BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 45

FRIDAY
14.12.1990
ISAIAH

               My fingers are on the brink of being ripped out of their joints. I wring them incessantly as I pace; tug, twist, bend. The lamps on either side of the school gates illuminate semi-circles onto the gravel which I pace, never daring more than one step into the dark.

The sky is dim and though I know clouds block the stars, I can't stifle the fear they've died.

I can't see the stop, but I heard the evening bus when it came and went at least fifty paces ago. My thighs and toes are numb despite the fact I haven't stood still for longer than a second. Why don't I own a watch? I have no idea how much time has passed since I left.

She could hurt him. She could be hurting him right now. It was in complete earnest that Dorian said they would kill him yesterday. I shouldn't have left him with her! Why did I leave him—?

Shuffled footsteps.

My head snaps up. Recognising his gait before I make out his features, I run to him, run into the dark.

I tackle Dorian into a hug. He doesn't hug me back and only stands shivering in my arms. I don't need to ask to know it's not from the cold.

Clutching to my composure, I cup his face. The lamps of the gate are too far behind me and the school too far ahead to provide any light, even as it glows with four Chanukah candles lit on the menorahs behind every window. My sight struggles to adjust and all I see are the whites of his eyes, glistening in the dark. There are no abysses where his pupils are: he's not looking at me.

'What did she do to you?' With numb and skittish fingers, my attempts at caressing his temples end up raking his flesh. 'Whatever she said, it's not true. It's not true. I love you, Dorian — I know you better than any of them. It's not true.'

Dorian refuses to look at me no matter how much I implore. As my eyes adjust, the flat line of his lips materializes.

'They're sending me to America.'

The words hit the ground without detonating. There's no explosion, no shock wave, no ringing... just stillness.

'What?'

'They want me to go to yeshiva in New York — state, not city.' His voice is often toneless, but it has never been hollow. 'They already booked the flights.'

His eyes finally meet mine. The galaxy of his dark irises is as empty of stars as the one above us. But unlike the sky, there are no clouds, no curtain that can be pulled back to reveal the milky way: they're lifeless, unreflective.

My hands fall off him.

'I'm leaving tomorrow.'

'What? Wait. What? No.'

I step back from him as if my thoughts will flow better with some distance. They reel fast enough to make me motion sick, which in turn makes it impossible to catch more than a glimpse of anything other than the pestilent: This can't be happening! This can't be happening! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!

'Fuck your parents. You can come stay with me— Well, you can't, but... we'll find somewhere. You can sell some of your shit. Lower's hella cheap, we'll get a place to stay until Oxford. There's a motel; we can live there for a few weeks to start. Or we can leave, run away like we always said. Forget Oxford, forget all of this. Let's just go.' My arms, which have been frantically waving around, drop to my sides. 'They can't make you move to fucking America.'

Dorian shrugs, not with the familiar twitch of the neck but with his shoulders. 'Maybe it's not a bad idea. Julliard is the world's highest ranking school for music...'