Prologue I
"We never spoke, which made him perfect…"
…
Kenneth McCormick was in your freshman creative writing class for the second semester; it was your first class together since the fourth grade. You hadn't seen him in a while- his height and the raspy depth of his voice startled you. You certainly hadn't thought of him in a while. He hadn't crossed your mind in at least three months, when he had decided to ditch the hood- which was exceedingly controversial. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if Kenny was ugly, but he was beautiful and lovely, like the summer wildflowers that grow in meadows along roadsides.
He was ephemeral and untouchable, from his mess of deep dandelion blonde hair to his tattered sneakers and everything in between. He had immaculate skin and diaphanously blonde, ridiculously long lashes. His lips were full and pink; they were always swollen and smudged with color from some recent make-out session.
A certain shade of youthfulness ambled about Kenny. He had that teen spirit most high schoolers couldn't pick up. His beauty was refined, attractive to everyone, anyone. He was subtle, the way a flower was; he had that honeyed look, that mellifluous voice. As hard as you tried to remember the delicacy of his stem, the fragility of his petals, you couldn't.
Many doubted his humanity; no one could be so endearing all the time. Kenny's charm made him seem unreal to some, but to you, it made him seem human. Your façade was similar to his; yours was just a different color, for a different purpose.
Your teacher asked you to brainstorm story ideas with a partner; it was only natural that you and Kenny were together, or at least, you felt that way. You were partners before- five years ago- and now you were partners again- five years later. But there was this terrible little ache pressing on your internal organs, compelling you to believe Kenny might've been more comfortable with Heidi, or even Wendy, some girl he could really flirt with- but somehow, you had approached him first.
And how could he say no to you?
That was what you wanted to think. You wanted to believe that Kenny remembered those times in elementary school when you had helped him up after he fell from the monkey bars, landed on his back, and struggled to breathe beneath the hood of his parka. You wanted him to recall those delicate moments when your tiny fourth grade fingers had touched, when your innocent fourth grade eyes had met. You wanted to believe he was just as overwhelmed with you, as you were with him.
Kenny rambled while he worked; you remember this from the all the other times you had both committed to a partnership (you suddenly hated yourself for thinking it was a commitment, that you were both committed to each other, like marriage). Currently, he was going on about writing a personal narrative retelling his loss virginity. He was drawing circles on his paper in blue ink, maybe clouds- but he always came back to another vague squiggle in the margin. When he was finished expounding his scheme, explaining the themes of loss and immorality, he eyed you in a seemingly longing fashion.
So you told him that a story centered on his absent virginity was a bad idea, the quickest way to be thrown out of the class. He smiled, shifted in his desk. What left his lips was little more than a chuckle, wispy and rough, like the blonde bangs barely draping his eyes.
"I was kidding, Tucker; I wouldn't do that."
He called you Tucker now, which was something you didn't quite comprehend. But you called him McCormick anyway. There was silence between you two, amid the chatter among other partnerships scattered around the classroom. His cerulean eyes lingered on you, meandered what was exposed of you, watched your awkward lips form words. You asked what he was doing here, in a class like this. Perhaps, you had yearned for him to admit he had enrolled for the hopelessly romantic females lurking the class, that he wanted nothing to do with you particularly.
You craved a broken heart; a subtle notion that could that whatever this was between you and Kenny could end.
"I need everyone around me to feel me, you know? I think I have beautiful thoughts."
Kenny smiled, scribbled something down on his paper with apparent finality. You glanced down: it was a silly doodle of you in your chullo, your blue jacket, your defining scowl. The feeling that fleeted through you might've been embarrassment; a faint touch of pink might've graced your cheeks; you might've averted your eyes elsewhere. This was an apparent form of flattery and you were affected. But he caught your gaze again, eventually- as he always did. That smile lacing his lips still endured.
"Do you, Tucker?"
It was your first conversation in five years; it might've been an epiphany when you realized this, you might've flinched or winced. Kenny's smile might've morphed into a grin, which is a subtle difference- no one can really discern unless he or she was truly paying attention- and you certainly were.
The bell rang; you were left in your seat. The teacher screeched about planning tomorrow, you heard Wendy converse about her story, the comings of love and romance. Kenny laughed again, at you, at something else maybe. He yanked you up by your damp palms, and you left class together. But once you had reached the hallway, Kenny broke away from you and sauntered in the other direction; he did not say goodbye.
You wouldn't see him again until the next afternoon.
And when you did, he smiled at you. He inquired about your day, even though this was only third period and there was more than half a school day left for something to fuck up. But you answered him anyway, in little detail.
You discerned Kenny's particular habits in two days, and he bowled over yours. He had dubbed the creative writing instructor "Teacher" for whatever reason. This inclination of his spread to you like venereal disease. He was still amazed by your persisting tendency to present people with the notorious bird; he recalled how you flipped Mr. Mackey off in the fourth grade twice in the same day and got a week's worth of detention. He had a subtle routine of describing you, your eyes, your lips, the part in your hair when he peeked under your chullo.
This made you smile (and blush), but barely; you doubted that Kenny noticed. Your stomach swirled with butterflies, a sweltering hue of lovely bubbled within you. You felt like you could puke up the universe, stars and moons, entire planets. Eventually, your beautiful thoughts had melded into blonder, bluer ones.
You found that it became pointless to write about the things you had wanted to when you enrolled in this class: stories engulfed with tragedy, heroes, and villains. You didn't feel anything toward those narratives anymore, but what you did feel (the butterflies and the loveliness blooming within you like evening primroses) was difficult to put into words.
Your writing was clogged with blonde undertones. Everything you wrote portrayed young love and romance, the anticipated return of affections. It disgusted you, but you couldn't stop. You spent entire class periods staring at a blank sheet of paper, wondering how you could overcome your beautiful thoughts and write something with more substance.
Kenny inquired about your narrative one day, what you were going to write about. You assured him it wouldn't be anything sappy, anything lewd, anything he or the rest of the girls in class would write. He hummed in agreement: "Yeah, that wouldn't be like you."
You made this unattractive face: it was a scrunch of your nose, a curt grimace, "How would you know?"
Kenny almost scoffed; either that, or he was trying to suppress a laugh. His hand slapped over his mouth, those pretty pink and swollen lips of his- but his eyes wander down to your fingers twiddling your pencil, back to your expectant ashen-blue irises. He opened his mouth, but you already knew the answer; he didn't need to say it.
You never willingly fell in love.
…
"We would exchange vows in a cemetery on the Ides of March or Alexandria in October."
…
When you could, you would write yours and Kenny's conjugal names in the back of your creative writing notebook, behind all the unfinished poems alluding to a certain blonde.
Kenny Tucker
Craig McCormick
There weren't any hearts or stars adorning your names; it was just there in simple print, where you could see and feel it. You didn't know which one would sound better, which one you would prefer if you happened to wed Kenny. Some bolder, more audacious part of you wanted to ask him himself, but that would've been rather revealing.
This was weeks after the first creative writing lesson, the first brainstorming session. You had finally determined that you were fond of Kenny McCormick, that you were helplessly doting on him like Ruby doted on the boys in her seventh grade class. You didn't really mind; at least, you were enamored with the Kenneth McCormick, the loveliest heartthrob of South Park High School. It could've been worse.
You could've been smitten with someone who didn't talk to you every day in your third period, someone who hated you, someone like Stan Marsh or Kyle Broflovski. You could've been repulsed by your fantasies, but you embraced them quietly, without worries. When you had to clean up after yourself in the morning, change the sheets and change your boxers, you had no complaints. You weren't too happy with the cold showers at first, but you got over it.
It was usually the same wet dream, over and over, night after night- but you never tired of it.
Kenny was always donned in a rented white tuxedo for prom; he'd wait for you to descend to the bottom of your creaky staircase, so you can skip prom entirely. So he can take you somewhere far and beautiful, with a myriad of nooks and crannies you can both get lost in. So he can kiss you in the parking lot of some motel and take your breath away, like he always did. So he can gingerly lead you by your hand to the room where he'd rid you of your clothes, kiss and thumb over all your blemishes, wallow in your droll discomfiture- because you have never done this before, not with a boy.
So at the end of the night, you would let him fuck you.
And it would be fine, if that was all. If you cried out how much you loved him, if you screamed how much you needed him inside you to complete you, how good this feels because it's you Kenny, it's you, if you convulse in his arms with tears afterward, pressing curt, sweet kisses to his unblemished shoulders- it really won't matter. In the morning, you will look at him and that lovely feeling will be gone. The butterflies would have left the pit of your stomach; they would have fluttered somewhere unfathomable and distant.
Because this is simple infatuation: it thrives off those vehement palpitations of your heart, the butterflies benignly pressing against your stomach lining, the nausea wrenching your intestines, until it suddenly doesn't. And that's the sad part, perhaps, that infatuation ultimately dies, without much of a valediction.
You remind yourself of this when you were writing sonnets in class, when Kenny waggled his eyebrows at you and declared that these are love poems. He inquired in that unique, small voice of his, "Who are you going to write about, Tucker?"
"No one you know."
You were brainstorming again. Kenny had listed all of his girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, boyfriends- of which he had a few. This had made your heart seize, your blood boil, your existence seethe within you like Kenny's fingers were around your throat squeezing the life out of you- but your façade was as strong as ever. You didn't even blink, which was something you had considered an achievement.
Kenny sucked on his teeth. The noise grated at your ears, long enough to distract you from Kenny's fingers fleeting over your carpus. Your eyes caught hold of him, almost immediately.
"I know everybody one way or another, inside or out- if you know what I mean."
His index finger traced a particularly green vein; your lungs melted in response. Every breath you took was harsh and terrible, like fire erupting in your chest. Your fingers curled into a fist beneath Kenny's contact; you hated how he could manipulate and seduce you with one touch.
"But I'm guessing whoever you're writing about has a tight hold on your heart, since you don't want to share."
The façade tried to rebuild itself; you spoke in an icy tone, "You're wrong…"
He unfurled your clenched fist without much effort, marveling at the slenderness of your fingers. He murmured quietly, "You must be in love with this person, Tucker."
"No-"
"Were you intimate?"
But your cool façade faltered with that inquiry; you blush an infamously faint shade of pink. You seemed to heave, "He wouldn't want me."
Kenny's touch was skimming across your palm when he paused, azure gaze snapping to your flushed expression.
"He?"
(Your infatuation was showing)
The only thing that raged between you and Kenny was your heart, the palpitations seizing your chest, fiercely rebelling against your body. You snatched your hand away from his warmer fingers; your voice sounded, cold and acidic-
"Write your fucking poem, McCormick."
-and you resumed your sonnet, your subtle comparison of the blonde boy beside you to a summer's day.
…
Teacher read Edgar Allan Poe's Annabel Lee during a poetry analysis; Heidi cried in her solemn corner of the classroom. Other girls had quietly cried too, but you were utterly tearless. You had thought that maybe this was one of those woman things your mother had explained to you, that this certain poem and its lustrous romance had a place in female's hearts, right next to make-up and jewelry. But you looked over and captured Kenny's watery gaze focused on you. He averted his eyes toward the window highlighting the monotony outside of school and Wendy sniffling in the afternoon light.
You were fuddled; you had never seen Kenny McCormick cry before.
You hadn't cried since preschool and that had always been ugly. Your tantrums were epic, the rivalry of local raccoons. But the tears were mostly for show; they were the cherries titivating your fuming sundae. You had a way with certain curse words: fuck and shit. But you could really scream and kick; your right jab was infamous with preschool faculty. You had been so angry then, over dumb things like toys and poor blonde boys equipped innocent smiles that you didn't want to share.
How you had converted into a mean, apathetic, candid- but quiet teenager was incredible, a blessing even. Or maybe that's just what happens to the livid people of the world, eventually, they lose their voice. In the end, the vilest of volcanoes go dormant. You wrote something like that in your creative writing notebook: what do volcanoes dream of when they fall asleep?
Surely, they didn't have dreams of a poorer, blonder adolescent boy laid before them on pristine bedspreads. They certainly didn't dream of touching that blonder boy's lips with their rougher fingers, pushing and compelling entry so those coarse digits could press upon that boy's tongue, so his moan could reverberate around their fingertips.
They didn't dream of those things unquestionably, but you did.
Repeatedly.
So much so, it didn't seem to make sense when your father would lecture Ruby about adolescent boys and their intentions. You figured he needed to say something to you too, to warn you about Kenny and his intentions. With languid eyes and nasty thoughts, you watched him rattle your younger sister about her ambitions of finding a boyfriend at the dinner table. You were thinking about Kenny again, in all the ways you shouldn't have been.
…a barrage of kisses cascading to his navel, then down even further…
You poked at your mother's casserole, rolled around the peas and smashed clumps of broccoli with your spoon. Your mother took her eyes off Ruby for a second and directed them at you. Blonde hair framed her face like a picture, but hers was flaxen and aged. The creases around her mouth glared as she frowned at you and your untouched, but fondled casserole.
"Craig, please. You're a little too old to play with your food."
You pushed a spoonful of burnt sharp cheddar and overcooked noodles into your mouth. While you chewed, your father roared at your younger sister; while you chewed, you casually gave your mother the middle finger.
…
"He would be a writer and I a poet."
…
The next day, Teacher asked if anyone wanted to read his or her poem aloud for ten extra credit points. You were surprised to see Kenny's arm extended, his hand waving in the air- but he surprised you often, to the point of masked indifference.
He had sauntered to the front of the class like a ray of sunshine; everyone's eyes were on him, expecting something silly and blatantly wanton to roll from his lips. But he took the opportunity to surprise all of you then, with his poem.
It was about sex, but it wasn't so obvious or licentious. His tone was romantic, stressed by his wispy voice. He must've been inspired by E.E Cummings; it sounded like some rendition of "May I Feel, Said He." But this was vaguer and the lovers' genders were not named. Your mind was free to wander.
You had flashbacks to those dreams about prom night; you had crude, but curt thoughts about marriage consummation, the tenderness Kenny would drown you in, the gentle osculations he'd stream down your throat- over your sternum, back into that sensitive ridge right above your collarbone-
Students clapped and snapped you out of that daydream. Your palms met a little too late, after the thick of applause had passed. Kenny's eyes convened with yours, but you abruptly casted your gaze downward toward those moonstruck phrases praising his existence.
The gentle sun frequenting my reverie-
My spring of the budding aberrant comeliness within me-
Your tongue ran across your lips. You were suddenly self-conscious of your poem, what it meant, the blonde underlying themes that didn't seem so hidden once you had reread it for the thirteenth time. You had taken the time to rewrite this eight times, because you just couldn't perfect his image or your helpless tone. You didn't want to sound too in love; you certainly didn't want Kenny to be blameless.
When Kenny returned to his desk, he brushed by your shoulder like feathers. You wondered if it was deliberate, if he was making certain intimations between you two- but you didn't look. You couldn't.
…
Teacher passed back the graded poems the day before the end of the second semester, before summer break. Kenny sat on his desk, blathering about the movie The Warriors (you don't like your utilization of "blather;" it's not like you weren't listening to Kenny, hanging on his every word). He said how Token reminded him of the character Snow, how Stan reminded him of a dark haired Swan. He couldn't really find a person in South Park that evoked Ajax in his mind- other than you, but he was a little too rough, you were a little too quiet.
He was drawing again, in the margins of his ragged notebook. This time, it was Wendy and her puffy eyes from when she had cried over Annabel Lee. But he scratched her out eventually, murmured something to you about how Stan liked to read the things he wrote in this notebook.
You noticed the slight furrow of Kenny's brows; the distress contorting his expression irked you. The words fell off your lips like bricks, "Fuck Stan."
Wendy threw you some sort of glare from across the class, but you were focused on Kenny. He smiled earnestly, "You don't like him, do you?"
"I never did."
Kenny chuckled; he explained how Ajax and Swan butted heads in the movie, how you and Stan seemed to do that often. You told him that Stan just pisses you off- his necessity to be the center of everyone's world, his self-righteous boyfriend, and his self-righteous girlfriend. You said this in a quieter tone, hoping that Kenny could still hear you, wishing that Wendy could still hear you.
"You're such a villain, Tucker."
You blushed as Teacher handed Kenny his poem. His cerulean irises glanced over the red pen adorning his paper; a smirk pulled at his lips, until a laugh rolled off his tongue. You asked him what was so funny. He leaned in and whispered toward you, "Teacher thought I wrote this about horseback riding." He retained another snicker behind his hand, "But you know what it's really about, right?"
You nodded, your eyes blank, your expression listless; your indifferent face at this moment was another one of the façade's achievements.
Kenny gestured at your poem lying limp in your hands, the crinkles outlining your smudged and love-struck words.
"I never read your poem, you know."
You flushed; your hands crushed your poem into a feeble ball. Your lips practically moved by themselves, without much of your consent, "And you never will."
That night you reached into your pocket, unfurled that poem, and taped it to your ceiling. Every morning you'd wake up, every evening you'd fall asleep, it'd be there watching you.
…
Summer began, but it never felt right.
Your family took an overnight vacation to Denver but it was something similar to a disaster.
The whole day was spent sightseeing; you were in charge of the camera, but you only took a photo of Denver's skyline, your mother taking a bite of her dinner, and Ruby's face when she had sneezed in the car.
Due to financial strains, your parents could only rent rooms from hotels outside of Denver. Downtown wasn't even an option. You had the conventional and common two beds; you had to share with Ruby, which was concerning. You didn't want your sister- your entire fucking family- to be witness to your reoccurring dreams about Kenny. You certainly didn't want to wake up with soiled sheets.
The clean hotel bedspreads evoked thoughts about Kenny, but you resisted them.
Later that night, Ruby asked you for your phone charger, but you told her to "fuck off." Consequently, she tried to flush your chullo down the hotel toilet. When you snatched it away from her, she lunged at you. A fierce scuffle commenced; Ruby's fingers wounded up around your neck in an intense attempt to asphyxiate you. Your father had to tear her off you before she actually committed murder.
He took her outside, to cool down. You were left with your fucking mom. You sat on one bed and your mother sat on the other, staring at you with weary, watery eyes. She inquired softly, "What's wrong with you, sweetheart?"
You thought it was a silly question, probably meant for Ruby rather than you. She was the one who tried to kill you, after all. Nevertheless, you could've explained your entire predicament with Kenny, how you simply wanted him so much, how you just couldn't have him, how some dull pain ached at your spleen whenever you thought about how far Denver was from him, how you were still a little worried that your vulgar considerations of him were wrong.
But you flipped her off instead; she would've returned the favor like a normal mom, but she didn't have the heart anymore.
Your mother cried in the car that night, left snotty tissues on the dashboard where you all could see them. But it didn't faze you or Ruby; your mother cried habitually. You were both kind of over it. The drive back home was quiet. You were rather pissed because Ruby broke your headphones while you were sleeping, and you didn't even dream of Kenny. When you got home, you fell asleep on your floor reciting phrases from the poem pinned to your ceiling.
If you ever die,
I'll die too
Just to spend my life with you
When you woke up, your mother unpacked your all things for you. There was a bologna sandwich on your dresser.
…
Token hooked you up with a gig at the new Footlocker for the remaining length of summer, which was pretty simple. You only really had to saunter between aisles and work the register from time to time. You got marginal discounts on sportswear and shoes, but you didn't really have the money to buy a hundred dollar Jordans. Token seemed to purchase a new pair every week. It was a big deal to him though; he'd hold the shoe up to the light and inspect the leather. He spoke about his shoes like they were his lovers. Nicole might've been jealous.
Sometimes, when your allowances had piled up and you had time to meander the clearance section, you were able to buy some sweats or t-shirts for yourself. Your mother had suggested that you get something for Ruby, but she hated anything athletic; she proclaimed that sweatpants made her look fat. You told her you could get some yoga pants or leggings, something slimming and sleek- but she retorted that those kinds of clothes were distasteful.
You could've called many things about her distasteful, but you let her be.
You were in the middle of scouring the clearance racks for sweatpants when Kenny appeared, quiet and subtle like a phantom. You noticed him before he had the chance to notice you. Your fingers ceased their fidgeting with the hangers promptly; you slunk behind shelves and mannequins to the back of the store.
Token furrowed his eyebrows at you as Kenny approached the register. You gestured to blonde through the flimsy, plastic windows, then you quickly sliced across your throat with your hand. Token nodded in acknowledgement as you slid beneath the window, to the dusty storage room concrete.
You pretended as if you didn't hear Kenny ask for you.
Token stammered, "Craig's not here today, actually. He's, uh, sick."
The blonde sounded concerned, not skeptical, "For real?"
"Yeah, he has a real bad case of mono."
Kenny's fingers rapped against his cheek, a chuckle left his lips, "What a bummer."
"So what's really going on?"
"My sister needs a new pair of shoes."
The blonde nodded toward her, the blushing seventh grader donned in a plaid skirt and a long, pretty brunette braid- Kenny's handiwork. She seemed so different from your sister, who smeared lipstick and eyeliner on every morning and came home with the prominent stench of boys. Karen probably didn't do things to boys behind dumpsters and in shrouded alleys; Kenny probably made sure of that.
Token tried to whisper, "You'd prefer clearance, right?"
"Right."
You busied yourself with the organization of the storage room until Kenny and his sister had left, at least. Token helped Kenny buy Karen shoes with his own employee discount, which was technically against employee guidelines but whatever; no one really cared except the manager, but that guy was a prick just for the hell of it.
Token didn't ask you what was wrong then, why you hid from the least threatening boy in South Park. But when he bagged your plethora of newly bought sweatpants at the end of day, he looked at you with an omniscient expression that had worried you.
…
You tried to leave Token out of the steaming mess of your infatuation, but then you heard that he had Kenny's home phone number through the grapevine. You heard that girls from all different classes were hounding him for it, how Kenny was such a lucky guy for being born with such attractive and alluring genes.
Token came over your house for simple tomfoolery- and you really weren't planning to- but you ended up soliciting him for Kenny's phone number on a whim, for some reason you couldn't really enunciate. He gave it to you, but he did inquire why you wanted to talk to Kenny; you just skirted around his question and told him it was urgent. Truthfully, you had missed Kenny's voice hovering near you, his body in your arms' reach, the fleeting option to touch him- even though you knew you never would.
Token dialed Kenny's number for you himself on the phone in your kitchen, because you had asked him to. He had no qualms with your request- but he did look at you funny. He handed you the phone and you took it quite apprehensively, fingers fiddling with the cord. Token went back to eating a bowl of unsweetened Cheerios. The phone rang for a full six seconds before someone picked up-
"Hello…?"
-and, of course, it was Kenny. That was what you wanted, what you fucking expected.
But your heart seized; all that nervous energy compressed within you. You couldn't find the nerve to breathe. Kenny hadn't talked to you, just you in weeks. You hadn't seen him and when you did, you ran away. Sudden, beautiful thoughts emerge from the stern of your mind; you contemplated about the meager possibilities phone sex, all the hushed and dirty things you would say to him, the dirtier things he would say to you.
"If I could be with you right now, I would fuck-"
"…Anyone there?"
…
"…But if it was his own husky voice cracking on the other end, I just breathed."
…
You had slammed the phone back down on the receiver vehemently. You stumbled back against the dining room table. The cacophony of your distress caught Token's attention.
"Holy fuck, Craig-"
Token noticed how crimson your cheeks were, how your chest expanded and deflated unnaturally, how you were seemingly dying. He pushed you back toward the living room, onto the sofa. Your hands had gripped the cushions like handlebars, like they could save your life.
Token assisted you with your breathing when you had suddenly reached the verge of hyperventilating- in through your nose, out through your mouth. You had refused the brown paper bag; that was too much for you. You'd rather suffocate. Your fingers had partially wound up in your hair, but some were creasing your chullo. You bit your lip so hard you drew blood. You had tried to focus on the solid color of the carpet, you had tried to calm yourself.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-"
"Craig-"
"Fuck him!"
Token kneeled in front of you, right in your line of vision; concern marred his expression, twisted his lips.
"What's going on, man? What is this?"
You didn't know how to explain exactly.
Yes, infatuation churned inside you, but the countless butterflies that have simmered in your belly haunted your memories, burned your thin stomach lining. You considered your first name and Kenny's last, every lewd dream he was featured in, all the poems you wrote, your fragile heart thumping within the confines of your chest, palpitating as if it would shatter and burst at any moment. The thoughts that involved Kenny were consequently beautiful; you could feel yourself swelling with loveliness, the muscle pumping blood behind your sternum bracing detonation-
It was too much to elucidate, maybe.
Your right hand was still veiling your lips when you spoke. Your words are muffled and indefinite; tremors rattled your tone, but you knew what saying- and that was enough.
"I like him, I think."
(The first verbal affirmation of your love)
A sentiment inside of you lurched; bile ached at your esophagus, inundated your mouth, and blossomed your flushed cheeks. You tried to push past Token and make it the bathroom, your clammy palm holding the rest of your truth in, clenching together what felt like your whole existence- but you falter in the hallway, and the entire universe spilled out of you and onto the carpet.
"Craig…"
You gape at your vomit, because it's undeniably yellow; it's swamped with peas and broccoli from your mother's casserole leftovers. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, but you ended up heaving again. More jaundice splattered on the floor, but it didn't really look like what was holding you together for so long- this wasn't what it had felt like.
Your knees buckled; you were about to fall forward into your own spew, but Token caught you by the collar of your jacket.
"Are you okay?"
You felt mushy and empty, a husk of what you once were. The tone of your voice contradicted your words, "I'm fine."
Token was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes centered on your puke festering on the carpet. He muttered, "Pretty sick, man."
"I know."
Your voice was still pathetic and small. You felt like Token might've been talking about more than the mustard yellow barf pooled on the floor; he might've been calling you sick, which would've been rather feasible considering your behavior over the past few months. Token's composed gaze flickered over to the white fingerprints lingering on your scarlet expression, your twitching lips, your glassy Aegean irises shimmering with unbidden tears.
"You're not gonna cry, are you?"
A strangled, distraught whimper escaped you; Token almost flinched. You seeped to the floor, next to your golden universe reeking beside to you.
Token sat across from you, quietly observing your vain attempts to restore your façade. His listless expression suddenly became blurry; your lids flurried to blink away the tears. Your eyelashes felt thick and wet, and pain throbbed in your throat somewhere near your Adam's apple. You coughed up another sob.
"I mean, that's okay if you do," Token murmured beneath one of your broken wails. "I've just never seen you cry before."
Your façade snapped under all that arduous pressure. The surfeit of tears that streamed down your smoldering cheeks were oddly serene- you didn't bawl or lash out; your palms sweltered in your lap as you sobbed quietly, like you were always taught to, like you had always resisted.
Something other than vomit left your body, something heavier and more burdensome, some reminder that all these warm tears, uncommon emotions, and beautiful fucking thoughts flooding you, choking you, redefining your very existence were all Kenny's fault. You never had any culpability; you never had any hand in this romance.
You never willingly fell in love.
…
Uh… yeah? Please tell me what you think. There's a part two to the prologue and it might be just as long…
The chapters for this story will contain snippets from poems I like. This is from 'Following Todd' by Rachel Mehl.