Content warning: Homophobia, violence
Last Thursday
The bell shrilled at eight o’clock sharp. Teenage boys bustled from the lockers to first period. Exhausted sighs. Last shot of coffee. Monday morning. I reached my homeroom class at a minute after eight and stopped dead at the door. The other students were settling into their seats, soft murmurs in the air, tension floating around. I didn’t make a sound as I walked to my desk at the back of the class. A white vase of lily flowers sat where my books usually occupied.
No one turned around to look at me. No one said a word. The blanket of silence was almost suffocating, a thorn in my throat.
And then the door slammed open.
Vincent had more injuries than when I last saw him on Thursday. A cut lip. A healing black eye. A whole bandaged left arm. I suspected a lot more bruises hiding under his uniform. I wanted to ask what in the world happened to him but the darkened look on his face froze the entire class. His sharp eyes scanned the room and when he spotted the vase, his body tensed up. He stomped towards my desk and without acknowledging me, he grabbed the vase, slid the window open and hurled it out.
“Vincent!” a boy rushed to his feet. “What the hell-”
“Shut up!” Vincent bellowed.
The boy hesitated but kept his eyes on Vincent.
“All of you…Vincent’s brows were furrowed together, breath ragged like a wild animal. I was afraid that he would open a stitch or two. I reached my hand out to calm him down, but he snapped at the class again. “None of you know… what the fuck happened, so don’t!” He forced the words out, “Don’t act as if you know!”
“We know you’re good friends with Li, but-”
“Shut up! Don’t fucking say his name!” Vincent’s voice cut through the air. “He’s more than just a good friend! You won’t understand!”
The teacher entered the class. “What’s going on?”
The boy fell quiet and deflated into his seat.
“Vincent?” The teacher directed a soft look at Vincent.
He couldn’t take it. A look of pity, a look of understanding. Vincent bolted out of the room. I darted my eyes around the class, picking up on all the despondent looks and tension in the air. The tightness in my throat slithered into my chest and without wasting another second, I hurried out to trail after Vincent.
He’s fast. As expected of a track team member. I wouldn’t have caught up to him if I didn’t know where he would usually hide during his low days. The back of the old art building was deserted; the brick walls washed out and dusted with spotted lichens and moss. Vincent was on the ground, staring up at the picturesque blue sky. I stood at a distance. Some days, when Vincent was in a really bad spot, I would skip class and sit with him right there. We didn’t talk much. We never had to. Growing up together, spending so much time together, we understood what each other needed without a single spoken word. I sat, tilted my head up and watched the same sky as him.
--
Three o’clock came around. Students rushed out of classrooms. The sports teams gathered their members, the cultural clubs started their meetings. Others went home. Vincent stood behind the fences as he watched his track teammates warming up. The captain had pulled him out of the team temporarily. Until when, I wasn’t sure. It’s quite worrying since the National Tournament was creeping up next month. After a short while, he headed for the gates and left the school grounds.
I hurried to follow him. The main streets soon turned into smaller pathways. Hedges marked the housing area. We took the familiar route. Main street, right from the convenience store, two streets down, a left, and five houses down. Vincent walked past his house and stopped at the next one. He stared at the door, his body tense once again. He breathed in, reached out, pulled his hand back, bit his lips, and finally, walked up to the door and knocked before he could back out.
The curtain pulled back. Vincent jolted. He took a step back when he heard the shuffle of footsteps. My mother opened the door.
Her dark hair fell over her frail shoulders. Shadows circled under her eyes. Exhaustion and despair had aged her by ten years. She gripped the doorframe. “Vincent…”
“Mrs. Fei…” Vincent answered. He couldn’t look her in the eyes.
“Why…” her voice wavered, “Why are you here?”
Vincent breathed in. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He finally looked at her, his eyes a pair of broken emeralds. “I’m sorry…”
My mother’s shoulders trembled but still, she stood straight and looked Vincent in the eyes. “Why…
Vincent froze.
“Do you know why it happened? Why he… why my boy was…” she couldn’t finish her words, lips trembling to hold back the tears.
Vincent tried to say something, but my mother cut him off.
“I miss him. I just want my boy back! You were there with him, so why–”
At that, Vincent broke. He clenched his fists by his sides, looked away and rushed off. My mother crumpled to the floor, crying into herself. Father came running down the stairs to comfort her. I should be there. I should be holding her hands and telling her that it wasn’t Vincent’s fault, that she shouldn’t blame him, that I love him dearly. But I stood at the gate, watching her sob, wondering why I felt nothing in my chest.
It didn’t take me long to find Vincent sitting at the top of the hill overlooking the riverbanks. Fond eyes gazed down at the cherry blossom tree where we shared our last memories. We used to play here all the time as kids. Vincent was the braver of us two. He would jump into the water and egg me in. As teens, we still did stupid things, like rolling downhill and straight into the river. We had late night ice-creams after one of his training days. We had stone-throwing contests – and spoilers, Vincent always won. We had our first kiss under the cherry blossom tree here.
I remembered it as though it was yesterday. A chilly evening. The sky was turning dark with scattered clouds. We were pressed together, me against the tree, him leaning down to touch our foreheads together. Even in the dim lights, his green eyes shone bright. He whispered my name and said that he liked me in ways that made his heart flutter. We were young and in love. Stupid and in love.
In a little conservative village, same-sex relationships were unheard of.
Someone must have seen us that evening because the very next day - that Thursday - was the last day I saw Vincent’s smile.
Walking home from school was different than usual. We couldn’t hold hands in public but knowing how we felt about each other was enough solace and joy. The same sun that witnessed us yesterday peeked at us beyond the waters. The same chilly air. The same smooth pathway. We turned the corner, away from onlookers, and our fingers brushed against each other. Butterflies danced in my stomach, heat dashed across my cheeks, bells whistled in my ears. Elated. Happy. Blessed.
We never saw the metal pipe coming until my head hit the ground. I couldn’t move. The blood that had rushed into my face earlier expelled out from places I couldn’t see. My body lay twitching, grasping for help, stuttering for answers, seeking Vincent. He had never been in a fight. In the moment of panic and desperation, he threw blind punches. A frantic scramble trying to make sense of what had happened, shoving the hands away from my unmoving body. His howl of rage drowned in a ringing silence. His charming smile that I loved so much had contorted into a picture of anguish, fury, and fear. I wanted to tell him to stop, tell him that I was alright, tell him that I love him.
But everything was cold and quiet.
By now, the sun was gone. No longer was it a witness to our lives, to what happened that day. It ran away, leaving us broken and apart. Vincent remained where he was, watching the cloudless night sky. His calm face hid the flurry of emotions running inside him.
I reached out to touch him, to wrap him in my comforting arms, to hold his face close to mine, to kiss him on the lips without a care in the world because no matter what everyone said, our love wasn’t wrong.
But my hands dissipated. Into dust in the air, like the faded memories of our times together, our laughter, our connection. A broken string of fate, cut short by hatred and unfairness. Our love disappearing because death was the ultimate, unavoidable end. Why did it have to be us? Why couldn’t our love be accepted like everyone else?
Vincent hugged himself as his body shuddered in a silent cry. Alone.
I stood right behind him, watching in utter silence as my legs and body dissolved. In an ideal world, I would have held his hand. In an ideal world, we would have lived together. In an ideal world, my story would have continued.
But this isn’t my story. My story had ended.
This is-
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