SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Colorblind

He's gone now.

                He's been gone now for a good two months, and yet he is as present in the saccharine depths of my mind as he was when I could reach out my hesitant hand and touch his deliciously immaculate skin. (Not that I ever did.) I remember he once joked that, after revealing to him that I could not, one day I would have to learn to dance. He said that there will be someone in this world, if only one person, who will make me want to dance, and that I'd better be able to.

                When he left, it was raining like it had when first I saw him glance with dark eyes in my direction. The water flung itself upon the humble glass windows of the school bus, right in the faces of the apathetic passengers. It hissed and it splashed, determined to transform the world into a colorless blend of soggy streaks and slashes, slicing up with its disorganized drips the world outside into wet and choppy lines. His departure was always an astoundingly simple feat; he was there, and then he was not there. It never ceased to amaze me, the ease in his strangely brisk stride – he'd vanish in a small crowd or turn a corner and all hope of finding him went out like a candle in the wind. This would be no different, I knew even though the rain tried to hide it from me, turning the view from the window into some muddled painting- he was there, and then he would not be there.

                I never did think anything about him was too odd, really, aside from the perfection of him, the radiance when his skin was touched by sunlight. He seemed to glow. And perhaps, looking back, the way he appealed to me was equally as strange. No celebrity crush or middle-school boyfriend could hold my heart that tightly, and I swear when he looked at me he deliberately tugged on it. Perhaps time exaggerates; perhaps my memory embellished my feelings. I doubt that, though. The word "desire" rung in my ears once, when I think he said it in passing, and if I listen I can detect that echo time cannot erase. He taught me want. But when I sat there on that grim and drizzly day with the rainfall thundering onto the metal of the bus roof, I saw him in my mind or perhaps even in a sliced-up vision through the window, standing in the rain until the water soaked through his hood and dripped off the strands of his perfectly straight, black hair.

I missed my bus that day. I leapt from the stairs into the weather because I was positive he was waiting for me, waiting to say goodbye because he knew I would come. I walked home a long way in the rain, the water splashing from my eyes- tears or rainfall, it is just a memory now anyways. I had to embrace him, to feel that he was real and not some enchanting little illusion, an imaginary friend I was subconsciously removing by convincing myself he was moving away.

                A delectable memory, this one. The way his dark eyes did not change when he saw me, as if he'd been certain I'd appear that very instant. The way he stiffened when I impulsively threw my arms around him, our saturated sweatshirts entangled, the way he placed his thin hands ever so tentatively on my back. I could feel the hardness of his bones when I pulled his shoulders to mine, and I felt that strange frigid chill of him that was neither the wet October air nor the angry pelting rain. I had never touched him before, and I never believed that I would, even when I knew he was leaving. He was like a sacred little thing, or a newly polished piece of silver- why tarnish his perfection with such a rough hug? Bold, that. So bold was that move that I'll cherish it in my memory forever, just like I'll cherish the thought of him revealing who he was, not that he did or would have. But I knew. I know it more and more each minute. Illusion, no- illusionist, I am positive. We were friends, who spent hours at the mall or talking on the computer, but he never showed me his fangs.

                That hug was the highlight of all that I can remember. Not just because of him, but because of the enlightenment. When I touched him, I knew exactly what he was! Like a fallen angel, he never shook his long black hair from his coal black gaze. He'll never die, that I am sure. And when he was born, how many girls have swooned for him before me, how many crowds he has simply vanished in, I don’t want to know.

                I watched him go. The buses were just starting to kick up their snarling engines, and the crowd outside of the high school was thinning as people shrunk out of the rain. He pulled away from my embrace and looked at me. Oh, how I wish in that moment I had kissed his cold white mouth! I bet it would have yielded, even if only slightly. I do not doubt that he wanted me too; if he had not, would he have kept my heart on a string for so long? He then let go of my shoulders like dropping flower petals off a bridge- only I would not drift to meet him on the other side. He was the one who would float away, away, away... And just like that, he was walking away, and I could hardly see him between the people and the raindrops. It's all in black and white; as if from the moment we met I was colorblind to all but him.

                I stood there for an eternity, even after the yellow buses had chugged their way out into the congested street I remained motionless, surrendering to the hard and heavy rain. Surely, he would be here tomorrow. Could our ways diverge like this, so quickly? No words, no sweetness to the sorrow? Just a hug, and that was all.

                Well, he's gone now. I know he's somewhere, being his torturously beautiful self, his eyes so dark brown sometimes I swore they were black, his serious, solid mouth maybe gently allowing a small smirk, his dumbfounding unblemished skin making some acne-ridden student envious. He's seven states southwest; no doubt he's found some girl to whisper his name between school desks. Are there a dozen other girls who sit, chin on fist, wondering why their computers always tell them he's not online, he hasn’t been in months, and whisper that he never will be? Are there a hundred who lay on their couches with the television on mute, staring starry-eyed and sad towards the ceiling because they wished he were there to talk to? Are there a thousand who think they know something was odd about him, who have the strongest temptation to believe he was a "fictional" creature? Are there a million over the years- I'm sure there have been many, many years- who have ached over the desirableness of that scrawny boy?

                And laughable it is, here I am, believing he was mine, at least partly, because I was his. I was his probably more than I know, if he'd asked for my blood and bared his vampiric teeth I'd have gladly presented him my life, sorry I couldn’t wrap it all up in pretty paper and put a bow on it. It's only been a couple months, or perhaps it's been forever- whichever it is, I still hold him here, right here, in the backs of my eyelids. I know he'll be around forever, that no time will ever deface or end him – not that I will ever see this. It's like a dream come true, that I fell in love with a fanged myth. I don't know the extent of his powers, or even that he has them- I just know that there is something there. It kind of makes me want to dance.

Just for him.

[ Author's note: I wrote this for Literary Magazine at my school in ninth grade. (Sadly they butchered it- yes, it could get worse.) It's not very well written- in fact, it's horribly over-written, and I think I was still trying to be Anne Rice back then. I would really appreciate criticism on specific things that stand out to you as needing changed. (i.e., too much about the rain on the window, too many run-on sentences and fragments?) Tear it apart, go ahead!  It's sort of half reality and half daydream, and it appalls me when I read this over that I really did care about him and expect to remember him fondly… ugh.  Anyways, this is one of my only short stories but it's rather dear to me, though it needs more work than I will ever pause to give it, and I hope someone out there likes it. On a note of reality, when I wrote this, I half-believed he really was a vampire. We never did hug, and we never did say goodbye, but he had these strange ways about him- vanishing instantly in crowds or around corners, being perfect in the rain…well, enjoy, I hope.]