#weird insane teenage rage would never allow anyone else to talk about me like he does but it was good for us

[justalittlelitnerd]

Angry God by L.J. Shen

Man this book was a wild ride from start to finish. I knew from Pretty Reckless and Broken Knight that Vaughn had issues that were borderline sociopathic (all of the main characters in the previous books comment on his weird habits and lack of emotions) but nothing prepared me for his almost psychotic behavior. 

The book starts with the history of Vaughn and Lenora’s relationship which began on a family trip where he killed jellyfish and they bonded over a brownie. It then continued to them both attending a summer art program at Lenora’s father’s academy in London when they were preteens and Lenora witnesses Vaughn in a compromising position. A 13-year-old Vaughn breaks into Lenora’s room, darkly threatening her if she breathes a word of what she saw. 

Five years later, they haven’t seen each other since that night, Lenora’s mom has died, her father and sister have moved to the US to they very place where Vaughn attends high school, and prior to her senior year they convince her to join them. Neither of them are the same, both darker and damaged by their teenage years. Lenora swears she won’t let Vaughn rattle her even as he makes it his mission to make her life a living hell. Between stalking her, breaking into her house, making her stitch him up when he’s been low-key (I say low-key because it wasn’t fully intentional) stabbed, drawing the wrath of all the mean girls to her, and a million other things that are absolutely insane they keep getting drawn together by a sort of unhealthy possessiveness & obsession.

This book was by far my least favorite of the three and that was in part to the lack of a clear trigger warning. I knew based on the previous books that the family dynamics would be complex and the characters would have an unexpected darkness to them. But nothing prepared me for the violence, the public sex acts (though it was mentioned in the previous novels), the BLOOD PLAY (just really not my thing), and the graphic sexual assault/molestation. I had a feeling going into this book that something happened to Vaughn when he was younger to create his issues with sex and intimacy, but I was by no means expecting it to be graphicly depicted. Talking about the psychological effects of molestation is one thing (it still needs a trigger warning, but it’s important to discuss) but actually showing the acts is completely another. As soon as I realized what was happening I skimmed the retelling because it was just too hard to read and I couldn’t imagine how someone would feel if they had similar experiences. 

So basically approach this book with caution.     

Keep reading for my favorite quotes from this crazy novel.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis. Art is long, life is short. The message was clear: the only way to immortality was through art. Mediocrity was profanity. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and we were leashed upon each other, hungry, desperate, and blindly idealistic.

We had the talent, the status, the money, and the opportunity. But if we were silver, Vaughn Spencer was gold. If we were good, he was brilliant. And when we shone? He gleamed with the force of a thousand suns, charring everything around him. It was like God had carved him differently, paid extra attention to detail while creating him. His cheekbones were sharper than scalpel blades, his eyes the palest shade of blue in nature, his hair the inkiest black. He was so white I could see the veins under his skin,  but his mouth was red as fresh blood—warm, alive, and deceiving.

Lenora didn’t strike me as a party girl. She had the strange gene, the one that made her stick out like a sore thumb wherever she went, even without the Maleficent wardrobe. I could tell because I had it, too. We were weeds, rising from the concrete, ruining the generic landscape of this yacht club town.

Watching her react to me was like feeling the first rays of sun after a long winter.

“Y’all gonna slow-dance to a Billy Joel song? If so, don’t forget to leave room for Jesus. And Moses. And Muhammad. And also Post Malone, because hey, he’s kind of a religion now, too.”

My heart accelerated to a dangerous speed, fireflies bursting forth as though escaping a Mason jar. Kissing him was like standing on the edge of a cliff. Nice view, but you knew it was deadly. Still, a stupid, irrational, dangerously alive part of you still wanted to hurl yourself down to meet your own demise. I felt his lips on more than just my lips. I felt them in my fingertips, all the way down to my toes. I felt them when my skin broke into goosebumps.

Heartbreak was a mystical, double-edged sword from where I was standing. And I had no desire to experience the full range of emotions in a car crash of feelings. Not ever going there.

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll still catch you,” he said. “I will always catch you, the fucking dumbass that I am.” “What do you mean?” “You soften me.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to fucking kill you! You’re too fun to fuck with. Now Get. The. Hell. Down.”

There was nothing more beautiful than watching Vaughn Spencer let go.

I said nothing, not really in the mood to correct her and tell her I hadn’t asked whether she believed in ghosts or not because I knew the answer already. It was what made her presence bearable. When we were in a room together, all our ghosts were waiting on the other side of the door. I could hear them.

Strong words, but time, I found, had two opposite effects. Either it made the pain dull and evaporated the anger or it allowed you to stew in your fury, multiplying your rage.

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a bit unhinged.” He said “a bit” for the sake of civility. Truth was, you couldn’t be a bit unhinged, just like you couldn’t be “a bit” dead. Being crazy demanded commitment, which I certainly showed.

He came to her room every night. Not that I was keeping tabs or anything. I was just in the neighborhood when it happened. And by in “the neighborhood,” I mean in her hallway, lurking. And by “in her hallway, lurking,” I mean clearly I needed professional help, an intervention, and a fucking life. I found myself standing behind a Louise Bourgeois statue for hours daily, waiting like some kind of a rabid Belieber.

I pushed the door open, hoping to find her working or reading or converting to a religion where she could only have sex with people named Vaughn Spencer.

I knew Vaughn was incapable of falling in love, but I wanted to steal pieces of him. His time. His talent. His words. His smiles. And yes, his virginity, too. I was a thief of everything Vaughn Spencer. 

“I am hell bound, and you are heaven sent. You’re the first girl I ever looked at and thought…I want to kiss her. I want to own her. I wanted you to look at me the way you look at your fantasy book—with a mixture of awe, anticipation, and warmth. I gave you a brownie, hoping you’d remember me sweetly, praying the sugar rush would spin a positive feel around that vacation. I remember how you looked at me when you saw me killing jellyfish. I never wanted you to look at me like that ever again.”

At nineteen, I no longer had a beating heart. I wore a death mask everywhere I went, and I was thirsty for revenge. For his blood. There was just one, tiny problem that did not occur to me beforehand. Namely, his niece, Lenora, who’d shoved a heart back into my chest. Now that it was beating again, I didn’t know what to do.

We were an unfinished business, personal and always walking the tightrope between love and hate. But we were always something, Len. We will always be something. You might move on and marry someone else, have his children and get your happily ever after, but you will never be completely done with me. And that’s the small chunk of mirth I allow myself. That’s my half of the brownie. That’s my one, perfect summer moment in the South of France, watching the face of the girl I will love forever for the very first time. Because, Lenora Astalis, this is love. It’s always been love. Love with many masquerade masks, twisted turns, and ugly truths. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I’ll be wishing you were there...It is worthy and beautiful, just like you. I wish I were strong enough not to do what I need to do. I wish I could get the girl. Because, Len, you are her. You are that girl. My safe place. My asymmetric happiness. My Edgar Allan Poe poem. You are my Smiths, and my favorite fantasy book, my brownie, and summer vacations in lush places. There will never be anyone else like you. And that’s exactly why you deserve someone better than me. Love, Vaughn

He just hung in the pregnant air, suspended by strings of cruel hope and tragic impossibility. Heartbreak had a taste, and it exploded in my mouth every time I tried to smile.

“You saw what I wanted you to see. I think I always had this idea that you should be my savior, but naturally, the stubborn ass that I am, I didn’t understand it. Now I do. I want you to save me today, and tomorrow, and in a month, and in a year, and in a decade. Save me. Give me your best and your worst and everything in between. I’ve always watched my dad loving my mom and thought he was stuck in a state of insanity. But he wasn’t. Turns out, love really can be that fucking intense.”

[lovelivingmydreams]

Lukanetteweek day 7: Future

Day 1 music Day 2 family & Day 3 confession Day 4 Miraculous part 1 & Part 2 Day 5 Ice skating & Day 6 blush

Ten years had passed since Luka Coufaine and Marinette Dupain-Cheng had started dating. And it was five years since the last time anyone in Paris had seen Ladybug, Chat Noir or Hawkmoth. Not that there weren’t any miraculous holders around anymore. Quite the contrary. Mulmouse sighed as she looked over her beautiful city. “A beautiful night for a patrol Princess.” A voice behind her called. Mulmouse smiled and looked back. “Monarch, there you are.” The new holder of the butterfly miraculous was a blond handsome man. His costume resembled that of a musketeer. A rapier at his side, antena’s on his hat instead of a feather. His cape represented his namesake’s wings. Brown boots went up mid-calve revealing black pants, a warm orange vest appeared from beneath his black soubreveste. Instead of the Christian cross, he wore an M. M for Miraculous. His blond hair peeked from underneath his hat. The black mask framed the familiar green eyes. Though they were no longer catlike when he transformed. Mulmouse was happy to see that he hadn’t gone through with his plan to grow a mustache and a goatee to complete his look. It would be too weird. “It’s a pleasure as always to serve you,” the young man vowed as he bowed for the woman with the midnight black buns. Her costume had changed since her teen years. While the coloration had stayed the same black and grey with pink highlights she’d made some changes to the full body suit concept. She now wore black boots that reached up to her mid-thigh and ended in pink fur. Long black gloves covered most of her arm to once again end with a ring of pink fur. This all paired with grey thighs and a grey, formfitting jacket with a fur collar. What had stayed the same was the jump rope tail, the mask and the pink ribbons in her hair. “Don’t let my husband hear you say that.” She teased looking back to the city. “How is Viperion these days? I haven’t seen him since before my world tour.” “Sleep deprived. The kids are keeping us both busy. He would’ve come out but we couldn’t get a babysitter, Still when I heard you were back in town… I couldn’t wait until Monday to catch up.” Monarch sat himself next to her, smiling flattered. Even if they never ended up together as he’d once hoped they would, the former cat and ladybug wielders were closer than any of the other holders. Such was their nature. “I heard there was quite the exclusive party tomorrow. Weren’t you invited?” he knew she was of course. His little mouse had organized the whole happening after all. She giggled “I am. But I wanted some time with just the two of us without having to be hostes… How’s Plagg?” she wondered. “Happy to be on holyday. Thanks for not making me hand him over by the way, after everything.” He gently touched the empty ring on his hand. The kwami it belonged to was at home, taking a nap in between the yet to be unpacked boxes. “Of course! I couldn’t bare to part with Tikki unless I had to. And she hasn’t so much as hinted at needing to go back in the box ever. Why would I deny you Plagg?” It was meant rhetorically but still he answered. “You’re father isn’t the cause of all this.” This earned him a shove. Not even a playful one. “Don’t talk like that. You were never at fault for what he did. And when you found out you managed to get away and find me so we could take him down. Even whit all of that information dumped on you, you still did the right thing. You did your mother proud. I know it. Should I bring along Dussuu to remind you?” Monarch smirked and shook his head. “I don’t think I’d be able to handle her right now.” They fell back in silence. “Are you going to visit them?” she asked carefully. He just shrugged. “I did. A few times. Mayura’s health is almost entirely back to normal.” She saw his shoulders relax at that. “Hawkmoth couldn’t even look at me,” this made him tense back up. “Nor should he! He could’ve killed you!” They both sat in stunned silence. Neither of them had ever before put in words what had almost happened that last battle. Mulmouse sighed, scooted closer and hugged her friend. “Yeah, I know.” Paris didn’t know this, barely any of the other holders knew, but during that last epic fight Chat Noir and Ladybug had cornered Mayura and Hawkmoth. Mayura barely holding on to her transformation, Hawkmoth desperately lashing out. His sword drawn he’d charged for a stunned Ladybug. Only a last moment reflex had kept the blade from running through her stomach. Chat had pounced on the villain in blind rage. At this point he knew the girl behind the mask, he also knew that he’d lost his chance. That didn’t mean that anyone would ever get away with hurting his lady, his princess. “Are you insane! Is killing a teenager really how far you’re willing to go? She’s someone’s child! She’s someone’s best friend. She’s the love of someone’s life! How dare you try to take her away from them?” This had snapped Hawkmoth out of his desperate rage. His broche gave out and none other than Gabriel Agreste fell to his knees. Chat had snatched the broche away as the man fell apart. Realizing what he’d become by not dealing with his grief. Chat and Ladybug had handed him and Mayura, Gabriel’s assistant Nathalie, over to the police. Though Nathalie had to be rushed to a hospital. The peacock Miraculous was to be kept safe until Marinette, the new guardian of the miraculous, found a way to repair it. The butterfly was handed to Gabriel’s son, her partner. Both agreed that Ladybug and Chat Noir weren’t needed anymore, but that the world would always need heroes. And so Paris had now eighteen resident superheroes. Though most of the year they were spread all over the world due to the whims of life. Except this weekend. Monarch had calmed down and Mulmous had released her embrace though she still sat by his side. “I tried to follow your tour a bit. You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” she probed gently, trying to lean towards a more pleasant subject. “Well… Yeah, Sorry for leaving on you like that.” He looked down as he remembered how sudden he’d left a year ago. “Hey I understood why. No one here was waiting for a new butterfly hero. Which was stupid since the two of you are nothing alike… You know I would’ve stood up for you right? I already was. I mean, they’re much more positive and supportive of Monarch, of you now, but you shouldn’t have felt like you had to prove yourself literally everywhere else first.” Mulmouse shifted uncomfortable. A little mad at how much her partner had been hurting without telling her. “I know, which was all the more reason to leave. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if people treated Mulmouse with suspicion because you associated yourself with me. A bad reputation is hard to get rid of. That’s why my father always put so much effort in me having a good one. That’s what allowed me to save enough of the company he built to…” he caught himself and changed his reasoning slightly. “maintain a stable income for College and travels.”   Mulmouse nodded, unaware of his slip up. “Yeah. The company hasn’t crumbled in your absence by the way,” she informed him. He nodded, he hadn’t been worried for a second. He hadn’t counted on her giving birth to twins of all things. Still. If there was anyone who could juggle keeping a multi million company afloat, being a mother of three, a wife, a friend, a designer and a superhero, it would be his Princess. “How’s Tikki.” “Annoyed that her vacation is about to be over.” They both laughed. It was clear that the two kwami’s shared a deep love for one another, but Tikki loved giving Plagg a hard time even more. “Let’s give the city a sweep before your husband thinks I’ve kidnapped you.” Mulmouse rolled her eyes but followed.

The next day was a rush of preparations. The party was being held in one of the company’s many multipurpose rooms. Usually it was used for fashion shows or photoshoot stages. Today it was a reunion of their old class and in a deeper sense of all the heroes of Paris, plus one oblivious civilian everyone hoped would stay away.

Marinette had made a miniature version of the venue, supposedly to show the people assisting her to set everything up what she wanted where so they didn’t need to ask her every five minutes.

But she also planned to hang it up on the roof so the Kwami’s would have a little party of their own overlooking their chosens.

It had taken them most of the day, but finally everything was perfect. The theme was akuma’s. Everyone would come in outfits inspired by their akumatized selves. Had Marinette made most of these outfits herself? Yes.

Did all profits go to a charity that focused on helping people with mental health issues? Of course.

She sighed satisfied as she secured the kwami dancefloor on the roof. As a teenager she’d never risked this little balancing act. But she had gotten better about keeping her balance. She got down and picked up the box with miniature chairs and snacks for the kwami’s. Her first guests were due to arrive in an hour. Tikki and Mulou had offered to help, but this was her idea, her party, she would do this on her own. She finished setting up the kwami party and looked at her work with satisfaction. Everything was ready.

Suddenly she was grabbed and carried away. She caught a glimps of the elevator shaft and then she was in her office, sitting on her desk and entangled in a passionate kiss with her husband, or as he was right now, Viperion.

Once they let go of each other he muttered “Scales off” and captured his wife’s lips once again. This time as his civilian self. Luka Coufaine.

“Madame Coufaine, you were missed last night. And this morning you were gone before I even got out of bed,” he whispered as he made a trail of kisses down her throat. She let out a breathy laugh.

“Were my children dissatisfied without their mother there?” she wondered.

“Your children were alright, though the twins clearly prefer being fed by their mother. Your husband on the other hand can’t help but feel restless when his wife is off in the city of love with some dashing superhero.” He pulled her in a close embrace nuzzling his face against the space where her neck and shoulder met. His tone was earnest but not void of humor.

“Might I remind my husband that he is a very dashing superhero himself,” she said while stroking his shoulder length hair. The turquoise tips had remained with him even into adulthood.

His clothing style had matured but still channeled his love for rock music and his love for his wife since every single piece of clothing he wore right now was something she’d made for him. Black jeans with a turquoise snake slithering up his left leg. A black shirt with turquoise lining underneath a jeans jacket with an open snakemouth on the back.

Luka hummed against her skin. She couldn’t help but relax in his embrace.

“Let’s hope no one saw my dashing hero kidnap me here. Imagine the gossip,” she joked.

“Your people let in your husband. Viperion only appeared when I found you all alone on top of a dangerous ladder.”

She chuckled. “And of course you had to save me from any possible harm. And after that you helped yourself to your prize,” she summarized. Luka hummed in confirmation.

“Where are our little angels?” she wondered.

“Getting ready for the party. Did the babysitters RSVP?” he checked as he handed her a coathanger that held her dress for the evening.

“Yup. And they better show, I put effort in their dresses after all.” She muttered as she walked into the small bathroom. One of the perks of being the CEO’s second in command.

She got changed as quick as she could. Since she and Adrien were a) hosting and b) never akumatized they were going to attend as Hawkmoth and Mayura. She’d designed a dapper costume for Adrien and for herself a stylish dress, not that it was hard with the classy costumes she took inspiration from. If she had to give the villains one complement it would be their sense for style. Even if Hawkmoth rarely showed it when designing super villain costumes.

She put up her hair in a single stylish bun, adorned with a few small synthetic peacock feathers.

She added peacock themed hangers to her studs and put on a necklace of linked, metal feathers.

Finally a dash of blue eyeshadow and lipstick. Blue mascara and a silver tip to her lashes and she was good to go. She hadn’t put this much thought in her looks since her wedding day.

She walked out of the bathroom to find her husband changed and looking at himself a slight scowl on his face.

“Are you alright dear?” she asked. Luka turned and his mouth fell open. Once upon a time this would’ve made her a blushing, blubbering mess. She had more self-control now.

She spun around for him slowly, showing off everything her dress had to show.

“What do you think?” she asked misschieviously.

“That I can’t let you anywhere near anyone looking like that. And that we better get down or I’m going to ruin that dress.” Marinette chuckled, though she hadn’t forgotten his sour mood of a few moments ago.

“What was bothering you?” she pushed gently.

Luka sighed. “The costume just reminded me of that day…” He looked away, ashamed of his confession.

“It’s okay. We worked past that didn’t we?” Luka nodded.

“We did. Still, it’s not a memory I’m fond off.” He walked towards the window, unable to look her in the eye. Onichan. That had been his name. Lila Rosi had been his trigger. He’d visited his sister’s school to talk to her and his girlfriend before classes started. Rosi had tried to worm her way in the conversation, Luka, sensing the distress this brought Mari had tried to block her off. Juleka however had engaged with her. Mari had been called over by her friend Alya and he’d encouraged her to get out of there.

Lila had immediately started to try and appeal to him. Spouting out stories about how tight she and Ladybug were and did she mention when she met Jagged Stone? Luka had dismissed her politely keeping an eye out for Marinette, making sure she was alright. Things changed when Juleka noticed her brother’s discomfort and told Lila that she was crossing a line.

Lila dismissed her with a sickenly sweet voice. “I’m just being friendly. I get that you’re confused about how normal girls act around guys.”

This had set off a fire in Luka’s soul. He’d blown off against Lila. He would not stand for someone making his sister feel like anything other than normal.

The bell rang and Lila had given him a fake apology a hug and a warning that if he ever embarrassed her like that again his little baker girl would face the consequences.

He’d stormed off and before he even fully walked out the gate he got hit by an akuma.

Onichan was there to protect his sister and all his loved ones from those who sought to do them harm.

“Luckily you can just feel that way nowadays without worrying about a little butterfly making things worse,” he muttered. He felt a small frame press against his back as Marinette hugged him from behind.

“Everyone here tonight had their low moments. Even me and Adrien. What matters is how we learn from them and walk on towards the future. Will you come with me?”

She let go and held out her hand. He smiled.

“Always.”

I’ll probably add a little extra treat one of these days. The party should be fun to write at least.

[hayleylovesyou2]

Bobby Died.

This morning work was cancelled after what felt like a too-long-holiday with too-much-time alone … I found the article “When An Ex Dies” (http://www.nextavenue.org/no-place-grief-ex-dies/) in my FB feed, detailing the unexpected death of an ex-husband - father of her children, remarried with a teenage son - and finding her place in the grieving process. They were no longer friends, didn’t talk much, but their lives were intimately intertwined for longer than not.

Then a google search uncovered a Hello Giggles piece on the death of an ex-boyfriend, hospitalized for 28 days before dying of heart failure, and the strange space that occupies.  Once inseparable, but never married. Close with family, but that was 2 years ago. Would he have wanted her there? Was she allowed to be with his family? She had a month as he was hospitalized to wrestle these questions.

It made me think about what happens when we’re socially denied the right to our feelings. our experiences. What happens when we’re alone with our pain and not allowed to grieve.

Because more than what happens when an ex dies, I wonder.

What happens if an ex dies, and no one knows you existed. And he died quickly. 

And horribly.

I used to joke “boyfriend” was a strong word, though that’s what I call him today. It’s easier. Feels true. But in the moment before Facebook, there was no “it’s complicated” to point to. Did we date? We did go “out” once or twice. Whispering in halls after class, a subtle graze on the shoulder, little secret pinch at our mutual work. After visits at 2am, or nights he didn’t go home. We knew what the other looked like without any clothes. Mostly, we wrote. Corresponded like old-fashioned pen-pals in an emerging digital age. Livejournal, Xanga, Myspace, Deviant Art, OkCupid, AIM. He was a beautiful writer, photographer, creator. He could turn a phrase in the way that sparked my heart and ignited my brain, activating my desire to create that had waned in a dead, ill-matched-to-me place. He inspired me to write as much and as well as he did. I’d churn out content in hopes for a comment, like, response. Experiment. To impress. We’d chat for hours in our separate rooms on our separate giant desktop computers about how isolating being somewhere we didn’t feel like we belonged felt, and why we stayed, our plans to get out. His brain worked the same way my brain did. Neither of us had a southern accent. We liked the same films, music, politics. In any other city or timeline - in a healthy world - this would sound eye-rollingly mundane. But in my accidental religious college I felt trapped in, landlocked in a rural corner of a rural state that was so far from what I wanted and where I wanted to be … it felt like magic to have found him. And to have found him by accident. At the last possible second. It was a psychic, emotional, intellectual connection. Bobby meant the world to me. But we didn’t date. I wasn’t his girlfriend. His friends didn’t get it, and were kept out of the loop. No one knew what I thought I knew. That my love for Bobby was true.

But I was not the love of his life.

He had a crush on a gentle British soccer player named Jenny, who he told me about … later. His blog posts, vague odes to love … we’re not about me, as I had thought. Hoped. Wondered. But his love was also unrequited, and that didn’t stop the sleepovers. Pinches. Hours crafting kinetic poetic essays on AIM.

We met on a media-arts trip to Dallas. I had seen him, but we’d never spoken. He was classically attractive - over 6ft tall, awkward and hunchy. A recently nerdy chubby boy who had no idea what effect he could have on a girl. In Georgia … at that school … I naturally assumed the worst, about a blonde boy with big steel-blue eyes. Everyone was conservative, Baptist, liked hunting, sports, and the other things that didn’t impress my bitterly equally stereotypical 90s-gothy-art heart. But we’d moved into the aughts, and the Iraq War was underway, and I’d given up on finding anyone who made me feel anything other than invisible, impossibly lonely, terrifyingly hated. So that day in Dallas, i wagered I was ½ way to L.A. And I started driving west, away. But I got a call that some of the “yearbook kids” wanted to go with me to see Margaret Cho, a show nearby I’d found, that the “newspaper” crew had all turned down. And yeah, traffic was bad. And sure, I’d left all my clothes at the hotel. So I figured we’d go see the show, THEN I’d run away. Just in time, I picked them up. And that’s when I first met Bobby, and fell.

My CD case was filled with bizarre mixes from the expiring gasp of Napster’s bastard child, and film soundtracks. And usually Cats, just to piss people off. One previous attempt at college friendship led to a girl I was driving up the mountain to mock a really dumb song by an awful band about pinball (and the wizards who sure could play it) while I tried not to beat myself to death on the steering wheel. So I fired up a “weirder” CD* - Kill Bill soundtrack I think - to defiantly be me in front of these strangers I was sure were about to offend me. (*Obviously this is hardly a weird soundtrack, but this is Georgia, 2003.)

But Bobby knew what it was, basic though now it seems. Excited. We talked about the movie enthusiastically, the first person I got to discuss it with, the whole drive there. The rest of the car was offended by Cho - half the audience walked out when she tackled Iraq - but Bobby and I easily agreed. It didn’t matter it wasn’t funny. Nothing had been funny in over 2 years. And we both found we weren’t easy to offend, at least not with rebel trappings of sex, drugs, and political whims. We parted that night with lingering eye contact, a shy smile. A plan to see a movie the next night while everyone else watched football.

I stayed. I didn’t run away to LA.

The next night, during the final Matrix film, our pinkies teased, curious and unsure, creeping back and forth around excuses to pass popcorn and fake scares, until we finally held hands. After, in the hotel, I wanted to show him something in another room. I’d never felt that kind of clean attraction, never felt it so confidently, boldly. We talked close. Then forehead to forehead. Then lips to lips. Talking, still. Giggling. We kissed. 

Until a yearbook kid, jealous? perhaps? barged in and told Bobby they had all decided to leave for home, immediately, so pack up. I could come, too, but they wouldn’t wait. I had driven 4 other members of newspaper, so I ran to their rooms and desperately tried to convince them to leave. Or Bobby would stay, if one of them would trade. But of course not, disappointment reigned. I offered to leave my car. They called me selfish. Bobby left. I stayed.

Our time was short. 3 months, tops. We saw each other, touched each other, he took me to the homecoming dance as my first, proper date. We danced. He was an early adopter of the White Stripes, such a relief from a sea of Creed, and we’d talk, listen, dream. But for the crush I had on him, he didn’t have the same on me, despite our mental connection, and as I slowly (very slowly) let that settle in … I didn’t take it very well. I took it very not well. So not well I can’t really remember the next phase. Before you judge too harshly, a sad girl who blacked out when another flawed human didn’t turn into a prince, a savior, turning this story into a fairy tale. Please understand how dire it had been right before he appeared. Sometimes I think the universe sent him to me to keep me safe, from running away, to finish out a final semester in one piece. A little kindness, a booster seat. Bobby was always meant to be short lived.

The last night before winter break he said he was going to come over, then said he was coming with friends. I bribed older kids to buy me $50 worth of beer. Also picked up a party platter, so they’d like me, I was scared of his friends. It was a redemption, a chance to reconcile. But he didn’t come. I texted, he stopped replying. Called more times than socially acceptable. But at 2:30am the doorbell rang. Bobby had come! He cared! And I bounded to greet him … only it wasn’t him. It was a strung out stranger, raging, who started hitting me, tried to push his way in. I fought him off and locked the door, called 911 who told me it wasn’t real. Called Bobby, who finally answered and told me I was lying for attention, insane. My parents got me the next day. And I never returned to Georgia.

I started a new school in January. I knew it was necessary, but I was still in love with Bobby. We kept talking, blogging, calling. I was lonely and would photograph my new surroundings and send the pictures to him, for critiques.  We’d set concert dates that fell apart hours beforehand. I shipped him t-shirts as surprises he never admitted receiving. I visited near spring break with a box of gifts, $100 of books and tschotskes that I individually wrapped and carefully decorated with quotes from his favorite books, songs, Jack White, films. I dropped it off at his dorm, but he said he never got it. He said it was stolen, and i was an idiot for leaving it. He had told me he’d be there, so I sat outside awhile and called, waited, asked his hallmates where he was. Said I made him look like an asshole, a bad guy, and he was done dealing with me. I still believe he had the gift, maybe threw it away without opening it in a fit, but something always felt off about his recounting of events. Later I learned he had fallen in love with a girl he followed to Honduras, and was at a concert with her that day. It was all over a then secret blog, one I found after he was gone. I was at a new school and met new people. Hurt, changing, our connection faded out. In person, I never saw him again, though sometimes I’d quietly and secretly check in.

My birthday 2006, he messaged me. First time in forever. He apologized, said he often thought of me, and hoped i was well. I cautiously wished the same. He had decided to stay in town a year after graduation to stay with his friends, I was a super-senior due to the transfer and in no rush because I had essentially started all over again. He got his first job as an AD on a small feature shooting in town and was writing again. I ran my school film committee, and was wrapping up a degree with a minor in cinema. I saw a future unfold in front of me, how Bobby would return to me, where we’d reunite, as collaborators at least, in film, in Los Angeles, CA. We chatted on FB and joked about films, pop culture, cylons. Do you remember the early days of social media? When Facebook would email you when you got a wall post or comment, but it just would just say “Bobby posted on your wall!” to send you to go and check.

And in late January 2007, I received a series of these emails saying Bobby had commented on a photo, posted on my wall. But he must have deleted them, I never saw what he said. I was newly embroiled in a tumultuous, confusing relationship and didn’t reach out to ask, though it struck me more than it should. He also seemed to be in a new relationship he was pretty into, posting vague poetry and odes to love. He posted on Valentines Weekend 2007 that he was fixing something that was long overdue. To do it right, finally. It sounded confident, optimistic, resolute.

The same Valentines Weekend of 2007, I was to go to a protest in Washington D.C., but I pulled out at the last minute. I had a feeling in my chest, a dread, an inner scream too loud to ignore, but too deep to let out. So I lied and said I had a funeral to attend on Tuesday, throwing my favorite aunt under the bus. I felt weird, dark, scared. I was convinced something bad was going to happen – it was icy, maybe there was going to be a wreck? I was low on money, I said. They were mad I flaked, and left me alone, behind.

Now you could say I saw it immediately, but it took me a full 3 days to “see.”

His post had a lot of comments, maybe everyone knew what he was talking about, or it was a quote I had missed, I speculated. I talked to my co-worker (who I ALSO had had a huge crush on) about him, told him about Bobby, how I had loved him. That they were both talented. Maybe we’d all work together some day. This was Friday.

There were an unusual number of pictures on FB about Bobby. I smiled. I loved Bobby. These were great pictures. I should ask him what he wrote on my wall.

There were an unusual amount of comments about Bobby. About Bobby being a good guy. I smiled. Bobby was a great guy. Not even weird, everyone knew it. We’d had our pain, and troubles, but I loved Bobby dearly. This was Saturday.

Then in the early AM … all my friends in Washington DC … I it. I saw the “was.”  Bobby ‘was’ such a great guy.

Even then, I was like “what did Bobby do? Did he get in trouble? Is he not a good guy?”

“Bobby was a great guy, I’m shocked by the news, I don’t believe it.”

WHAT NEWS.

“Bobby was so kind, he didn’t deserve this.” Comment after comment, picture after picture, reality came into view.

Bobby had died over Valentines Weekend, 2007.

Bobby didn’t just die. He died badly.

And Bobby didn’t die in an accident, though that is what they told his aging dad.

Bobby was murdered. Brutally. 

Murdered running for his life after his girlfriend, who he was naked in bed with the morning after Valentines day, was killed at close range.

Murdered by her ex, a sad man who seemed confused he couldn’t own someone, a weak man sent by the devil to take two bright, shinning lives, when he found them in her home when he showed up unannounced. So went to his car, grabbed his good-ole-boy gun, and shot them both more times than is needed to kill someone. She was in the bedroom. Bobby made it to the front lawn. I couldn’t breathe. He was gone. His Facebook status was updated in the wee am to “Bobby is dead.” 

A memorial group was set up, in it’s haste called “Bobby: You Won’t Never Be Forgotten” and a girl from the car that night in Dallas kindly added me. No one knew what to do. So jokes were made.

And there was a funeral. It was Tuesday.

—-

He was my highest match on a dating site in the whole southeast for years. When we met, we were 84%. And the thing about the dating site was … they didn’t delete his profile. It stayed up almost 10 years. This year, 2016, was the year it finally disappeared. And this year … we matched at 99%. I know that is who I am with who he was, but still. 99%.

I live in LA now … and I think I live here for him. He would’ve been so much more successful than me, so much more easily. But I think I fight for him. I need to make something for him, because he couldn’t. I need to be something, someone. Because he never will.

And I think of Bobby everytime I hear Jack White. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes it hurts too much. I had a White Stripes song in my head just last night. I guess that’s part of what triggered this today. It’s so easy to get laughed at, getting emotional at songs from a band who are currently pretty basic and passé. Wanting to tell, but think no one cares?

What do you do when you loved someone who died, and you’re not allowed to love them?

I don’t know if Bobby wants my love, or appreciates it, or it matters to him in death. If he’d want me to keep talking about him, or pretending like I have a right to a piece of him. But based on the last time we really talked, I hope he would understand. And appreciate. And that this love … though not a reciprocated romantic love … was still valuable.

Because I will always deeply love Bobby. And in 6 weeks, he’ll have been gone 10 years.

I don’t want to be trapped by the past. Caught up in pain. This year I want to honor Bobby in a positive way … by making something for him. To honor him.

I hope I can.