A/N: I'm sorry, I just had to write this. Meh...I hate this story. It is the worst thing I've ever written, hands down. There is no privacy on this trip and it's very hard to write something with people looking over your shoulder. Plus, I suck at serious stuff. Don't laugh...
This is a pathetic piece of shit. I'm devestated by how awful this turned out. I can't wait to return home and do some REAL writing.
If you don't like angst then DON'T READ IT.
His heart was pounding. His hand was throbbing, blood crusting on the towel he had wrapped around it. All he could hear was his own blood roaring in his head.
Angel held his breath, he didn't want to explode and start wailing. He clenched his jaw tightly. He didn't want to wake up Collins. He didn't know what he would've done if the professor had seen him like this.
He didn't want to explain why he had tears streaming down his face. Tears falling onto the note, making the ink run.
Still holding his breath, Angel turned his attention back to what he was trying to write. He squinted, trying hard to see through the tears. Though he couldn't make out the specific words he had written down, he could tell that his writing had turned shaky and sloppy.
But who cares about penmanship at a time like this?
Half of him cared, half of him didn't. Though it seemed insignificant, Angel didn't want his last message to his lover to be shitty looking. He let out his breath…slow and ragged.
Angel tried to steady his writing hand while he rested his injured one on his lap. He had to press on. He had to finish this. He was frantic.
The pen angrily scratched and stabbed at the paper as Angel poured his emotions out.
Angel started sobbing quietly to himself. The kind of painful sobs that deprive your lungs of air and make you feel dizzy. In an effort to keep quiet, Angel bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He forced himself to take deep, calming breaths.
The salty, copper taste was strangely soothing. So was the pain. It almost made him feel human again.
In a matter of seconds, he could feel that hysteria that was building up inside him lift. He could feel it give away to a calm, numb feeling.
Angel almost smiled. He nearly chuckled, proud of the control he had over his emotions.
Control.
That was something Angel never, ever had over his life. It was a god given right, to be sure. But, as sickening as it was, Angel never had it.
Angel never had any control when his own father began raping him from birth, giving him AIDS…his death sentence and curse. He never stood a chance.
He couldn't stop the nightmares from plaguing him.
He never chose his sexual orientation. He didn't choose to be ostracized because of it.
He didn't ask to be beaten and starved by his father, whom convinced the rest of the family (his mother and eight older siblings) to follow suit and join in the torture as well.
It seemed as if he never had a choice over turning to drugs and prostitution at the age of 13 when he ran away from home. Survival knows no boundaries. The drugs kept him sane, the sex raked in the money.
He never had control over the way Collins and everyone else looked at him. They pitied him, and it made him sick to his stomach. He had been masking his true emotions behind the facade of a strong, happy person…and he was tired. He was done.
It seemed as if his whole life has been one big mockery. He wanted everyone to just leave him alone.
God was a fucking son of a bitch. He was going to take him away from Collins…and there was nothing he could do about it.
What did I do to deserve this? Why do you hate me so much? I've tried so hard to be a good person…
And now, it seemed he had no control over his painful, bitter end. It was set in stone. He was going to die very, very young.
Earlier that night, it was this awful thought that occurred to him. Angel had been in the bathroom, taking his AZT.
Well, trying to, at least. His hand was so shaky that he ended up dropping his pills to the floor. Slightly frustrated, Angel had bent down to scoop them up.
When he had straightened up, he was startled by his own reflection staring back at him.
He felt a twinge of pity as he gazed at the slightly pasty skin, the chapped lips, the hollowed out cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. He hated that bony, ugly, dying boy staring back at him. He was pathetic.
And then, he noticed a lesion. A small, purple, bruise-like formation on his neck. Just below his jaw. His heart stopped when he saw that.
Angel had begun to shake again, not out of sickness this time...out of rage. His face contorted in anger. He felt his mind go…
He suddenly lashed out, his hand plowing into the mirror with a sickening crack. Pain shot up his arm. Angel was sure he had broken several fingers. But he also felt kind of accomplished for he had also damaged the mirror.
He was hitting that sad waif of a boy behind the glass. It felt satisfying. Blood had begun to drip down the broken mirror and his wrist.
Impulsively, Angel started to smear his hand around the mirror, covering it in his blood. He didn't know why, but he felt he had to leave his mark somehow.
And then the pain set in. Angel felt tears well up in his eyes. He squeezed them shut and his mouth opened in a silent scream.
I can't wake up Collins. I can't let him see me like this. Then he'd be disappointed in me, too…
The only sound that escaped him was a pitiful squeak.
And then, an empowering thought had come to Angel. Right there, in that bathroom, he realized his purpose. He knew what he had to do.
Everyone's destiny was to die….that was their final destination. Death was the great equalizer. It was salvation.
You can't stop death. But you can control when and how you go, if you really want to.
Maybe the point to all this suffering was to make Angel come into his own. To make him realize.
I will not let AIDS take me.
Slightly calmer, Angel drew his hand back from the mirror. He didn't even notice the pain anymore. He even smiled.
Moments later, when he carefully emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hand, Angel noticed that Collins was still sleeping.
It was a miracle.
For once, things were going his way.
Moving swiftly and quietly, Angel began his hunt for a pen and paper.
Which brings us back to this….
While taking his little trip down memory lane, Angel didn't even realize that he had finished his letter several minutes ago. It didn't occur to him that he had just been sitting there, clutching the pen tightly.
Angel set the pen down on the table top and reached for his letter with shaking hands. He scanned it quickly.
With a small nod of approval, Angel stood up from his chair, taking the letter with him. He made his way down the hall and into the bedroom. As he approached the bed, he could see the shape of his slumbering lover.
Collins was on the far side of the bed. His back to him.
Angel felt his love for Collins overwhelm him. He felt the hysteria from earlier that night come flooding back.
I can't do this to Collins…
Angel willed himself to blink back his tears.
This isn't about Collins. It's time to do something for yourself now. It's time to fight back.
Angel stiffly walked over to the bed and placed his letter down on his pillow. He didn't even look at Collins. He couldn't . Emotions were dangerous.
Even so, Angel could feel his chest tighten up. He felt the urge to cry.
No!
Angel whirled around and walked out of the bedroom. He could feel himself loosing it. He had to leave.
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Blinded by the tears now flowing freely down his face, Angel tripped on the stairwell, slamming his knee into a concrete stair.
Ignoring the pain, Angel struggled to his feet and kept going.
The rest seemed a blur. Before he knew it, Angel found himself on the roof, the cool night air helping him clear his head.
Angel slowly made his way to the edge. He peered down at the street below...
This was it.
Angel closed his eyes, feeling dizzy from the height.
What do you think now, you motherfuckers? Who's laughing now?
Feeling giddy, a full and genuine smile came to Angel's face. He was finally in control now. He was free...and happy.
Angel had always wanted to fly.
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Uttering a small grunt, Collins jumped awake...sweat was glistening on his upper lip. The silence of the room filled his senses. He didn't even know why he was awake. He couldn't recall having a nightmare…
"Hey, Angelcake…" Collins rolled over. For some reason, he felt like comforting his lover.
Angel was not there. A sheet of paper was resting on his pillow.
Collins held his breath, startled. He felt fleeting curiosity…
And then a heavy, sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.
"Angel?" He called, his voice cracking from sleep.
He was greeted with a lonely, unbarable silence.
More than a little concerned, Collins quickly sat up in the bed. He reached out with his right hand to turn on the lamp on the nightstand beside him. The light stung his eyes.
Or maybe it was the tears. Collins didn't even know he was crying.
In an instant, Collins' mind flashed back in time. He remembered Roger telling him about the note April had left...
But Angel is not like that…
He stared at the letter on Angel's pillow for a split second, fearing it.
What if I'm being ridiculous? It's probably nothing…
His optimistic thoughts felt fake.
With a shaking hand, he reached out and snatched the letter. He squinted, startled. Angel's normally neat and dainty writing was barely legible.
Dear Thomas,
Please don't be mad. I don't know what I'd ever do if I found out I made you unhappy.
I don't know if I'm in heaven right now, if such a place exists. I don't think God likes me.
Something just occurred to me a short while ago, honey…I've always been a victim of circumstance. It has been that way my entire, miserable life.
You've been my only reason for living for a while now. But I'm dying, I'm tired, and I'm angry. I can't do this anymore. Life is a sick joke. A nightmare.
I will not let AIDS kill me. I will get the last laugh.
I don't think I'm weak. In fact, I'm strong. Stronger and braver than I've ever been. I am now taking control over my life and it feels wonderful.
You should not let this disease kill you either, Tom. You are too good of a person. You don't deserve to suffer.
So, wherever I am, I'd like you to come and join me. You can do this whenever you'd like, as it is ultimately your choice. I hope it's soon, though…because I miss you already.
Love,
Angel
Collins blinked, feeling numb. He could not believe it...he didn't want to. He felt like he was going to throw up.
He reread the letter over and over again until he was completely blinded by tears.
Parts of it were disjointed. Some of it didn't make sense.
But he knew what it meant.
"Angel?" He whispered, his voice hoarse. He gingerly set the paper down on the mattress. He couldn't stand to look at it anymore.
"Where are you?"
THE END
A/N: Flames will be deleted.