willswench
Cadet
“Push me, pull me, open your arms to me, but do not distrust me, for I shall astonish you at ever turn, my darling.”
He lay silently, watching the moonlight bouncing from the walls from the skylight in the roof of the loft. It was almost midnight, and he could see the tiny teardrops of snow as they scattered about the slanted window, the white rays bouncing from them, making them look like little diamonds falling from the sky.
It was cold, that night. So cold that he had to pull the blankets up under his chin to save himself from the biting Winter chill that filled the room and iced up the window frames outside. Soft blue fabric brushed his cheeks, and he snuggled deeply into it, cocooning himself in its protective warmth.
He had no dusky body to cling to this cold, Christmas evening.
The young man, Joshua Nicholson, was quite happy to be alone. Or so he’d have you believe. He was quite happy to lie there, silently, counting the stars and the snowdrops as they fell from his sky, making wishes that would never come true on every one that tumbled onto his window-pane. He’d learned to be cynical, over the past couple of years, and to realise that his glass was always half empty. He’d learned to appreciate the smaller things in live, such as the December snow, and the beauty of a clear sky, because his life wasn’t as full as it used to be.
It wasn’t the same…but he was happy, just as well. Or, at least, that’s what he’d convinced himself.
Joshua Nicholson lives alone. He liked the emptiness of his loft, the sparse decorations he had pitted around the place, and the fact that there was no semblance of himself inside; nothing to confuse him, nothing to drag him down. He preferred the simple life, the easy life, because it was safe and comfortable, and there was nothing there to confuse him, again.
He got confused, sometimes, but that was only to be expected.
He lives a quiet life, not fully aware of how reserved he’s become. He couldn’t say that he missed the closeness he had once shared with other human beings, or the happiness he had felt at a warm hug, or a tender smile aimed his way. He couldn’t say he missed those things, because if he allowed himself to admit them, he’d be lost again. He’d only just found himself, only just settled here in this loft, and he doesn’t think he could handle starting over again.
He likes his loft, because his loft is his life, despite the fact that is cold and dark and empty, devoid of a personality. Devoid of a soul. He doesn’t like to think of himself as soulless, because he wants to like the way things are….
He thinks that, perhaps, this Christmas will be different. He bought himself a tree, which he decorated…alone…that evening before he got into bed. It’s winking at him, now, with its tiny white lights flashing ever so delicately in the corner. He thinks it gives his life a little meaning, having something to look at on Christmas Day, rather than just an empty space and the bottom of a bottle of Jack. He thinks that he’ll cope better this year, because his wounds have healed, and his scars are fading, and he’s not feeling quite so detached any more.
He smiles, because he knows he’s getting better, and he’s proud of himself, even if nobody else can be.
He closes his tired, blue eyes and listens closely, because he swears that if he’s quiet enough, he can hear his mother wrapping presents, and his father laughing heartily at the re-runs of Family Ties that always seem to be on at Christmas Time. He swears he can hear his sister on the telephone to her latest fling, telling him that perhaps he’ll have to come pick her up, because she’s too drunk and damaged to walk.
He wonders if they’ll put flowers on his grave this year.
He swears he can hear choirs singing, and laughs out loud when he realises that the sound isn’t coming from his fractured imagination, but from the Church on the corner, where people who still had faith in something were receiving their blessings from God himself.
He hums, gently, along with the carols, because he thinks that, somewhere beneath his vast layers, Joshua Nicholson has some faith, also.
There are a few cards scattered around his place, stuck up on the wall with blu-tac, all to Shy Josh from the HR Department. One of them was from a girl. Ellie. He thinks she has a crush on him, but he doesn’t want to pursue her. He’s happy to be that mysterious, quiet guy from downstairs who doesn’t quite talk to anybody and shakes like a leaf when somebody surprises him. He laughs at how weak he is, but it’s only to be expected. He thinks that Ellie wants to “save” him, but he’s not at liberty to be saved, this time.
He’d like to think that, one day, he will save himself. He hopes that this is true.
The silver and white card is his favourite, he thinks. The one with the elegant angel on the front of it. The handwriting is exquisite, and he likes his fingers to glide over the letters, tracing each and every one of them as if he were touching the Holy Grail.
He likes the words that are written inside.
“Don’t stray too far.”
Some people might think this message cryptic, but Joshua knows exactly what it means.
He has a gift beneath his tree, beautifully wrapped in silver and gold, with shiny ribbons that glisten as the light hits them, like the snowdrops that he holds so dear, now. He wants to call his best friend up, tell her that he wrapped it himself, because she was always so down on him for his lack of effort at Christmas time. He wants to call her up to tell her, but he can’t, because she’s dead.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.
The gift is addressed to Joshua…and it comes from Will. A gift from himself, because the person he used to be owes himself at least that much.
He’s smiling so hard, now, that he doesn’t even realise that the tears are falling, and if he knew, he’d think that maybe the tears would freeze over, just like his heart has. He hides his sobs in the blankets, but he doesn’t know why, because there is nobody there to hear them.
He doesn’t hear the key as it turns in the lock, because his own tears are louder than thunder. He doesn’t hear the footsteps, because he’s not quite listening to anything, any more. He doesn’t even pull away as the body crawls in beside him, pulling him into its arms, whispering soft words into his ears.
“Shh, now”, it says. Gently. Softly. “Don’t cry.”
The voice is familiar, but it’s from a lifetime before. A lifetime that is now spent and desolate, and buried in a coffin thousands of miles away.
“Don’t leave me alone again”, he pleads, his shaky voice both heartbroken and euphoric at once.
Soft, tanned arms encircle his waist, and cupid-bow lips that he cannot see but feel gently kiss the back of his neck. It feels both hot and cold. Both hard and soft. It feels like everything all at once, and he is overwhelmed.
“I told you I’d come back, Joshua.”
“It’s been so long. So long…”
“I sent you a card”, he says. “See? You have it there on your window frame.”
Joshua’s voice hitches a little, a tiny tickle in his throat, threatening to silence him. He’s sick of the silence, now. He’s sick of the lies that he’s been living. He’s sick of the lonely Christmas-Times, with nothing but a prayer to keep him alive, to know that he’s still loved.
“Sark…”, he whispers, before throwing himself into kisses he thought he would never receive again.
He lay silently, watching the moonlight bouncing from the walls from the skylight in the roof of the loft. It was almost midnight, and he could see the tiny teardrops of snow as they scattered about the slanted window, the white rays bouncing from them, making them look like little diamonds falling from the sky.
It was cold, that night. So cold that he had to pull the blankets up under his chin to save himself from the biting Winter chill that filled the room and iced up the window frames outside. Soft blue fabric brushed his cheeks, and he snuggled deeply into it, cocooning himself in its protective warmth.
He had no dusky body to cling to this cold, Christmas evening.
The young man, Joshua Nicholson, was quite happy to be alone. Or so he’d have you believe. He was quite happy to lie there, silently, counting the stars and the snowdrops as they fell from his sky, making wishes that would never come true on every one that tumbled onto his window-pane. He’d learned to be cynical, over the past couple of years, and to realise that his glass was always half empty. He’d learned to appreciate the smaller things in live, such as the December snow, and the beauty of a clear sky, because his life wasn’t as full as it used to be.
It wasn’t the same…but he was happy, just as well. Or, at least, that’s what he’d convinced himself.
Joshua Nicholson lives alone. He liked the emptiness of his loft, the sparse decorations he had pitted around the place, and the fact that there was no semblance of himself inside; nothing to confuse him, nothing to drag him down. He preferred the simple life, the easy life, because it was safe and comfortable, and there was nothing there to confuse him, again.
He got confused, sometimes, but that was only to be expected.
He lives a quiet life, not fully aware of how reserved he’s become. He couldn’t say that he missed the closeness he had once shared with other human beings, or the happiness he had felt at a warm hug, or a tender smile aimed his way. He couldn’t say he missed those things, because if he allowed himself to admit them, he’d be lost again. He’d only just found himself, only just settled here in this loft, and he doesn’t think he could handle starting over again.
He likes his loft, because his loft is his life, despite the fact that is cold and dark and empty, devoid of a personality. Devoid of a soul. He doesn’t like to think of himself as soulless, because he wants to like the way things are….
He thinks that, perhaps, this Christmas will be different. He bought himself a tree, which he decorated…alone…that evening before he got into bed. It’s winking at him, now, with its tiny white lights flashing ever so delicately in the corner. He thinks it gives his life a little meaning, having something to look at on Christmas Day, rather than just an empty space and the bottom of a bottle of Jack. He thinks that he’ll cope better this year, because his wounds have healed, and his scars are fading, and he’s not feeling quite so detached any more.
He smiles, because he knows he’s getting better, and he’s proud of himself, even if nobody else can be.
He closes his tired, blue eyes and listens closely, because he swears that if he’s quiet enough, he can hear his mother wrapping presents, and his father laughing heartily at the re-runs of Family Ties that always seem to be on at Christmas Time. He swears he can hear his sister on the telephone to her latest fling, telling him that perhaps he’ll have to come pick her up, because she’s too drunk and damaged to walk.
He wonders if they’ll put flowers on his grave this year.
He swears he can hear choirs singing, and laughs out loud when he realises that the sound isn’t coming from his fractured imagination, but from the Church on the corner, where people who still had faith in something were receiving their blessings from God himself.
He hums, gently, along with the carols, because he thinks that, somewhere beneath his vast layers, Joshua Nicholson has some faith, also.
There are a few cards scattered around his place, stuck up on the wall with blu-tac, all to Shy Josh from the HR Department. One of them was from a girl. Ellie. He thinks she has a crush on him, but he doesn’t want to pursue her. He’s happy to be that mysterious, quiet guy from downstairs who doesn’t quite talk to anybody and shakes like a leaf when somebody surprises him. He laughs at how weak he is, but it’s only to be expected. He thinks that Ellie wants to “save” him, but he’s not at liberty to be saved, this time.
He’d like to think that, one day, he will save himself. He hopes that this is true.
The silver and white card is his favourite, he thinks. The one with the elegant angel on the front of it. The handwriting is exquisite, and he likes his fingers to glide over the letters, tracing each and every one of them as if he were touching the Holy Grail.
He likes the words that are written inside.
“Don’t stray too far.”
Some people might think this message cryptic, but Joshua knows exactly what it means.
He has a gift beneath his tree, beautifully wrapped in silver and gold, with shiny ribbons that glisten as the light hits them, like the snowdrops that he holds so dear, now. He wants to call his best friend up, tell her that he wrapped it himself, because she was always so down on him for his lack of effort at Christmas time. He wants to call her up to tell her, but he can’t, because she’s dead.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.
The gift is addressed to Joshua…and it comes from Will. A gift from himself, because the person he used to be owes himself at least that much.
He’s smiling so hard, now, that he doesn’t even realise that the tears are falling, and if he knew, he’d think that maybe the tears would freeze over, just like his heart has. He hides his sobs in the blankets, but he doesn’t know why, because there is nobody there to hear them.
He doesn’t hear the key as it turns in the lock, because his own tears are louder than thunder. He doesn’t hear the footsteps, because he’s not quite listening to anything, any more. He doesn’t even pull away as the body crawls in beside him, pulling him into its arms, whispering soft words into his ears.
“Shh, now”, it says. Gently. Softly. “Don’t cry.”
The voice is familiar, but it’s from a lifetime before. A lifetime that is now spent and desolate, and buried in a coffin thousands of miles away.
“Don’t leave me alone again”, he pleads, his shaky voice both heartbroken and euphoric at once.
Soft, tanned arms encircle his waist, and cupid-bow lips that he cannot see but feel gently kiss the back of his neck. It feels both hot and cold. Both hard and soft. It feels like everything all at once, and he is overwhelmed.
“I told you I’d come back, Joshua.”
“It’s been so long. So long…”
“I sent you a card”, he says. “See? You have it there on your window frame.”
Joshua’s voice hitches a little, a tiny tickle in his throat, threatening to silence him. He’s sick of the silence, now. He’s sick of the lies that he’s been living. He’s sick of the lonely Christmas-Times, with nothing but a prayer to keep him alive, to know that he’s still loved.
“Sark…”, he whispers, before throwing himself into kisses he thought he would never receive again.
