The Ultimate Anti-Conformity

You told me once, “You never know until you’ve tried, right?”

I used to think such a mantra was for the conformist in society. You know the ones, concerned with money, reputation, jobs, opportunity and above all safety. They were the ones who needed such speeches.

I honestly thought I didn’t. I mean, think about it. Even as I look in the mirror, I see anti-conformity written in paradoxical ink over me, in the form of black clothing, silver chains, raven black hair slipping over glimmering dark eyes and a cynical smirk smeared to lips bearing a single ring on the right side. A conformer to the art of being difficult and different. Maybe I’m merely a misguided rebellion. No matter.

I suppose, once you got to know me, you saw through my masks. Considering it took you a little while to break barriers, I suppose it’s almost a just reward. Or maybe once again, I’m slipping into bitterness, a bad habit I’m sure you’ll excuse it this time, just like all the others. An inherent flaw that is so intrinsically me, right? Along with the cynicism and walls.

Sure, I’m an anti-conforming conformer, if that makes any sense. I conform to the idea of darkness merely to propose an opposition to the commonplace.

But you, oh you never conformed. God, I can still remember… No, I promised you that I would not recall what had happened, as it would make me more ashamed. But still, my mind brings it back. You dressed in a way that was comfortable, jeans and a hooded jumper mostly, or in clothes fit for a medieval court when you were feeling especially emotional. I never got it, much like I never got you. Sometimes you drove me mad with cryptic answers to dilemmas and avoidance of questions. Other times… I was so intrigued I wanted to bury myself deep inside your essence, exploring to find answers to questions no one would ever dare to ask.

I remember the first time you approached me. It was almost funny. You plucked the cigarette from my lips without a trace of self-righteousness, before pressing my shoulders back against the wall and demanding to know what I did with your piano music, an amusing sight, as I was a head taller than you. You realised later that I was a sucker for Greig, hence my stealing it off your desk during English.

I remember the angry light in your cobalt eyes as I adopted a manner of arrogance that would try the patience of the most sanguine of characters. Yes, your work with my vocabulary has made a difference. I hope you know that.

But most of all, I will never forget the sting that attacked my face, passing pain to my brain as your hand connected strongly with my cheek. Of course, you were never one for violence and I suppose I did provoke you, after I passed a remark about how you needed to loosen up and how I might help you with that.

I think I fell for you then.

It was in the school car park that I caught up with you, my tail proverbially between my legs as I handed you back the music with sincere apologies and a promise to behave myself if you would just allow me borrowing rights. It was the first time of many you forgave me in a mere moment, without a request for anything more than a block of chocolate or a copy of some sheet music that I was hoarding for such occasions.

In this case, you went with me buying you a chai latte at the café down the street. I complied without a second thought.

I still don’t know what drew me to accept your deal that day. Maybe it was the ease with which you forgave my indiscretion towards our dearly beloved Greig, or maybe it was your true anti-conformity, the one you wore without trying. Maybe it was the simple beauty of your face, bearing no make-up or the fact your long wavy light brown hair remained undyed or the fact you held an intelligent conversation without reference to “the party on the weekend”.

All I can say is that two hours later, after I paid your bill, I walked down the street, not smirking but, for the first time in a long time, smiling.

The next day, I sought you out. You sat under a large tree in the yard, a red notebook on your lap and a brown bread sandwich with cream cheese spread in your hand. Later on, you told me the notebook was no mere diary. It contained poems, drawings, lyrics of songs that meant a lot to you and passages about your innermost feelings and thoughts. I always wanted to read more than those mere snatches you showed me when you asked my opinion on something.

We spent that first lunch comparing notes on our favourite composers. You said Vivaldi, I replied Bach. You laughed and began to hum The Well-Tempered Clavier without worry for the strange glances being shot our way by the people around us. I remember, once again truly grinning and finding myself humming along with you. The conversation moved to books, where we got into a debate about what James Joyce was trying to achieve while writing Ulysses. We still debate about whether he was trying to recreate or expand upon the Greek Epic.

At first we got stares, as I would run to your locker before lunch just to make sure I could spend time eating and talking with you. My ‘friends’ (those who I used to drink and smoke with (before you introduced me to fine red wine and the art of inhaling oxygen)) started calling me names behind my back, like ‘sell-out’ and ‘faker’. But for once in my life, I didn’t care what they thought of me, truly. I was with you and we used to anti-conform together. We spent hours under that tree, discussing politics, philosophy, literature and music. I found out you were hoping to be a writer or a poet and I felt comfortable telling you of my ambition to go to the conservatorium to play cello and piano and my fear I would never get in.

“You never know until you’ve tried, right?” You replied to my worries.

That was the first time you said those words and it wasn’t the last.

Soon the stares dwindled and it became kosher to see the boy in black and the poetic authoress walking through the corridor talking at great lengths about god knows what. My parents noticed too. My marks began to pick up, for not any other reason than my wish to never disappoint you. I no longer wore grungy black shirts and black baggy and worn jeans, instead changing to black slacks and black button-up shirts and ties. I suppose some part of me never felt worthy of standing next to you wearing a band t-shirt and a pair of jeans I had been sleeping in for the past three days. I trimmed my shaggy mop of hair to something neater, albeit somewhat ruffled (old habits die hard) and shaved off my teenage-stauche and goatee, which I used to be foolishly proud of.

But you never noticed the change in my clothing. Either that or you didn’t care about such trivial things. I wouldn’t put it past you, although I remember one day you mentioning that I looked good in black. I memorised those words, as mention of looks from you was as rare as blood diamonds. Again, other people noticed, and sometimes I couldn’t help feeling fury as corridor gossip proclaimed my new ‘gothic accountant sell-out’ look a by-product of your ‘seduction/corruption’ of me. These people honestly thought that you had hoodwinked me sexually.

Oh, if only they knew that that was my wish.

You never noticed my looks. But you did notice my emotions. For whenever I heard your name spoken in such distaste by the idiots who milled around the corridors like sheep, my fists would clench, my jaw would tighten and anger would pulse along my veins like a drag racer trying to beat the world record. I would find mental images of me obliterating those who thought themselves worthy to speak your name very pleasing, of smashing their faces to a bloody pulp in my fury, or ripping them apart limb by limb.

But it would always be you to pacify me, your small hand threading through my fingers until it rested, your piano calluses rough against my palm, your blue eyes searching mine for the source of anger, breaking down my shields and masks until I knew you truly saw me. I often felt completely naked, open and vulnerable under that gaze, petrified that this was all some kind of wonderful dream and I was going to wake up to find you never existed or that you would find something that you would hate. Hence I always ripped my eyes away from yours, in shame and fear of your disappearance. That you would give up on me and leave me to fail.

You never did. You would only sigh when I looked away, before sliding your arms around me and hugging me so tightly, it was almost as if you believed I would fall to pieces if you let go. I didn’t mind. For, your embrace often led the way to clarity, to understanding and control of my rage at the insults they directed at you. At us. I would loop my arms around your body and hug you back just as tightly, trying to make us into one being, so your calm could defuse my rage. So I could enjoy holding you for just that moment longer.

But soon, such heavy moments faded back into wondrous frivolity, something I haven’t had much of in my teen years. We’d joke around, play silly games and prank any fool who left him or herself open to such harmless fun.

Then there was the ‘moment’ as I have dubbed it. It was the moment where you made my spine tingle and my heart speed up. The moment you 'saw' me truly, without regret. It was a rainy day and I was at home, playing my cello. I cannot remember the song, only you. Because you were the focus in my mind, the thing causing the emotions that was spiralling down my arms and emerging from my fingers to form organized sound. My eyes shut as I played, my shirt half-open to allow for sweating, one finger shredded, as my bow and hands attacked the cello in passion. Your calming eyes reflected in my mind, your scent, something uniquely you, assaulting my nostrils until I was light-headed. I tried to capture the essence of your beauty and place it in music, only to find that such a feat was impossible for the beauty that was you.

I remember my door being opened. I thought it was my mum or dad coming in to put clothes on my bed, or something because the person at the door made no noise, as I had requested of my parents. I continued to play, feeling nothing bar the flame licking my inner being, feeding the music. Soon, the music changed to melancholy and I opened my eyes, to a sight that was to shock, haunt and enthrall me in the weeks and months to come.

You stood; rain-dark hair dripping down your shoulders to darken the thick light blue hoodie you wore (you always loved the rain) in my doorway, your eyes trained to mine. Your posture was tense, almost as if you felt like you had intruded on the deepest, most secretive part of someone’s soul. Your face bore an expression of awe with a lingering touch of embarrassment for walking in unannounced. My hands continued to play a melancholy tune without prompting from my brain (the pleasures of being a skilled musician).

Your eyes suddenly slowly shifted, across from my eyes, to linger for mere milliseconds on the finger that was bleeding. They flicked back to mine, this time boring deeply, ignoring any signs or masks until they found their common place in the core of my soul.

And for once I did not look away. I allowed you in, showed you who I was, let you glimpse my mind, my feelings. I half-hoped you would realise how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you were in every way.

How much love I felt for you.

Something charged through the air, I know you sensed it as much as I did and for a split second, I felt panic that you would run away. I was sure you would spin on your heel and exit my life without a glance back.

But not you. You sighed softly and glided into my room, barely noticing the posters plastered on the roof and walls, although I did see your eyes flick to the space where I hung up all the sketches you gave me when you were bored. You stood in front of me, head tilted to the side, hands thrust in the front pocket of your hoodie. I stared back, no longer playing, feeling defiance to whatever called me to turn away.

You extended an arm from the pocket of your hoodie; your pale skin illuminated by the blue light from the window and gently took my hand away from the cello neck. You turned it over and examined the wound on my finger, both hands clasping mine, concern emitting in honest waves. I couldn’t look away from your face, my heart pounding, and my nerves on fire making me feel high. That scent, your scent, washed over me as you shifted closer, so my arm wasn’t at such an awkward angle. You hair fell over your shoulder and you brushed it away with an annoyed noise.

“You really shouldn’t kill yourself doing this.” You joked, looking up at me with a small smile on your face, “What is a piano player without his fingers?”

The joking was a mask. I could hear those little undertones in your voice that belayed worry and trepidation. You saw something that worried you, that you couldn’t pin down, didn’t you? For a brief moment, you saw what I felt. And I couldn’t be sure, but I bet that some part of you responded.

That day, after you tended to my wound, we went downstairs to the lounge room and curled up on the couch, watching V for Vendetta, Donnie Darko, and American Psycho, all movies we had talked about but never watched. You fell asleep during 10 Things I Hate About You, seeing as you had watched it a hundred times. It was your favourite. I remember looked down on you as you shifted in your sleep, so that your arms were wrapped around my waist, your head leaning on a pillow on my side. I felt a smile slide across my face.

That day was the day I realised how far this had gone, how much of a mutt I was. I was in love with the girl with the brown hair, who walked around in the rain getting soaked within an inch of her skin. The one who could make me laugh with a mere expression, let alone a comment. The girl who helped me exchange bottles of bourbon for a fine glass of red wine. The one who designed my first tattoo, a dragon that lived on my hipbone. I was in love with you.

The smile disappeared. I was in love. My inner darkness rebelled

No! You cannot love! Not her. She is not yours and she never will be. You’ll wind up hurting her, like you hurt everyone who comes close with your rash actions and habits. You know she’s too good for you. You don’t stand a CHANCE! You cannot or never should be in love, ok?

From that moment on, things began to get awkward. I cannot put my finger on what happened. It was like the moment I let you in, I felt a need to push you out. I found myself sneaking cigarettes at home, or at night when you weren’t there. I began to go back to parties, coming home with my neat black shirts covered in sweat, cigarette smoke, sticky alcohol and sometimes blood from the vengeance I now wrecked on those who accused me of being ‘whipped’… and those who insulted you.

Soon, the neat clothing was back in the cupboard. My muscle shirts with the logo of Combichrist or some other heavy industrial band began to come out again, as did the ragged jeans and the cigarettes I promised you I’d given up. My hair grew long and my goatee returned. I added a new mask to my repertoire, with cold mirthless eyes and a sarcastic quirk of the lips, often accompanied with an expulsion of smoke.

But you knew. And you didn’t give chase. I mocked you with my mind, calling you afraid, fearful of when things got tough. My cello began to come out with anger, my piano remaining mute as a tomb, as the sound of anything to do with that instrument reminded me of you and that lead to an immediate flashback of the sensation of your hand in mine.

But you. Oh you… You surprised me. You shocked me…

It was that one night when I got completely out of my treehouse on alcohol. I remember standing in a corner, bottle in hand, watching the game of pool and waiting for my turn. I had set out a challenge, two dollars on the table for someone to take me on. To be honest, I hoped for a brawl by the end.

I didn’t expect you to walk through the crowd of smoke and pick up my two dollars, defiance and stubbornness etched on your face. You inserted the coins into the pool table and began to rack up. You wore, as usual, normal jeans that flared a little and were slightly baggy and a blue long sleeved t-shirt. I saw your hoodie sitting on a chair nearby, the sky blue one that you wore on the day of the ‘moment’.

You took up a cue and for the first time, met my eyes. I stared right back, sneering in insolence. Your face remained impassive as you chalked up. But I knew you. The bags under my eyes and the muzziness of my demeanour upset you. You had whittled me to an intelligent sharp knife but all I was doing was wounding myself.

“You first or me?” You asked, your voice cold and cutting.

I met your eyes, intending to take on an aggressive attitude. My mouth opened to snarl something angry and sarcastic, in the hope to get you riled up.

But your eyes suddenly flickered and I was undone. There was so much emotion, so much pain that I caused echoing through your irises. I dropped my pool cue and my masks came tumbling down. Fighting off emotion, I turned on my heel and ran out into the night air, choking on passionate turmoil.

I couldn’t fight you anymore. I couldn’t fight this! Somewhere, in my drunken, hazy, confused and angry filled mind, you got to me. You connected and sent a pulse of such guilt that all my plans and strategy fell to absolute disrepair.

The next day, I remain at home. I feigned sickness and stayed in bed, cursing my stupidity and my hangover. You had gone to the one place that I knew you feared (a party involving idiots who beat each other up all the time) for the one purpose of finding me and bringing me back home. Back to you.

I got up in the afternoon and walked over to my upright piano, before sitting down and resting my finger son the keys. Soon, sweet, mournful music travelled from inside to swirl through the empty house. I played everything I could that fit my mood, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Gollum’s Song from Lord of The Rings, even Hello by Evanescence. I descended into my own compositions, creating patterns of emotional energy inside of me that felt so painful, it was cathartic.

By the time my parents returned home, I was asleep on the piano, tear-tracks down my face…

The next day I returned to school. I had shaved again, gotten the barber to give my hair a cut early that morning and thrown out my cigarettes again. I wore once more neat black pants and a black button up shirt and blazer. My eyes were still bloodshot and bore bags, and my skin was still pale, but I felt more myself than I had in weeks. My neat black shoes clicked on the linoleum in the corridor as I headed towards the exit for lunchtime.

I walked over to the tree and sat down, leaning my back against the trunk and examining the silver skull ring on my middle finger on the left hand, allowing myself to become lost in thought.

I didn’t know what I was going to say to you. Every possible apology eluded me because all I could think about was leaping to my feet and taking your face in my hands before pressing my lips to yours, showing you how much I felt.

I smiled at the thought. I decided I should entertain doubt no more.

I heard your footsteps skid to a halt as you spotted me sitting under the tree. Before you could turn to go, I got to my feet and leaned my shoulder against the bark, my hands in my pockets. I smiled slightly as I saw what you were wearing, an olive green peasant skirt, high-heeled black boots, a green camisole with lace and a tie-up green cardigan. With your hair out, you looked like an elf, a beautiful mythical creature who none shall capture.

You swallowed once.

“You look better.” You commented, your voice shaking.

I took a step closer to you, tilting my head to the side.

“There is nothing that I dare say to make you feel any better about my actions these past few weeks.” I replied

I was feeling oddly calm for someone who was about to gamble everything on one action.

I took another step forwards. You shrugged your arms up around your body and looked up me with vulnerable eyes. I sighed.

“All I can do is be honest. I know you feel cold abandonment for what I had become. But I was scared. I feared what was happening to me inside.” I chuckled, “You know, everyone else in my life has demanded access to the most internal parts of me. Yet you remain the only one to have explored such depths without me warding off your attempts or feeling violated. I let you. And you know why.”

Your lips barely moved as you whispered your reply.

“You didn’t look away…”

It was then I knew you had seen it. The ‘moment’. You had seen through. I took a final step forwards and brushed some hair out of your face. Your eyes, which remained that brilliant blue, stared up at me openly, almost fearfully. You untucked your arms and let them fall to your sides.

I smiled warmly.

“You never know until you’ve tried, right?”

I cradled your face in my hands and pressed my lips to yours, moving gently as I knew this was your first kiss. Your essence drove me wild. The scent of you was intoxicating, the velvety feel of your skin on my skin striking me into a stupor.

As air passed between our faces once more, you opened your eyes, your hands coming up to cradle my elbows. You held me within range of your face, eyes beginning a familiar search into mine. I once more let you in, showed you what I had to give, what I had to offer.

Finally, you gave me a small, precious smile.

“You were scared.”

I nodded, before gently pressing my forehead to yours.

“Yes. But I’m also in love. I believe that cancels out fear.”

You bit your lip, trying to stop a smile from spreading across your face.

“If you ever smoke again, I am going to kill you.”

I chuckled and kissed you again.

You were right. I was the ultimate paradoxical anti-conformist. Whenever I tried to run away, to be different from the expected, I somehow conformed to the general idea of what I was supposed to be. I ran away from love, yet ended up following the line of expected. I ended up with you, not that I‘m complaining.

And you. You never conformed. You came to a party to show me that, to prove that you would go anywhere to find me, help me, even somewhere that you didn’t fit in. You knew I loved you, yet left room for doubt instead of jumping in like any other schmuck. You held me when I was ready to kill and left me when I needed to purge.

You are the ultimate anti-conformist. And you’re mine.

Fin.