Nameless

His name stands in the deep recesses of your memory. It taunts you and moves quickly around your mind; leaps over the edge before you can catch it and sinks to oblivion. In some ways you control it, this thought. You are it. You run from the one who chases so eagerly to catch it. Running is the easy part. Though catching, is like being exposed and hugging a double-sided knife; the more it struggles and tries to break free, the tighter you hold it close until you are covered with blood and cuts. The blood coats your arms with sticky wetness and makes your hold on the knife tenuous. You can only hold for so long; take the pain for so long before it will disappear. You are alone then. Everywhere is red with blood: your hair matted, your legs splattered, your breasts covered and shining as the glare from a bright light above shines, your arms and abdomen cut open with multiple gashes. Where you sit is unusually soft. Realizing this fact transports you to your bedroom: your reality. The blood is only sweat that has seeped through your thin t-shirt and the light is from the lamp beside your bed. The knife, however, is not tangible. At least, not now it isn't or will it ever be anymore.

When you first saw him you had only seen his height. Each of his limbs seemed to be stretched to such an impossible length for a 17 year old. It seemed his legs were only bone and skin under his moderately tight jeans. His upper body was lean and his ribs stuck out a little from under a too-small light yellow shirt. His collar bone stood visibly from the gentle v-neck of his shirt. The slightness and severity of his body was matched twofold by the prominence of his facial features. One eye a reddish brown and the other deep blue which emanated from the recesses of his sockets, staring coldly at something on the ground. Small, light freckles spotted his pasty cheeks and long, straight nose. Underneath, his mouth remained a stone-like, flat line. His hair was in every direction at once and a golden blond color. He was slouching a little against a stack of boxes on the lawn thumbs tucked into his pockets. He seemed to have no interest in helping at the moment, rather choosing to sulk and avoid contact with the movers. You take a few steps forward to greet him.

"Hi," You smile as warmly as possible "My name is Aradia. I assume you just moved here,"

"Yeth," His lisp is endearing "Oh, I'm Sollux,"

"Would you like a tour of the town?"

"Thure,"

You start by walking to the mall, which is pretty much the only place that anyone hangs out. You go into shops and talk about yourself. He stays quiet and rather keen on listening to what you have to say. He only makes casual remarks about what you're saying or items you ask his opinion on. You decide to stop for frozen yogurt and he offers to pay. Blood rushes to your cheeks and somewhat flustered, you allow him to. You sit down and keep chatting about your interests in archeology. He mentions he likes to program and you smile at this. It was practically the first thing he'd said about himself all day. You encourage him to talk more about himself and he does. He tells you about where he moved from (Seattle, Washington) and his friends there. You ask why he moved, but instantly regret it. He frowns and says that his dad was dangerous and he had moved here to California with his mom to be away from him. He stays quiet for a while. You can tell he wasn't used to opening up to anyone. You ask him about one of his friends to get him to talk again and his face instantly brightens. He keeps on like nothing had happened and you both finish and leave the mall. It was dark by the time you got home and he walks you to your door. You're both smiling under the lamp light, letting the warmth your two bodies, when close together, emit fill your head. He leans in and softly presses a kiss to your cheek. Your face heats up again and your heart is pounding as he lingers by your ear. He whispers goodnight and lets go of your hand which he had been holding.

Since that night, he asks you to go out with him a second time. You accept and look forward to the date. Your first real date is at a restaurant a few days later. He dresses in an un-tucked button- up shirt and jeans and hands you a small bouquet of red flowers when you answer the door. You can't stop smiling because he is incredibly sweet and frankly a little nervous looking. You end up walking to a cafe nearby hand-in-hand. Even when he drops your hand while you are escorted to your table, he remains close to you at all times. During the night you can't tell where one conversation stops and the other begins. The flow of it all is remarkable. This time when he takes you home, he bends over and tilts your head up for a kiss. You find it incredible and even a little sexy how gentle and warm he is with you as compared to the icy stares he gives everyone else. You kiss him for only a few minutes more before slipping your hands around his waist and putting your head against his chest. His scent is intoxicating and you can't seem to get enough of his sweet honey-like smell or the warmth and softness of his chest. He strokes your hair, tucks a curl behind your ear and plants kisses on the top of your head. He whispers goodnight in your ear again, but you wish he hadn't said anything. You wish you could stay like this forever even if you know you can't.

In the next weeks you both start school again and everything is a blur. You introduce him to your friends and you even have two classes together. You are inseparable. Some part of him is always touching you. He seems to be adjusting fine, but you can tell something is wrong. When you walk to school in the morning he drags behind you and he rarely talks. Dark bags appear under his eyes, which contrast his milky skin. At lunch, he doesn't eat, preferring to rest his head against your shoulder instead. One day after school, you offer to help him with his homework. You discover that most of his assignments haven't been finished or even done at all. You aren't mad, but intensely worried. When you bring it up, he shrugs and, only after much persuasion, attempts to finish something. By the time his mom gets home, you are thoroughly frustrated and he has only done a very small amount of what was due before resigning to sleep on the couch. You pack up your things to go, but she tells you to stay for dinner. She's tall and thin like her son. Her hair lays down in thin, long strands of light gold down her back. She too has bicolor eyes, except one is dark brown and the other is a bronze. You politely decline, but introduce yourself as this is the first time you had seen her.

That night when you got home, you researched depression and how to possibly treat it. Many sites suggested therapy and medication were the only options, but you did manage to find a few support websites for family members of the depressed. You used the techniques that you'd read and in the next few months, they proved effective. You planned fun outings on weekends and helped him keep up with homework. The nights when he wasn't feeling up to doing much of anything, you took extra care to still make him feel happy at home and spend time with him. Slowly, he began to turn around and become independent once more. He catered to your needs when you felt rundown from worrying about him. Every chance he got, he touched and stroked and kissed you. He cherished you with every fiber of his being and you vowed that you would never let him go. For every time he smiled, it made up for a thousand days of his inability to function. It felt like an addiction and every "I love you" from the first seemed to only fuel your desire.

That year, you both graduated. You will never forget how wide his smile got when they called his name to the podium. No one from your family came except your uncle who was your legal guardian since your parents passed away in a car crash. You didn't know most of them closely anyways. However, you enjoyed seeing his family from his mother's side. They told you how pretty and smart you were and how they were happy you were making a positive impact on their relative. You had a joint party with all of your friends and his family the next night. Around midnight the music became soft and he led you to the center of the room. Everyone backed away a few steps and stared at you with big goofy grins. You realized that he was on one knee and a dark velvet box was in his hand, the other holding your left hand.

"Aradia, I love you and I can't imagine thpending my life without you. Will you marry me?"

Tears sprung in your eyes and doubt in your mind. You were both so young and had know each other for only a year. However, you had previously tried to think of a future without him and that was simply not possible. You can't speak quite yet from the surprise, but you nod in acceptance, one hand shaking and the other wiping your eyes. He stands up and hugs you close and collects the tear on his hand. The ring sits heavily on your finger as you dance and hold each other for the rest of the night.

Even though you were engaged, you both didn't see a point in moving to one house because you lived next door to each other. Lately, he'd been spending more and more time at your house. You could tell that his mother had been angering him lately, and you tried to support him the best you could. When he'd storm in and yell, you'd stay back and allow him room. You waited until he'd gotten it out of his system before walking over, slipping your hands around his waist, and laying your head against his chest. Only then would he relax the tension that he'd built inside. One night was particularly bad though. You could hear his muffled screams from next door and soon heard the bang of the door. He practically ripped your door off its hinges and threw an over-night bag on the floor. He ranted about how horrible his mother was several minutes. When he paused for a moment, you'd thought the worst was over and got up to comfort him. This only made him more furious and he began to insult you, calling you a whore and a slut. He demanded to know if you'd cheated on him. You stayed silent and slowly retreated to your room.

Once you'd locked the door, you sobbed uncontrollably. The pain coursed through every part of you, but especially your head. Each tear felt like it was being forcibly collected and you could only take short breaths which caught in your throat. For hours it seemed, you were curled on your bed rocking side to side, trying not to make a sound. You heard several soft knocks at the door. It wasn't your uncle who you knew was most likely at a bar by now. You didn't open it for a while, letting him beg and plea for your forgiveness. When you stopped crying, you stood up to answer, almost tripping from how dizzy you felt. This time it was him who hugged you first. He looked into your eyes for a moment before heading to your lips. He was more forceful than you had ever seen him. He took breaks only to better remove your shorts and shirt and pushed you onto your bed. He touched and felt all of you at once. In the shock of the moment, you hadn't had time to grasp the fact that he was yours. You could do whatever pleases him with no boundaries. You bit and nipped at his neck as he slipped a finger inside your already skimpy thong while simultaneously grabbing and feeling a breast. His fingers were quick and skilled as they explored and made you tighten and gasp as he slipped a few more in. In response, you felt as if the area had been consumed by fiery liquid. It was wonderful and warm and ultimately indescribable. The fire raced to your head and made the air seem hazy and foggy. He pulled out of you when your gasps had come quicker and quicker. It took you a few moments to register, but once he took his shirt off, you realize what was coming next. You took a moment to admire his thinness and the many freckles which dotted him. His hair remained ruffled and covering his eyes slightly. Dreamily, you unbutton his jeans and he slips eagerly out of them. You can see the tent made in his boxers and grope it through the fabric. He huffs small breaths and dismounts to pull something out of his wallet. He removes his boxers finally and you help him adjust the latex all the way down. He remounts, and now more gently, slips part way into you. With each thrust he deepens inside of you, to which you eagerly assist by timing the motions perfectly. You let soft moans escape and then gain volume once you feel comfortable. He quickens, you can feel his hip bones grinding against your soft flesh. His hands are around your back and stroking your spine. He comes close to your ear and tells you between gasps that he loves you and that he'd never meant to hurt you. Your hold on reality is slipping and you lose it for just a moment. It seems he does as well and he rolls to the side to clean up. Once back, he holds you tightly for the rest of the night; his sweet honey scent is intoxicating.

The next few days he spends exclusively at your house and while he isn't watching you, you research the symptoms of what you witnessed last night and all the times previously. The most conclusive thing you find is bipolar disorder. You suppose that you knew it all along, but didn't want to admit it to yourself or to him. You decide at dinner one night to talk to him about it and suggest seeing a psychiatrist. He erupts in rage and trudges through the door, but not before knocking over a vase beside it. You don't follow him because every forum you'd ever read told you to give him space, but you were worried. The whole night you cried and sat on the couch awaiting his arrival. It wasn't until 6 am that you heard anything. Once you heard the phone ring, you instinctively knew that it would be about him and your stomach sank. A woman on the phone asked if you were Aradia. You could barely whisper yes. She sighed heavily and began to say she was very sorry. She said that he had put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. He was dead now and you would need to come right away with his mother to identify the body. You were in such shock that you felt numb through the whole ordeal. The time seemed to stand still as you passed from moment to moment. Everything seemed a blur now of funeral preparations and receiving family. Only at the event did you cry, the tears streaming down your face as you held your left finger.

You began to have night terrors and would often not get enough sleep. In the fall, you showed up to classes almost robotically. You weren't sure how to show emotion anymore or how to feel it. You didn't want to feel the happiness you'd felt that year. But you could. You could feel him inside you when you slept and dreamt about him. Each time you allowed yourself to access this toxic bliss, you promised to push him farther into your memory. You would fantasize about the moment you would remember, playing silly games in your head and imagining you were chasing him. He now but a grave and a memory, but he had the power still to cause the apocalypse of your sanity.