Broken Hearts

He is splayed out across the ground with his hands outstretched above his head. His eyes are closed and lips are open slightly. His body is twisted slightly, as if he is waiting for his wings to unfurl and his legs lay twisted in the other direction than his bodym ready for flight.
My angel.
Fallen.
Perfect and broken.
Shattered and gorgeous.
Waiting for resurrection.
A second coming.
I kneel beside him, a crown of red upon my brow as I bend to see to his needs.
He is silent before me, a tremor of blessing running through him as his own crown forms beneath his head and across the asphalt.
Around us is the clamor of voices.
Shouts.
Screams.
I drop my body on his to shield him but they are on us both, pulling, grabbing, and tearing at us.
I scream to the heavens and receive blood in response as an errant fist is sent into my face.
I collapse backwards and feel firm hands holding me.
Keeping me away from him.
They pull open his shirt, buttons arcing through the air.
They pull down his pants.
One of them smears blood from the wound on his head across his mouth as makeshift lipstick.
The world blurs and I am pushed down, face against the ground, my face covered in blood and mud and the weight of them pushes me hard onto the parking lot as the cars stand silent sentry to the assault.
He had told me not to cut through the back parkin glot and I knew he was right but it was Friday, it was Spring Break, and I wanted to be with him, away with him, our hands and bodies entwined in the darkness. Alone in our blasphemous divinity.
I turn my head so I can see, so I can see him and see him revealed, raped by their eyes and the lie of his body shown in the blinding sunlight.
His body defying his heart.
His mind.
His will.
His breasts fondled by calloused hands.
His vagina shown.
Laughter and cheers as he wakes to find himself so vulnerable.
Fully naked and prone.
Angel fallen into flame.
Christ murdered for being different.
A teenager mauled by the dogs of hate.
I feel a fist slam into the side of my head.
A kick into my side.
I collapse, crying.
There is no fight left in me.
A shout from on far and the crowd starts to disappear between and in cars and I see that the hundreds of people I thought I saw were really eight teen boys.
One of the physical education teachers lopes up to the scene of the crime and looks around and then down at us.
He spits near my head.
“Clean yourselves up. Go home. Christ…”
He spits again and shakes his head then leaves and I am alone with my love.
I crawl slowly to him and he is crying, trying to cover himself and his body is covered in red.
Be-lated Valentines forced on us.
Gifts we never asked for, like the lives we found ourselves in.
I pulled his clothes back onto him and helped him up and slowly, so slowly we got up and started towards home, towards the darkness, and towards the holy perfection we found in one another’s arms.

…c…

Author: Chris Ringler

Writer, blogger, reviewer, artist, arts and cultural events coordinator, and semi-professional weirdo. Author of a heap of books from horror to fairy tale to kid's.

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