot of unfriendly words exchanged, a lot of screaming and yelling and bitterness slung across the breadth of the room, ammunition packed with heat and history and pettiness on both their parts. Something about Ihateyou and, Youaresuchapatheticpieceofshit.

Something about that.

And he hated himself because, while this beautiful night began to descend upon him, while the fireflies came out and the crickets began to sing and the world slowed down just a few seconds so that we, miserable human beings that we are, could take it all in, Ian was letting Him invade his thoughts. Adrian Cole. It was very curious, thought Ian, as he took a long swig of beer and dropped that blasted novel somewhere underneath his bed, very curious indeed to be thinking about Adrian now after such a long period of forgettingandforgettingandforgetting.

Sandy, that blasted, loveable Sandy, had called earlier in the afternoon, to announce His return. And suddenly Him, them, everything came crashing down on his brain and his being, producing a gooey puddle of teenage angst.

Yeah, Ian could hear Sandy’s gravelly voice in his ears if he tried hard enough, yeah Adrian’s back from Donnelly. I saw him this morning come in with his parents. He cut his hair, by the way. Looks surprisingly good, him all clean-cut and sober. That kid is fucking gorgeous. Fucking goooorgeous.

Yes, Ian, nor anyone else in their small neighborhood of listless assholes and dreamers and housewives and working stiffs had to be reminded of that. Adrian was gorgeous, indeed, but there was also that enigmatic spark about him, this charm, which made him that much more appealing. Ian could hardly describe his astonishment when it was he who was given the ridiculously dizzying honor of calling Adrian his; of kissing him and fucking him and beholding that beautiful body on lazy hot nights (not quite unlike this one) in amiable silence as the silly old fuddy-duddy world passed them by.

That sort of thing, however, was over. He had to remember. Adrian was in love with himself, perhaps the concept of love itself, but nothing else. Adrian knew how to make you feel like the only thing in the fucking universe that mattered, yes, but it wasn’t as if he ever really meant it. Ian had learned that the hard way. He had realized too late that he was just an experiment, just a sick fancy for a sadistic boy.

Nothing. Else.

Closing his eyes he could see Adrian standing before him, feel those hot words hit his eardrums, reverberate through his body and render him damn near comatose from despair. Do you really think I could ever really, seriously love someone like you? You poor boy. You sad little thing. I did you a favor. Tiny red hot flaming needles pricked at the backs of Ian’s eyeballs as he drained the contents of his bottle, basking in the slight glow that was enveloping his body like a wave, gradually carrying him off to SomewhereFar, some place where He didn’t exist.

Cellphone was ringing.

Welcoming the distraction Ian heaved himself off the bed, diving beneath it, where most of his belongings ended up. Sure enough, the tiny, blinking object was vibrating not too far from his abandoned novel. Ian lunged for it, desperate to hear something, anything other than his own blasted thoughts.

“Hello?”

“And how is my little boy doing? Fuck, I miss you.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian dragged himself off the floor, making his way to his opened window to look down below, where some children in the neighborhood were playing an impromptu game of Tag.

“I miss you too, Fiona, even though we saw each other approximately two hours ago. And I’m doing same as I’m always doing on a Friday night: Horny and ready for action. You?”

A red haired kid who was significantly bigger than the rest of them was running around like mad, knocking down anything in sight with a look of disturbingly wicked glee on his freckled face. Ian decided then and there that he didn’t like the kid, being the kind of individual who used to beat him up and steal his lunch money nearly everyday in elementary school. There was no way that type of shit built character.

Fiona had muttered something inaudible , but Ian was barely paying attention anyway. His head was still buzzing.

“Everyone is meeting up at the playground at midnight. I mean, mostly everyone. You do know that Adrian is back?”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of the fact, but for obvious reasons I’d really rather not touch on that subject just now,” Ian declared with a considerably agitated sigh. It served him right, he figured, to get involved with Adrian, the leader of their little pack of hedonistic slackers, the figurative glue that held the group together.

He now knew that he was in for a world of pain, an age of awkwardness.

“Sorry, love. Sorry. So we’ll see you tonight? Definitely?”

“Most definitely.” They hung up at that point, just as Angry Redhead Kid kicked a little girl in pigtails down onto the sidewalk, for no good reason except maybe he wanted to see what blood looked like. She began sobbing, and he in turn began yelling obscenities (rather poorly, Ian decided) in her general direction. The other kids now surrounded them, one of the older girls consoling Ms. Pigtails.

“Hey!” Ian shouted down below, thoroughly pissed off but not particularly at the kid, just at people in general, “Leave her the fuck alone.”

“FUCK YOU! YOU’RE NOT MY DAD, FAGGOT!”

The little girl abruptly stopped crying, her red eyes wide, and now all the kids were staring up at him. But his eyes were fixated on a tall figure with hair just as bright red as the asshole down below, darting from the house across from his to the commotion on the street. Angry Redhead Kid was saying something to this new guy, though Ian could hardly make it out.

With a surly expression the new guy bellowed, “Scuse me! Dya think you could come down here?”

Smiling and shaking his head, almost looking forward to confrontation, Ian replied, “With pleasure,” bowing his head obligingly and turning to leave. All the while he was thinking, Insult me, abuse me, say or do whatever you want, I need it, I welcome it, just get me the fuck out of here.