Quote For The Day 8-1-2015

In any story, the villain is the catalyst. The hero’s not a person who will bend the rules or show the cracks in his armor. He’s one-dimensional intentionally, but the villain is the person who owns up to what he is and stands by it.

JSW Prompt 6/9/2015 – Response

prompt

It lay there silent, even with the promise of speech written in black sharpie. I don’t know how long it had lain there. Two years at least. That was how long he’d been dead. Two years.

How had I missed it for two years? How had he known? And did I really want to know? Now?

He died on a Wednesday. Windy Wednesday. I remember the cold surrounding everything, reaching in between the folds of my coat as I hurried towards work in the morning. He still lay in bed, asleep, as I leaned down to kiss his flushed cheek. Blonde tousled hair, strong jaw, lids closed over crystal blue eyes.

 When we first met, he was conceited and arrogant and vain. I loved him. Too handsome and he knew it. Talented. He sang like an angel. Rock and Roll God. He was drunk, probably high. I found out later that he never used drugs. Hardly ever drank. What I had seen that night was just the sheer joy of his being.

I hated that and I hated him.

I loved him.

In the end, hate won out.  He lied, pretending to be what he was not.

Now, the silver disc stared up at me like a plea.  Listen to me, it seemed to say, hear me!

He’d loved me with a passion both deep and strong. Wanted me. Needed me. Gave me whatever I wanted except the one thing I had to buy for myself.

The silver disc stared up at me like an accusation.

There had never been a suicide note. Nothing was left except the broken body after he jumped. All the talent and those looks, the betrayal, gone. Crushed.

Did I want to hear his voice again? His song, for it was almost certainly a song. Did I want anything of his that I did not already have? Hearing him would not make up for his lies.

I know he had been drugged that morning. I don’t know if he woke as he was stumbled to the balcony. I don’t know if he woke as he was shoved to the rail. Did he know, that moment before? Was there a single moment of clarity when he saw death?

What did he know on the long way down?

Picking up the silver disc, I broke it between my hands, shock of his knowledge vibrating across my flesh as it shattered, mirrored splinters scattered across the bare wood floor.