Inkmeister: Monologue on a Boy

I wish I hadn’t met him. I wouldn’t have ended up a spoiled selfish romantic. I wouldn’t have expected so much from boy number two or three or four or five. If I hadn’t met him, I would have been like every other gay boy. I’d find a guy who liked me; he’d buy me dinner one night, and the next would be my treat. I’d be texting him as much as he texted me. I’d care to send flowers on special days. I would have been a better boyfriend to all who followed, if I hadn’t met him.

It’s his fault. He loved me too much. He gave me every single thing I needed. I didn’t have to work on our relationship, because he always had it covered. I could bitch and nag all day and still his lap would still be there for me to fall asleep on.

It’s completely his fault that every relationship I had after him would just collapse. I never learned to care. I never learned to be hurt. I never learned how to handle rejection. I never really learned the art of give and take. I was led to believe I was so fucking special, that when he left, I expected the whole world to treat me the same way.

Why did he have to leave?

He knew I was nothing without him. He knew I couldn’t stand a single minute without hearing his voice or reading a text from him. He knew I couldn’t sleep without the sound of his breath. He knew I needed him.

But he’s gone. He’s never coming back. Not for me. Not for anyone.

The last few days were sweet. He was laying there on that hospital bed. The white light wasn’t doing his pasty complexion any favors. He had all his hair shaved off for an operation. He was fucked up. Even though that was the case, he was till the guy who asked the nurse or the maid to fetch me a cup of tea. He’d still rub my hand so I’d fall asleep. He still left me notes to cheer me up.

He was dying in a dreary old hospital, and he was still being my boyfriend. Not once was I ever his. Not even then. He didn’t let me.

I wasn’t there when it happened. I had to go home and get fresh clothes. His mother was there. She told me it happened so fast.  She told me that right before Eric’s attack, he was calling my name. Mark. Mark. Mark. He wanted me to be there. But I just wasn’t. Eric’s mom said he took her hand and told her he loved her. She said he asked her to tell everyone he has ever loved that he’s sorry for leaving. She said the last word he uttered was my name. Mark.

Fuck.

He needed me, and I wasn’t there.

Tonight is three years from his passing.

And I Don’t know what to do.

- based on a true story from a friend now based in Tennessee. Thanks for trusting me with your story.