Stories don’t always start and end with happiness. They could be depressive, lonely, desperate even. Leaving their readers despairing and looking for answers that’ll never be found. It just so happens, that this particular story you are holding in your hands is one that will leave you in tears after every chapter.
So dear reader, if you truly wish to start this book, then so be it. This has so much pain and passion channelled into it that you’ll be lost in the pages, stuck on the same one for days, and searching for answers that’ll be left open-ended, and unsolved.
Our story, well his story begins in a quiet town, where a lonely man sits by a window, watching the rain hit the glace and roll down the pains like tears down a cheek. In his hands rests a guitar, unplayed, and freshly tuned. A pad of paper lays by his feet, with a pencil resting lightly on top of it. The words “ if always you’ll follow ” are drawn sloppily across the paper, alongside a few depressive chords, and a mellow strumming pattern.
There are bookshelves lining the walls around him, holding records, and novels. Some are strewn across the floor, with tiny pieces of paper sticking out like someone has spent quite some time studying and trying to comprehend the subjects of the books, and songs, in the manner of many quiet hours.
The subject of this room lets out a large yawn, raising his arms high in the air, and catching the guitar quickly as it slips off his lap. Standing up, he sets the guitar in it’s the stand, rubbing his eyes, his feet drag behind him as he stumbles in sleepy desperation down the stairs.
As he retreats back to his room, a picture on the wall catches his eye. There’s a pain in his chest as his eyes trace over the features of the two young men in the frame, the smiles broadly streched across their faces, and the word always carved into the wood at the bottom of the frame. His arms shake as he grabs the rail, and tears well in his eyes, those dreaded words echo through his mind. He could still hear him say those words, while he ate breakfast, as he slept at night, while he was playing his guitar. Every last detail reminded him of how it all ended.
At the time he stumbled back to bed and pulled himself under the covers, the flashbacks had already started.
“Darling, stop!” he shouted as the world swirled around him, his chest aching as he watched his lover stare at the glass on the floor.
He had collapsed on the toilet after smashing a mirror to gain himself attention, breaking down into tears on the seat of the toilet, his head in his hands as he stared at the shards on the floor.
“Just… stop…” he choked out, not bothering to look at the man's face, knowing it would only be disappointed.
“I’m sorry Valentin… this is the last time I’m cleaning up your mess… I can’t love you anymore…” he sighed sadly.
"It's alright... you can go... they all do..." Valentin sighed sadly, staring at the ground, his chest aching.
Valentin watched his feet go, heard the open of the zipper of a suitcase, and choked back a sob when he heard the front door click closed softly.
Valentin lurched up, the nightmare still running through his mind. The feeling of longing for the one he loved, no, loves, roaring up in his heart. He reached for his phone, halting suddenly, and digging for the brown leather notebook instead.
Pouring his heart out onto the pages, his let the tears drip down from his eyes, and land on the paper, over flowing it with heartfelt words that he would’ve said but never had the time.
“If only you could’ve held on longer…” Valentin sighed, drying his eyes with his bed sheets.
Turning his body, he set the notebook back on the shelf, standing up wobbily. He dragged his fingers over the half moons dug into his palms, permanent scars that open daily, pulling him back and keeping him bound to Earth.
Collecting himself, Valentin looked up, taking a deep breath, and starting his journey to the bathroom.
Clicking the door closed, he sighed, draining himself and washing his hands, before opening the drawer containing all his nessacary equitment… Anti-depressants, focusants, testosterone… all of it.
Drawing himself a glass of water, he swallowed two pills. Reaching down for the small bottle, and syringe, he steadied his hands, cleaning off the area where he would inject himself. Pulling the back of the syringe, letting the liquid fill the needles tube. Steadily he pushed the shot into his flesh, biting his lip at the sting and drawing it back out after it was empty.
Discarding the used syringe in a special box, he put the rest of the supplies away, and numbly walked back to his room for clothes, picking out a lightblue t-shirt, and a pair of used jeans. Tugging on a baseball hat, he checked himself in the mirror, and started his journey downstairs
Sighing, he poured small chocolate balls into a bowl, soaking them in milk before shoveling them slowly into his mouth. His fingers flicking aimlessly through a novel left on the table called “Our Fault in the Stars” which is personally a great book, filled with happiness and tears, with a unsettling ending.
Christmas was soon, and no one had called him in a while. He didn’t blame them. He didn’t deserve nobody. His story was unsettling to say the least.
As Valentin trudeged back to the loft in the attic, he picked up an old book, it was old and boring, read a thousand times, and he could feel sleep pulling him back. As he closed his eyes, he swore he saw him standing there with open arms.
Pouring his heart out onto the pages, his let the tears drip down from his eyes, and land on the paper, overflowing it with heartfelt words that he would’ve said but never had the time.