Fever Dreams

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Chapter 2: Damaged

~Ethan~
The excitement of the first week of school came and went, and true to his statement, Silas did “see me around.” I came to find, however, that the two of us sort of just blended into different crowds.
I noticed this as my eyes bore into his back in fifth hour Sculpture. From the other side of the room. As I expected, he blended more into the “creative spirit” group, whereas I stayed on my side of the line in the “having no soul and merely being nothing more than pretty” group. Or “preps,” as I’ve heard some call them.
In fact, I suspected that he basically forgot he’d met me in the first place. Go figure.
So here I am, just staring at him in this class and our AP Psychology class. It almost surprised me to see him there; he must’ve been pretty damn smart to have ended up in this class.
The funny thing about this newfound homoerotic infatuation is that it basically rips me apart. Not only is he the object of my daydreams, but recently he’s begun to creep into my dreams. All night I get images of his ice-cube texture blue eyes staring into my fucking soul, and man, it really bothers me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t really have a soul to look into? But then, what the fuck is he looking at? Right, he’s looking into my eyes.
I keep having this recurring dream that I’m made of ceramic. And I’m cracking. It’s not like I fell off the shelf or anything. I’m just crumbling. But then Silas appears on the shelf a few inches (I figure it’s inches since we’re two ceramic figurines sitting on a wooden shelf) away from me. Oddly, he’s like a fucking female ballerina standing en pointe. He’s just standing there motionless like that and he’s just…flawless. Flawless is the only word that fits. I guess I’m a bit jealous because I’m falling apart. I go to him; maybe I’m intending to hurt him and make him a little more like me but who the hell knows. As I draw near, however, he steps off of his base and meets me halfway. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks into my eyes and appears to feel sorry for me or something. Then, he just hugs me. And suddenly, I’m all fixed. All the cracks and holes are gone. I feel whole.
And that’s about when I wake up and start wondering what the hell that could mean. Also, why the hell am I having dreams about a random guy that I said exactly forty-two words to like a month ago?
Why can I remember the amount of words I said to Silas and not to do my fucking physics homework?

~Silas~
We were well into the first month of school at this point, and Ethan had made no move to befriend me. Just as well, he seemed to swing with the popular crowd. As if he had time for me.
Still, when I glance over my shoulder to peer across the art room, I oftentimes notice him burning holes into my back with those gorgeous green eyes. Maybe he didn’t forget about me after all.
In Psychology, I found myself staring at him as much as he seemed to catch himself doing the same. What the hell did I do? Why is he staring? I mean, I’m staring if for no other reason than to catch him. Like I’d be interested in him. Tch, the notion.
I mean, he obviously spends way too much time plucking his fucking eyebrows for one thing. He’s obviously a narcissist. Anyone who spends that much time in front of a mirror has to be. I don’t pluck my eyebrows but I can imagine it takes forever. He probably just sits there like “hey sexy I’m so damn fine.” He probably does poses or some shit. He definitely speaks as if he’s all high and mighty.
And damnit, he’s always talking back to the Psychology teacher when he makes a mistake. He’s obviously too smart for his own good. And seriously rude to boot.
Did I mention his nose is at a weird angle? It’s kind of like a fucking trapezoid the more I think about it. It’s weird looking.
But still, I have to admit he has some nice features. He has a nice frame, for one thing. Like, he’s tall and slim, but I can see a bit of muscle tone under his shirt. I wonder if he plays any sports.
He has a nice shaped face. And the cutest little mole on his cheek. I like his smile, even if it is pretty self-assured. And, for one thing, predatory. Whenever I see him smile, it’s like he’s planning to eat whatever the hell he’s smiling at.
It always comes back to those eyes, though. Those amazing, translucent green eyes the color of fresh spring grass. I love and hate those eyes. I hate them because they take me back to springtime back home, and it makes me homesick. And when the sunlight hits them, it’s hitting a dew drop on a blade of aforementioned spring grass.
Long-story-short, they’re fucking gorgeous.
Wait, why the hell am I complimenting him? I’m not even into him! Damnit, Silas, keep it in your pants.
Anyway, his eyes remind me of an early memory of my dad. It was a long time ago in late April, a little before his death. We were sitting on the hill behind our house in the grass. Grass, see? Like the color of Ethan’s eyes? Yeah, you get it.
My dad never liked to outright explain his cancer to people. Especially not me, because I was five-years-old, I think. Still, I remember this day as the day he told me he was dying. I didn’t realize he meant dying at that age though. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized.
“Silas, I need to tell you something.”
I flicked away the dandelion I’d been playing with, and crawled to his side. “What is it, Daddy?”
He leaned forward and offered his finger to a butterfly on a nearby flower. He lifted it up and placed it on my nose. I giggled as I felt it crawl around, and suppressed a sneeze as not to startle it.
“See that butterfly?”
I rolled my eyes. “Well how can I not?”
“That butterfly is going to fly far away and probably not come back here. He’s going to a magical place in the sky where all the best butterflies go.”
“Really? Good for him!”
“Daddy’s going there soon too.”
I blinked, and the butterfly flew away. “You’re leaving?”
“God sent me a letter that says I need to go to that special place to keep the butterflies company.”
“Wow… You must be really special, Daddy.”
“I am. I won’t be able to come back, but I’ll watch over you and your mother. I’ll watch you grow up and do great things. I love you, my little munchkin.”
I hugged him. “I love you too, Daddy.”

That day, he hugged me as if he’d never see me again.
After that, he spent a week in the hospital. I was too young to realize he was dying. Too young to understand that he was sick. He died of leukemia on the day before my mom’s birthday.
I didn’t cry at the funeral, though. My mom says that when people asked me why I wasn’t crying, I said I wasn’t sad because Dad was with the butterflies. I said he was special because God asked him to watch them.
I was nine-years-old when I finally realized that my dad was, indeed, dead. Crazy, right? I went that long without realizing it. I guess it was better that I didn’t know.
I hate Ethan’s eyes.


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