Angsty, very angsty, but I'm writing a humour fic at the moment, so…
This may or may not have been inspired by ButterFish's "It's just going to be you and me" But the reference is pretty mild… So I hope I won't die for it…
WARNING: ANGST, references to BOY/BOY and MENTAL/PHYSICAL ABUSE, BULLYING, CHARACTER DEATH.
Oh, and mild Cold War/ish America!
Dedicated to all the people who have committed suicide due to bullying. The world is a cruel place and it's colder without you.
Click. A blank.
It had taken Arthur Kirkland a long time to decide where to kill himself.
Should it be in the bath, where he'd make the least mess?
Should it be in his room, surrounded by the plushies he'd collected in another time, pretended he'd grown out of, but secretly never thrown away?
Should it be in the backyard, where he could see the sky, or the basement, where he couldn't?
But in the end, it turned out to be just him, alone with all his faults, sitting in his study, with a gun full of blanks and a single bullet.
He wanted it to end like this. He needed it to end.
Click. A blank.
"Hey! Kirkland!"
Arthur hugged his folders to his thin chest and sped up, legs propelling him through the corridors towards the cafeteria.
"Wait up, ya gay British fuck!"
He hadn't stopped, for obvious reasons.
But Alfred was behind him, hands on his shoulders, and then Arthur was sprawled on the floor, folders spilling haphazardly across the stained linoleum.
"I told you to stop, faggot! You ain't allowed to keep going when I tell you to stop!"
Arthur stayed silent, not making eye contact.
A vicious kick was lashed into his side. "You're not worth anything! Now clean this mess up before I wipe the floor with your face!"
"I'm not a slave," Arthur muttered, and then his eyes went wide and he slapped a hand over his mouth.
"What did you say?"
"What did you say, you worthless little piece of rainbow shit?"
All his life, he'd been treated like something less. Something worthless. A useless little piece of rainbow shit.
First because he wasn't like the other boys, because he liked to be neat and quiet and clean, liked fairy tales and unicorns and dolls.
When the other boys had been making mud-pies half-naked, he'd been having a tea-party with his imaginary friends.
When the others had been collecting trading cards for their favourite sportspeople and heroes, he'd been playing pirates.
When the others had started playing the sports they were so interested in, he'd been studying and baking.
When the others had started studying, too, he'd gone into a punk phase and started swearing.
When the others were getting pissed, he was writing an article in the school newspaper on teenage drinking.
When the others were getting girlfriends, he'd been daydreaming about boys.
When the others were purposefully making themselves messy, he'd been ironing his own shirts.
Sometimes, he thought he wasn't really a person- just a collection of all the little ways he was different.
A pathetic little album of the mistakes he'd made.
A walking testament to "outsider".
A 2-dimensional caricature of a faggot.
Click. A blank.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I want to be a football star!"
"I want to be a fireman!"
"I want to be a superhero!"
"I want to be a pirate!"
"… Why would you want that, Arthur? Pirates steal things and hurt people."
"… Pirates are free…"
Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't just an anally-retentive little scumbag. He valued freedom more than anything else- he just knew that he could never have it. And because of that, he stopped himself from tasting any small freedom at all.
It would only leave him bitter.
They had been friends once- not good friends, but better than any he had ever had. Mainly because Alfred was determined to be friends with everyone, and was persistent enough to not be turned away by Arthur's harsh exterior and caustic interior.
But then Arthur had made a mistake. He had made many, from one perspective- he continually insulted and ridiculed Alfred, despite him being his only almost-friend. But most things simply rolled off the American. This one was the misstep that he would ultimately pay the most for.
He had called a guy "cute". Big blunder.
Alfred, while being in many ways one of the most accepting people in the grade, was a major homophobe- probably due to that fact that he had been raised heavily religious and had only just become more interested in Science.
So calling a guy "cute" in his presence was not something that one did.
On the hour, everyone in the school was buzzing about how Arthur had tried to kiss another guy as he was passing him in the hallway. Not true, but close enough.
You know how rumours are.
And now, whatever chance he had of a peaceful -if isolated- life was gone.
A copy of Hamlet was open on his lap. Hamlet was dying, finished, his head in Horatio's lap.
May flights of angels sing you to your rest.
Click. Blank.
So it is the sixth and last bullet.
I don't have to be alone anymore.
Cli-BANG
000
"Arthur Kirkland is dead."
The whole class stopped, completely still, staring at their form teacher.
"He shot himself."
The teacher's voice was shaking, and she sounded as if she had a bad cold. Of course, there were some idiots that tried to play it cool, saying that "That pussy deserved everything he got," but for the most part, the class was completely silent.
"I hope you have all finally realised the pain and hardship that you put the poor boy through. Even though he had done nothing to hurt you.
"You can tell the teachers whatever you like- that it was all in fun, that you hadn't meant to take it that far, that he deserved it- but in the end, there is no excuse for the fact that you are sad, cruel and monstrous.
"Maybe I'll get in trouble for saying that. Maybe your parents will ring me up and maybe I'll lose my job. Maybe I'll be sued for half my superannuation.
"But in the end, the truth is that the Arthur Kirkland had no friends, nobody cared about him, he was pushed and shoved and treated like dirt, he cried himself to sleep at night, and then he shot himself, because he thought he wasn't good enough to live.
"And nothing can excuse anyone for causing another human being, who has done nothing but like another of the same gender, feel that way. Nothing.
"On another note," she continued, "He left a suicide note. And I thought that, seeing as it had been released, you all deserve to hear it."
" 'Dear class,' He begins.
"-What am I supposed to say? Goodbye, cruel world?
I'm not melodramatic. But it's fitting.
Throughout my life, I've been different. Nobody ever accepted me.
I've been abused physically and emotionally, by my parents, in my own home, and in school, by people who barely know my name, because of this. Even before I knew I was gay.
Once I accidentally made a comment, two words long, that ruined what little life I had, forever. Because it was blown out of proportion.
So maybe they're right.
Maybe they're all right.
Maybe, in the end, I am worthless- a worthless little piece of rainbow shit.
Maybe, in the end, I am really just a walking, talking collection of all the mistakes I've made and all the reasons I'm wrong.
Maybe the world is better off without me.
I'm sorry for taking up your time.
I'm sorry for breathing your air.
I'm sorry for loving as I did, sorry for never hurting anyone, sorry for always being different, sorry for never being accepted.
Maybe it's better if you're free of me. –
"-I'm sorry, that I'm so weak. Arthur."
The room was silent as the grave. Alfred's eyes were hurting, his heart was hurting, his throat was on fire. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was guilt.
Nobody spoke.
It seemed like nobody breathed.
"So," the teacher said breathily. "I hope that clears any confusion about his feelings."
"Class dismissed."
But Alfred didn't leave.
He couldn't move.
Arthur was hurrying through the corridors ahead of him, books clutched to his thin chest. His shirt had pulled up over his belt and his pants were hanging low on his slim hips- the taut line of his body flowing cleanly under his clothes.
Alfred knew that as soon as Arthur reached the cafeteria, he'd fix himself up and straighten himself out.
He didn't want that.
He didn't want him to reach the cafeteria.
"Hey! Kirkland!"
Arthur didn't stop, he just sped up.
"Wait up, ya gay British fuck!"
He hadn't stopped, for obvious reasons.
But Alfred was behind him, hands on his shoulder, and then Arthur was sprawled on the floor, folders spilling haphazardly across the stained linoleum, long, thin legs splayed outwards. His dirty-blonde hair was even messier than usual, his collar slightly open on his pale, perfect skin.
Alfred shouldn't feel like this.
This way was only for women.
"I told you to stop, faggot! You ain't allowed to keep going when I tell you to stop!"
Arthur stayed silent, not making eye contact. Not letting him see his beautiful, bright green eyes, the clean, bright skin of his jaw.
Alfred lashed a vicious kick into the prone boy's side. "You're not worth anything! Now clean this mess up before I wipe the floor with your face!"
"I'm not a slave," Arthur muttered, and then his eyes went wide and he slapped a hand over his mouth. Those burning eyes, that thin, cool hand- he wanted…
"What did you say?"
"What did you say, you worthless little piece of rainbow shit?"
Blood.
GAME OVER.
"Alfred Jones?"
"Yes, Miss, I'm going," he said distractedly, brought out of his reverie.
"No, I have something for you."
"What is it?"
"It's a letter for you. From Arthur."
Heart stop, blood pause, mind slow.
What?
"It was a separate suicide note. It's addressed to you."
She left, the slip of paper staring at him accusingly from the desk.
"Alfred," he read.
"-I know you think I'm disgusting for being gay. I know you hate me now.
But it would be a lie to say that I hate you back.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
I love you. I'm in love with you.
I never told you, because I know you think it's wrong, that I'm wrong, but I do.
And every time I see you, I feel like- never mind.
It's enough to say that I'm sorry I never came clean, sorry I was afraid. Sorry that you could never love me back, because I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough to make you love me.
It's enough to say that every time you hurt me, or called me names, it didn't make me hate you- it made me guilty that I wasn't better, and I tried so hard to be good enough, but it never worked. I just loved you more, but you were never in my reach.
I'm sorry I'm not good enough to see you again.
I'm sorry I'm not worth that much.
I loved you.
Arthur.
He could barely read the last words. The pain in his chest was intensifying, his eyes were glazing over. Was it guilt? Was it something else?
Why did he feel this way about someone who wasn't a girl?
He'd always thought that the jolt in his chest at the sight of Arthur was hate, not love. But Arthur had loved him.
And instead of hating him for it, he just felt guilty- guilty for making him hurt, of course, but also, guilty for never telling him, guilty for not realising.
He had loved Arthur Kirkland, and he was the reason for his death.
And he felt so empty.
000
Alfred had never been to a funeral before. He didn't know what to say.
Even if he had, he wouldn't have had the voice to say it.
What? "I'm sorry for your loss"? "He died before his time"? "I knew him well"? "I'm the reason he committed suicide"?!
What could he possibly say to those poor people, as their only son lay six feet under the cold, hard ground, because of Alfred and people like him?
"He was the love of my life, I just didn't realise it because I was raised a homophobe"?
It was true.
And the thing was, even though he sat there at the back, didn't join in on the prayers or songs or even the crying, he was the last one to leave the small, white gravestone.
When the sun had set and a mournful wind was blowing through the graveyard, when he was hugging himself in the freezing air, the tears that soaked his cheeks were still coming and never stopping.
There he lay beneath the ground, green eyes dull, trapped in a polished music box that would never chime again.
"I'm sorry," he choked out in a tiny voice.
"You were a better man than I ever could be, ever will be. I'm so sorry."
The lines of Arthur's suicide note were cutting into his palm and he fell to his knees, the pain too much to bear.
It's all my fault, all my fault.
I deserve this, he realised. I deserve this pain.
I deserve to be alone, to walk the earth from dawn to dust, to have a heart like an empty shell. This pain is payment.
This pain is what I deserve.
He wouldn't want me to be unhappy, but then he killed himself because he thought he wasn't worth enough to live.
I deserve this as payment.
"This is my payment to you," he whispered brokenly, as his heart was turned inside out over a boy trapped in the ground and his tears froze on his face.
"This is my payment to you."