Disclaimer: The story Pop Art and all of its characters belong to Joe Hill.
A/N: I wrote this as a character log for Drama because I was using a section of the story as my monologue. As always, reviews are appreciated.
Balloons
It wasn't Ruth's fault. After all, how was she supposed to know? I'd never told her about Art. I'd never even mentioned him in passing (something I still feel guilty for since, if anyone is worth mentioning, it's Art). She couldn't have known what happened to him and she certainly couldn't have known how I'd react. You see, I'm still maintaining my psycho/tough guy rep. I have to. The thing is, I know how many people out there still have prejudices against inflatable people. I've seen just how many losers and jerks can exist in this world. Right now, Ruth's safe. You see, they're not so likely to pick on her if they think I'm gonna' stab 'em in their sleep if they so much as look at me funny. However, if they think that they can take me (which, I assure you, most of them can), then all bets are off.
So, no, it's not Ruth's fault. How was she supposed to know that bringing me a bunch of balloons on my birthday was going to make me blubber like a baby?
It was in that moment, when I saw those red, floating orbs of helium and misery that I thought of that day at Scarswell Cove. The day I released Art into the bright blue sky and watched him fall away from me (falling upwards like that Yeager fella'). All I could think about when I saw those balloons was how similar ones had floated away ten years ago, taking with them the only happiness I'd ever felt in my life and leaving with me a heart-wrenching loneliness like I'd never known before. All I could think about was the police finding Art's deflated body and Mrs. Roth's kind letters (she sent me a birthday card again this year). I thought about my dad and Happy the psycho dog and Billy Spears with his bat and Mars and Art's bug-eyed stare as he looked at my knife. Did the sky open up at the top, Art? Did you give the stars the same wide-eyed look of amazement when you finally reached the heavens? Was it everything you expected, Art? Was it as good as all those books said it was? Was it as good as you always said it was?
I was still in the house, crying my eyes out nearly twenty minutes later. I hadn't cried in years. It felt weird, the way the tears pricked at the backs of my eyeballs. The way they traced hot trails down my cheeks. Those choked, despairing noises couldn't possibly be coming from me, could they?
I didn't notice for the longest time that I had, at some point, pulled out the old shoebox in which I stored all of Arthur's notes. I couldn't bare to get rid of them – not even after all these years. I had taken one of them out (written in robin's egg blue) and was in the process of soaking it through with my tears. I tried to stop crying, making a few pitiful sniffles at my lack of success, as I realized that I wasn't going to be able to read it soon enough.
I heard Ruth's familiar voice drifting through the house. She was calling my name. She sounded worried. I really should answer her.
"In here, Ruth," I called, my voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable. I don't think I've ever sounded like that in my life.
She silently padded into the kitchen. The chair scraped against the linoleum, creating a screeching noise as she pulled it back to sit. I felt her smooth, rubber hand lay gently over mine. "Are you okay," she asks and the truth is that I don't know. Will I ever be okay again? Have I ever been okay? I wish I could have asked Art. He would have known the answer.
Taking a shaky breath and giving her hand a quick squeeze, I made my decision. "My best friend when I was twelve years old was a boy named Arthur Roth," I began.