True Existence

Title: True Existence

Author’s Note: This is very strange, so I’m warning you now. I think I even disturbed myself a little. I suppose this is me rising to the challenge of my limits once again!

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A Oneshot.

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There are three important factors pertaining to the boy I love.

1. Currently, he is dead and buried in the cemetery of my heart.
2. I was the one who killed him.
3. He never existed.

Three things; glorious next to their bullets and numbered off with the soft pads of my fingers.

His name was like any other. Charlie. His last name was an echo of everything else about him – ghostly translucent and nonexistent.

I met him when I was nine. We departed when I was seventeen. Or at least, he departed. Forever.

It was hard to believe that I, Brett Thayer, got away with my murder. It was probably due to the fact that no one thought me capable of murder in the first place. Or maybe it was because there was no evidence – how could there be when the weapon I used was my imagination?

My romantic interest in Charlie started at fifteen. I’d stare in the mirror, running my palm down the glass and caressing my reflection. Did I know at the time that Charlie wasn’t real? That the boy I loved for three years was, in fact, my very own self?

I didn’t. To me, Charlie was as real as anyone. His hair was the colour of my own: thick brown with spindly auburn highlights. Eyes like sapphires scalded me and I held that gaze preciously in the recess of my mind.

Although our appearances were identical, our personalities differed so immensely that I was often locked up in my room arguing with the voice in my head. He was gentle, calm and soothing every time I grew frustrated with the fact that no one else would know him – know one else would have the chance to love him like I did.

He would grin at me through my reflection so lovingly that I would sob.

Later on, a dozen psychiatrists told me that it was not uncommon for boys who went through stresses at a young age to have imaginary friends. But, I knew that it was strange for a seventeen year old to have his heart strings pulled ever so tenderly by his own reflection.

I, myself, would avoid the true subject the psychiatrists would want to hear for as long as possible. Yes, when I was nine my mother had given birth to a still born baby boy and yes his name was Charlie.

But what did that matter? When I stood at his grave for the first time at nine years old, feeling the presence of Charlie formulating inside of me, I would never have imagined it was because of my younger brother. Miss. Damely, my most recent psychiatrist told me it was a normal reaction. I wanted love and the only person who could give me such waves of affection was ... me.

I remember once under the starlit skies when I was sixteen, kissing Charlie for the very first time. On the exterior I was a normal boy with my hands locked behind my head and my eyes closed in the lull of sleep.

Internally, my imagination roared with images of Charlie’s sweet tongue in my mouth, exploring gingerly – softly – just like everything else about him. His fingers had threaded in my hair, so much like his own, and tugged it through his fingers. Afterwards, he gave me a feral grin as I blushed shyly, my deepest desires unfolding and being fulfilled all at the same time.

It escaladed from there on. The more my mother neglected me in favor of her wretched sorrow, the more I looked for comfort in Charlie. He would roll on top of me while we were locked up in my room, kiss my face sweetly in twenty different places and nuzzle into my chest. Sometimes he’d even kiss down my throat and leave bites on my collar, immediately relieving me of any tension.

Even though in reality, I was a sixteen-year-old boy flung in a disarray on his bed and moving his hips steadily against an invisible weight, in my mind I was being straddled by the most mischievous yet kind-hearted boy in the world.

Physically, I’m still a virgin. Bizarrely, mentally, I am not.

The forceful climaxes brought on by hands – soon I came to know it was just one pair of hands – and rubbing bodies soon grew to be too little for both Charlie and I. Though often when he came Charlie would shudder on top of me, his jean-clad waist pressing down against my own, and bite my ear in clear pleasure, we both wanted more.

He would assure me no one would catch us. His warm tongue soothed my smooth body as he promised he’d be careful.

Now that Charlie is dead, the memories of that night are escaping me. The psychiatrists must be doing their job because other than a small recollection, what I remember most of all is my own form – pale and naked in the dark – writhing alone against bed sheets in a most pathetic way yet absolutely yearning way.

What I do remember though, from the imaginative part of that night, were his lips tasting my every limb. I had moaned in my throat, reaching to clutch at his shoulders while simultaneously thinking to myself that Charlie was the most beautiful creature to ever exist.

What a vain and ironic thought process that turned out to be.

After bringing me to the brink of my orgasm, my erection pressed against his between our flat stomachs – twin images of one another – Charlie huskily whispered in my ear a phrase I will never in my new sane life forget.

“Brett...” I looked up at him, squinting in the dim light and flushed as his finger carefully prepared me for what was to come.

“Promise to always remember me.”

Before I could respond – scoff at how silly of a statement that was – he latched his lips onto mine and entered my clenching muscles. I remember rocking against him, eyes refusing to close and instead locked on his lithe figure as he thrust his hips against mine. Feelings surged within me.

Extreme pleasure. He made sure that particular feeling entered every intersecting nerve of my body with his warm mouth and stroking fingers.

Longing. Even with his body and mine joined, I knew somewhere in the depths of my heart that Charlie would never truly be mine.

Love. I loved Charlie. I loved the part of myself that he resided in.

Sadness. I loved Charlie.

He thrust into me wildly and finally I came with a hoarse cry all over our twined bodies.

My psychiatrist was spared most of these lewd details. I opted instead to skip those and move right ahead to the aftermath. Our exhausted bodies tangled underneath my now-dirty sheets and his voice whispering, “Never forget me.” My own whispering, “I love you.”

Soon after that night of complete contentment, two weeks at the most, I woke up to find myself alone for the first time. Charlie’s kisses still remained on my lips, his bite marks furious on my neck, but he was no where to be found.

Miss. Damely told me that was the morning he died.

“No, he’ll come back.”

She eyed me with a curious yet mournful gaze and I knew I was wrong. “We don’t want him to come back, Brett. We want you to find a new, healthy relationship.”

It stung. It hurt so bad to admit Charlie was not real. I cried non-stop for weeks. Even now when I think of that night, of his tranquil whispers in my ears, I feel a great loathing of my mind. Why did it give me Charlie only to take him away?

But, I was indeed the one who killed him – because who else could have? Somehow, his ghostly existence – his untrue spirit – moved on and left me behind. I know that I’ll never forget him.

* * *

I stare at Miss. Damely for the first time. Her office is all white walls and yellowed photographs with curling edges. She asks me to tell her a little about myself.

I give her three important facts.

1. The boy I’m in love with is dead.
2. I was the one who killed him.
3. He never existed.


[The End]