WRITING CONTEST ENTRIES

It used to be home, but you can't call it that anymore; you can't let yourself. Home was 3 in the morning when she'd sit beside you with a smile and listen to you. When you'd crawl into her bed with her while the clocks screamed 3 A.M in their bright red voices. Home was that warm cup of coffee sitting on the counter, but now you can't bring yourself to drink it because the way the cream blends reminds you of her hair. Her beautiful hair in that pool of vomit on the floor of the place you once called home. Now it's just an empty flat, with empty beds and cold walls. All the books and skin in the world couldn't make it better. They tell you not to make a home out of a person for a reason, and you realize it's this one exactly. Because once they're gone, there's nothing left to build on, nothing left to occupy.

You remember how he once told you that you could go on forever, and how he was wrong. He'd left you with bruises and trouble, and he was so wrong you wanted to wrap your fingers around his throat and scream. Your lungs were beautiful, made from the fire of stars, you were the boy that burned. The boy that refused to let anyone drown you, anyone but yourself, your thoughts. You turn and look at the clock hanging above the counter while ticking the time away with your fingers, it's 4 A.M and it's quiet. Then again, it always had been quiet, but it was different when the silence was empty. There was no occupied space to your left, to your right, no breathing except your own. Maybe it was your fault, you thought and couldn't help but smile. Everything always was, mother told you, father didn't need to tell you with words. It's 4 A.M and your coffee is cold and the cup is full, you tried to drink it, of course you tried. You wanted to drown yourself in it.

But drowning wasn't easy, you didn't just count to ten in the tub and then it was over. Of all the years of long baths and stupid thoughts you knew that by heart. You picked yourself up from the counter then, you could hear your bones creak. That creak reminding you that, yes, Aeron, you're here and you're alive. Your bones still work and they still hold you up, and you regret not making a home out of them instead. You go to your room and make your bed for the first time in two weeks, even though it had only been two months. The room has nothing left out anymore, the boxes stacked neatly in the corner. All of your books, your clothes, neatly put away to break your mother's heart just a little less. This wasn't about her though, it was your job to make her life easy and for a few seconds you thought about ripping open the boxes and throwing your things all across the floor, tearing your bed apart just like you did yourself. Like the angry little Welsh boy you were. You didn't, though, you picked your keys up off your dresser and gave the room one last look before closing the door, making sure it clicked. 

You hadn't called your mother on that walk from the store last month. But with this, you thought, you didn't need to. They'd make the call for you, and your hand trembled as you went to open her door, or what had been her door. You'd forgotten that you'd packed away most of her things, her brother and father had yet to come for them. Her makeup sat out on her vanity still, partially open from the last day she'd put it on. The only thing you couldn't bring yourself to touch was her clothes, you'd opened her closet and cried. You clutched one of her dresses to your chest and just cried, waking up on the closet floor a few hours later. In another life you could have taken to her bed as a lover, you would've loved her with all that she deserved, but not in this life. That wasn't the plan for you, and whoever it had been the plan for, well, it got cut short. 

They say the red string of fate can be tangled, but never torn - you always thought it was bullshit, she had taken the scissors herself and cut it from her heart, from her hair. Taking a breath you opened her closet again knowing what you were looking for this time. She still had it, sitting on the top left shelf, the pink bow she'd been wearing the day you met her. You turned it around in your fingers again and again, as if by some miracle she'd be standing behind you to take it away, to put it in her hair again. You turned around and sighed; she wasn't, of course she wasn't, you fucking idiot. Life's not a book, a treat, you know that; you know that and maybe that's why it killed you. Kissing the bow, you put it into your back pocket, closing the closet door behind you one last time. You had everything you needed, you thought, everything that mattered at the very least. What mattered was buried now, six feet beneath filthy dirt in a metal box. (The last bits of you were there, too. The last of anything was there, with Marlene. Don't make homes out of people, they warned you.) What you'd give right now to be back on the farm with the sheep, but you'd fucked everything up. You'd fucked it all up from the start and you knew it, you can't redo, you knew it. You knew it, you fucking knew it you god damned idiot.

It always comes back to you, doesn't it? No matter who you may be, you think, your name is Aeron and right now it's all coming back to you. You and your sleepless nights and pointless expectations of others when you couldn't live up to yourself. Couldn't live with yourself, you thought. Your mother had named you Aeron, you were supposed to be strong, a mountain of immovable things. You fucked that up, too, because here you stood crumbling to pieces. You were a solider marched against a nation, blindfolded and spun three times; you were meant to fight anything blindly, and maybe you had. What you blindly fought was yourself in the night. 

You were tired, though, a tired little solider of a boy. Tired of fighting wars that only went on behind your closed eyes and in the confines of your god damned head. You dumped the coffee down the drain and left the cup in the sink as you headed towards the door. Down the drain, like everything else. You'd grown up thinking that being sad was beautiful, that maybe if one day you were sad, it'd be just like that. You'd be the living chapter of your favourite novel, you'd be beautiful and people would love you because you were broken glass. That boy in a novel who hoped that, maybe, he'd get hit by a car while crossing the street. You were a cliche and you knew it. They'd love you but never pick you up because you'd always cut them open; and you had, you had cut everything open but it was anything but beautiful. You'd made a mess of everything (the neatly packed boxes in your room, the neatly made bed) you'd made a mess of it all. That's what you were good at, you thought as you closed the door but didn't lock it. You didn't need to, you didn't have a home, there was no more need for locks and keys. Everything you needed was six feet under the ground. 


Down the stairs and out the apartment door, you were gone. Walking down the street, stopping in front of your store. You smiled as you tucked the key under the welcome mat, lingering on the displays for just that bit of time. There was a certain joy in dropping your responsibilities at your feet, other people would clean this up, take care of it. You were sick of doing it. You'd loved the old brick store front, the accented wood that hung around the windows. You'd loved a lot of things, just never taking the time to notice most of them, but now you didn't care. With a small wave you were gone once again, a ghost left behind in your apartment, and now in front of the store. You passed the small store where the girl always said you were sweet, with her sugar laced smile and bright eyes. You'd stopped smiling back, though, but it didn't matter did it? The ones you'd offered before had been enough, and she wouldn't know you were gone, or where you had gone to. 

The walk was slow as you marched against your thoughts again, at least now you'd taken the blindfold off. Maybe you should've written all of this down, you could've been famous, renowned, finally people wouldn't have put you back on the shelf. At least you're not drunk, Aeron! You're not slurring I love you, and crying for the stupidest of reasons, reasons which you'd use to tear yourself apart with the morning after. You give yourself this little bit, this little positive right now, at least you weren't something. Yes, that's the sad truth, you weren't anything to anyone at this point; that was part of this freedom, you thought. You weren't a smile, a laugh, you were there. 

Your walking slowed as you were on the bridge, you propped your elbows up on the rail to watch the cars go by in rushes of light. Of all the things you'd given yourself, which hadn't been many, or anything at all, this was the biggest you could do. You bit your lip with a small smile, you were crying again. God knows why, you thought, you had nothing left to cry over. You pulled yourself up onto the railing, balancing with your left arm as you stared downwards again. Everything always comes back to you. 

Yes, you thought, everything always does, doesn't it? With that thought you closed your eyes, you took a breath; a good one. Your right hand reached down into your back pocket, you took the pink ribbon out and held it tight. 

Off the ledge and down into the traffic below, you were gone. Your name was Aeron, and once upon a time you had loved a boy, and you had loved a girl. You never did figure out which broke your heart the most.