• The End of Something


    The wine shone a dull red through the crystal of the glasses, and Kyle felt an odd sense of déjà vu as he looked at it. Blood soaked pavement awash in the red light of a street lamp flashed through his mind, then was gone. Kyle winced and pressed a hand to his forehead.

    “You feeling alright?” Ashton’s voice was soft, almost hesitant in its gentleness. That in itself was unusual enough to garner Kyle’s full attention. He glanced over to where she was curled up in the corner of the sofa, dyed black hair twisted into a messy bun, and her eyes bright and alert despite the wine. The glass she held was half empty. When he didn’t answer right away, she frowned and set it on the coffee table, the crystal making a soft thump on the smooth wooden surface.

    Kyle heard the sound of screeching metal in his ears.

    “Hey,” she said. Her green eyes always saw to much, and now they were seeing everything he didn't want her to see. “What’s wrong?”

    He dropped his gaze into the contents of his glass. “Nothing.”

    Kyle was uncomfortable being there in the first place, alone with Ashton in her house. Even in the dim light he felt exposed under her gaze, and everything had taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality that he didn’t like or trust. He couldn’t blame it on the wine since he hadn’t drunk any of it.

    No, it was Ashton, and it was him.

    They were kids playing at grownup in her parents’ empty home. The wine, the dimmed lights, the warmth of the fire in the fire place, even Ashton…none of it felt real. It was like a story he told himself at night to keep the nightmares away, a game where someone cared for him enough to stick around for a while, but it wasn’t true.

    Didn’t feel true.

    Truth was found in the protesting shriek of metal and red lit smoke as something burned, flames licking too close and blood boiling in the street, wide, unseeing eyes staring straight through him. The truth was he lived, but he wished he had died.

    How could he explain that to someone whose crystal-cut focus kept her grounded in present reality? How could he tell her that the very brightness of her eyes when she looked at him was like a dream in a world of dark nightmares?

    How could he tell her that dreams always ended?

    Ashton was still watching him, her eyes unblinking and too wide. A trick of the light or a trick of his mind, Kyle wasn’t sure, but it added to his unease. He stared back at her, and they were both silent, then Ashton sighed.

    “I wish you would talk to me,” she said.

    He looked away. This would all be so much easier if he didn’t love her, but he did. He had fallen in love, hoping for something stable in the instability of his life, and once again his father was forcing his hand, pulling him away, making him lose his grip so he could drown in paternal will like the good obedient child he was.

    “We’re leaving,” Kyle whispered, and he didn’t dare look at her. “My father wants to move down south—Atlanta or something.”

    He closed his eyes. The nightmare was already darkening the dream, leeching it black like an oil slick.

    Ashton was quiet, and her green eyes seemed to dim. “Oh,” she said.

    Kyle felt sick.

    “I love you,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

    She looked startled, then she glanced down, folding her hands in her lap. “When are you leaving?”

    “I don’t know. Soon.” Sooner than his father might think though, because he was tired of hurting. “Please don’t be angry.”

    “Angry at whom?” She spit the words out, her voice harsh. She looked at him, and her eyes burned like ice against his skin, her expression softening when he winced. “I’m not angry at you,” she said.

    He looked away. She would be angry soon enough.

    “It’s probably a good thing,” he whispered, and the words scraped unwillingly from his throat, the lie abrasive and acidic, but there was no startled glance from Ashton, no emphatic denial. She looked at him, and he realized that she was going to accept his lie as truth.

    “Maybe,” she said, and the fire was getting closer, hot on his skin, and the thick, cloying scent of fresh blood and burning hair made him dizzy.

    “Yes,” he said, and it hurt. “Things will be easier.”

    Her lips curved, twisting into a wry smile. “Less complicated,” she agreed.

    His throat constricted, and he tasted the warmth of his own blood in his mouth, heat surrounding him with its burning embrace.

    He felt cold.

    “Ashton,” he whispered, but he couldn't breathe.

    “It’s okay,” she said.

    Her eyes had burned to embers, glowing with some emotion that Kyle couldn’t name. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her no, no, it wasn’t okay, everything was crumpled around him, and the fire was burning closer, too close, and he was bleeding, aching, and he was going to die.

    She moved closer until they were inches apart. Her nearness was somehow both intimate and angry, smothered fury coating her lips as she spoke—“Life will go on.” And then she kissed him, and he was suffocating, all the air gone from his lungs, but he kissed her back, not caring because he loved her and he was losing her.

    She pulled away, and they just looked at one another for a long moment. Then Ashton flashed another knife edged smile. “Be seeing you.”

    She left the room, and he left the house, stumbling into the cold, blinded and shivering even as the fire enveloped him, charring skin from bone, his heart singed raw. At the end of the sidewalk, he hesitated, shoulders hunched against the fire and the cold.

    “Goodbye,” he whispered without turning around, and then he was gone.