Trigger Happy

This one looked like him. He had the same brown hair that curled softly at the top of his nape and over his brow. He was about the same height and even had a similar quiet voice. He was a perfect imitation- almost. His nose was a tad too long, and his chin not pointed enough. He wore loose, revealing clothing; there were no marks to cover, no secrets to hide on his body.

"Craig? Are you even listening to me?" he asked, a tad offended. Craig looked into his eyes and winced. They were hazel. Not brown, like Devon's had been.

Devon. God.

Craig forced a smile. He hadn't truly smiled in a long time, but practice makes perfect and no one can tell the difference anymore. "I'm sorry, babe. What were you saying?"

His, Travis', mouth curled downward in a dissatisfied frown, but he let it go. Another similarity between Devon and him, they were both extremely passive. "I said..."

Craig had been dating Travis for two weeks now. Unbeknownst to Travis, Craig had been jumping from boyfriend to boyfriend (and occasionally girlfriend) ever since he had graduated high school. There was a trait that all of them had shared. They had all, in some way, looked like Devon LeCrois.

Devon, the one who had harbored secret feelings for Craig for God knows how long. Devon, the one who had cut Craig's name into his flesh repeatedly as a sign of affection. Devon, the one who had committed suicide to prove his love to Craig.

To say that Craig felt guilty was an understatement. It took him a long time to admit to himself that he could have done something to stop it. When Devon had first revealed the marks to him, Craig could have gotten him some professional help. Instead, Craig had yelled at him, and called him a freak. He had hid in his room, and avoided him at school. Even when the police questioned him as to why his name was carved into Devon's body, he hadn't said anything.

"I don't know officer. I didn't know him. We were just partners on an English assignment. That's all. He never told me anything."

Craig had never been the same since. He was distant at school, and everyone let him be, since they figured he had been through enough already. If only they knew. When he entered college, he met a girl who had looked sort of like Devon. He immediately asked if she would go out with him, but only for that one reason. He didn't like her personality, her hobbies, or anything else about her. Just the fact that she looked like Devon. The relationship didn't last long.

He didn't know what it was, Fate playing tricks on him or Devon's revenge, but he kept running into people who looked like him. He dated, or at least had sex with, every single one of them. He could never figure out why he did it, though he told himself it was guilt. Guilt so raw that it made him obsess over every person who happened to look like Devon. Even the men, like Travis. Craig knew he didn't particularly enjoy the touch of men, but that didn't stop him. Nothing would stop him, it seemed.

How ironic. Craig thought to himself every night as he lay next to his new lover. Devon had obsessed over me, and now I'm obsessing over him.

"Who's Devon?" Travis asked this question as he sat against the headboard of Craig's bed, his tiny arms crossed. He looked angry.

Craig looked up at him lazily, a lit cigarette between his lips as he lay in bed. "What are you talking about, babe?"

Travis squinted his eyes, "Oh, don't fuck with me, Craig," he got up from the bed in a quick, rigid motion. He stood there, naked and frail and pissed. "You were calling out 'Devon! Devon! Oh, God, Devon!' while we were making love, you asshole!"

Travis paused to allow Craig to explain himself. Instead, Craig took a leisurely drag and stared at the ceiling as if they weren't having The Argument. Travis made a disgusted noise in his throat, then spun around and started to pick up his clothes from the floor.

"Babe," Craig sat up finally, and took the cigarette out of him mouth, "Travis," it felt awkward to say that name, "Don't overreact. You were just hearing things."

Travis laughed sarcastically as he pulled on his pants, "Oh, because 'Devon' and 'Travis' sound so alike!"

"Trav..."

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it!" he pulled his shirt on and stood there. He looked at Craig for a long moment, waiting for him to laugh and say "It was a joke!" or apologize. Tears prickled in his eyes as Craig simply brought the cigarette back to his lips. "You're an asshole, Craig," he said in a wounded voice.

"We've established that," Craig replied coldly. Travis gave him a hurt look.

"Craig, if there's someone else, just tell me, please," Travis' voice cracked as he said it.

There was a long silence. Craig took another long drag, then lowered the cigarette. He sat there, staring into space. Finally, his eyes came back into focus on Travis and he said, "There's no one else, Travis. There never has been."

Travis gave an enraged cry, which was cut short by a sob. He turned around quickly, and left.

Craig didn't react. He sat there in his bed and finished his cigarette. He held the nub absently for a long time before putting it out in the ash tray. Another minute or so passed, then Craig threw the covers off himself. He got out of bed, slipped on some pajama bottoms and a wife beater, and walked to the kitchen. He knelt next to the kitchen table, and dragged the small safe out that he kept underneath it. He made quick work of the combination and opened the tiny door.

He stared at the gun that lay inside like a patient dog. He took hold of it with a shaky hand and pulled it out of the safe and stared at it some more. "So I'm finally going to do it, huh?" he asked himself. Only the low hum of the heater answered him.

He contemplated his actions as he put the barrel to his temple. Killing myself would make this a perfect circle, eh, Devon? You obsess over me, then kill yourself. I obsess over you, then kill myself. A perfect fucking circle.

He sat there, and tried to get himself to do it. Minutes passed, and his arm shook under the weight of the gun. Sweat formed on his face. He began to put pressure on the trigger. He screamed, and threw the thing across the room. It hit the refrigerator and left a large dent before sliding innocently to the floor.

He wasn't sure how long he had been crying, but he took note of the wet streaks on his face now. "Fuck!" he shrieked. He tried to stand up, but fell back down on all fours. He pounded the floor with his fist. He ignored the sharp pain that caused and yelled, "Fuck! Fuck you, Devon! Isn't this what you want? Then why can't I fucking do it? This is just too fucking cruel! Fuck...," He curled into a ball on the floor, and muttered more obscenities to himself.

He eventually fell asleep, after convincing himself that he would call a therapist the next day. As his eyes fluttered shut, he could have sworn he felt a cold hand touch his face. It was probably a dream. Probably.