Beautiful Boy(18)

But I never got through it.

I lived with my punishment every day.

My father had taken the prints I'd developed of her, and the film. He'd  destroyed them all-except one. I'd hidden just one image, needing  something to get me through until I could make my way back to her. I  only needed that one photograph of her face to remind me of the virtue I  saw in her. The same virtue I'd detected even before I took those  snapshots. It'd been the very last picture I'd taken of her.

You couldn't see me in the shot, because I stood beyond the frame, but  her gaze was locked with mine, on me, moments after her release. The  flash had caused her eyes to glisten, but the light had been soft and  kind to her face, eliciting a glow from her flushed cheeks. Her lips  were parted, and the corners of her mouth revealed the excitement I knew  she'd felt-mirroring the eagerness in me.

I'd muted the colors, developing it as a black and white photo, and even  with the lack of color, her magnificence radiated from the glossy  paper. I'd kept it hidden for years, and had taken it with me everywhere  until it was creased and worn.

Even on the days I spent defending this country, it was always right next to me. Just like I'd wished she was.

I pulled the old picture from my nightstand, sat on the edge of my bed,  and ran my finger lightly over the image. The memory of her from then  and the woman she'd turned into were very different, yet still very much  the same. Her outer appearance had changed dramatically over the years,  but her heart, her soul, her eyes were those of the girl from my  dreams.

The girl from my kitchen table.

Turmoil twisted in my gut as my desires warred with my anger. Desire for  Novah to make me feel like the boy who'd fallen for the unnoticed girl.  Anger for the boy who'd fallen for her, only to grow up and become a  crippled man.

Crippled by everything.

By life.

Love.

I grabbed my phone. My thumb hovered over her name for long minutes, but  I was unable to follow through with placing the call. I knew my words  would be unkind, and after everything she'd shown me tonight, I  consciously knew she didn't deserve it. I'd given her enough hateful  words-words I knew deep down she didn't deserve. Before giving up and  putting my cell away, I typed out a message and hit send.

Me: You didn't have to clean up my mess.

I sat completely still, barely breathing, and stared at the screen,  willing it to light up with a reply. I didn't care what she had to  say-she could've responded by telling me to go to hell and I would've  been happy. As long as it was something. I only needed to know she cared  enough to send something back.

After a few minutes of nothing in return, I set my phone down and put  her photo back in the drawer, hiding it from my view … even though I  didn't have to see it to know it was there.

A sense of loss overwhelmed me, suffocated me like a soaking-wet  comforter weighing me down. I leaned forward, hunched over, as my limbs  grew heavy and my thoughts darkened with incredible hopelessness. Her  silence proved to me what I'd always thought of myself: I wasn't worth  it.         

     



 

The memory of her in the hallway outside the principal's office-the day  our families had met to discuss the situation I'd put her in-seconded  that theory. The way she had refused to look at me screamed how  worthless I was.

The emails I'd received from her after I'd reached out fueled the fire  inside. They gave way to the resentment I'd harbored for so long. At  some point along the way, bitterness overshadowed the longing that  thoughts of her used to provide me with. But instead of empowering me  like I'd hoped they would, they only served to highlight how empty I  was. How hollow I'd become.

The first time she came to my office, armed with the portraits she'd  taken of my friends, I thought I'd be vindicated. I honestly believed  she'd provide me with the evidence of her true feelings. I'd looked her  up, carefully went through her online portfolio, and had expected her to  come back with demeaning pictures of my friends. I thought she'd cover  Jennifer with makeup, hide her scars-not highlight them and make them  the focus of the frame. I expected her to clean Andrew up, not showcase  the demons living inside his head. Instead of cropping out Mike's  amputated legs, or Jacob's missing arm, she'd used them to exhibit  strength and power. But rather than compassion, she had glared at me  with distain. Once again, proving to me how completely insignificant I  was.

It was what made me beg her to take my picture. I desperately wanted to  see how she would view me. How she'd see my disfigurement through the  lens of her obvious hatred. But I never got that chance, because when  she came back, I couldn't keep my thoughts to myself. I'd opened my  mouth and brought back our past, the words not coming out right. I  hadn't meant to place the blame on her like I'm sure she took it. It was  meant to express my astonishment over her strength and strong will. But  I had failed. And in the end, she left. Worthlessness snaked around me,  choked me, and prevented me from going after her.

Following a day of being lost in my thoughts, lost in the world I'd  trapped myself in, I couldn't fight the demons any longer and I went to  her. Desperation drove me, hopelessness provoked me, and determination  blinded me. I found her at her computer in her studio, and watched her  for a moment. I'd said something, but I couldn't for the life of me  recall what.

Even though it'd only been a few hours since I last stood in front of  her, stripping my clothes for her to see the hideousness hidden beneath,  I couldn't remember what all I'd said. The only thing that had stuck  with me from those few moments in her office were her words: "You're so  fucking beautiful."

What a lie. A lie born from pity and sympathy. Maybe she was compelled  to say it after I'd proven her assumption of me wrong. She thought I'd  sent her my friends because I found something wrong with them, and  seeing my body dismissed her claim. But whatever the reason behind the  sentiment, I'd foolishly invited her over, knowing it wouldn't go well.

I was deplorable and undeserving of her attention. And I'd proven it by  my actions, by my rage and reckless disposition. Her silence-after I'd  walked away from her on the terrace and her lack of response to my  text-verified how I'd lost my chance.

After being allotted so many opportunities with her, I knew I wouldn't be given another.

But then my phone vibrated next to me.

Novah: You don't deserve to live in a mess, surrounded by what you THINK lives inside you.

I read and reread her message several times, trying to formulate a  response. But it wouldn't come. I wanted to thank her, but at the same  time, I wanted to tell her it wasn't her place to assume anything about  me. I wanted to go after her, but I knew I didn't have the right. I  wanted her to come back to me, but if she did, I'd only ruin it again.

And while I contemplated what to say, another message came through, erasing all previous thoughts from my mind.

Novah: I know you don't believe me, and you don't have to. The eyes are  the windows to the soul, and I see yours. Until you can see it, it's  pointless to argue about my beliefs. I meant what I said … I'm here for  you when you're ready. No matter how long it takes.

I became faced with two options: let her go, or allow her in. If I did  the latter, I could chance ruining her. By allowing her the opportunity  to find the person she sought inside, I could end up revealing the  ugliness trapped within, and she might not ever be the same again.

However, if I chose to let her go, I'd lose any possibility of ever  making it out of this dark hole in one piece. She held the ability to  become my salvation, but I could very well be her demise.         

     



 

I made my decision and typed out my reply, sending it before I could change my mind.

Me: I want you to show me what I can't see, but I can't do it this way. I  need you to start by showing me the goodness on the outside first. Meet  me tomorrow after work?

Her response was immediate.

Novah: Text me the time and place. I'll be there.

Relief flooded me, making it easier to breathe. The weight on my chest  caused by her departure immediately evaporated, setting my mind at ease  for the first time since I'd left her office earlier. Except this time,  the reprieve wasn't tethered to the encumbrance of doom.

I knew exactly where I wanted to meet her, and it wouldn't be directly  tied to me. It wouldn't hold the ability to strip me bare in front of  her, revealing the raw pain which had turned my blood into molten lava,  burning me from the inside out. It was a place found to be disgusting by  most individuals, and an exact representation of the man I'd become. If  she could show me the splendor amongst the filth, then I'd allow her  the chance to prove me wrong about myself.

And I prayed she'd be able to get the chance.

I sent her a text letting her know I'd give her directions the next day.  I didn't want her to have the opportunity to research it beforehand.  And then I took my shower before bed.