Cross your Heart

Cross your Heart
by Shattered

Shattered: I think it's bad, I honestly do. I just wrote it today, while I sat here. It's not based on anyone I know, except for everyone. I hope you don't hate it.

Shattered: I just like the quote in the summery. It has very little to do with the story, but you should check out the band. They're great!

---Cross Your Heart---

I smiled.

I always smile when they come up to me, some overly-confident, some trying to act mature, others shy and stuttering. I accept their cards, chocolates, whatever they want. I have an entire drawer of my dresser full of cards, because I can't imagine throwing away something made with love. If I ate everything they baked or bought, I wouldn't be able to fit through the door.

But that's all expected of me. They would question me if I turned it down. I'm supposed to be the nice guy, the cute guy, the one every girl wishes would look their way. I think I know what they're all like, though, which is why I could never mean the words they say.

Every time a boy looks at them for more than two seconds, they begin to develope intricate fantasies, wishing he'd speak to them. Deep inside, they know he never will, because it was just a glance. When you're daydreaming, you can't help where your gaze lands.

I'm not really sure why I do this. I could be like every other guy in the school, and secretly make fun of them behind their backs. They'd hear eventually, and hate me for it, and they would finally leave me alone.

I'm just bad at breaking hearts. That is, hearts other than my own. I do that pretty much every day, except on weekends and when I stay home from school.

You've probally guessed by now that I'm one of those people who has had love thrown at them from every angle, but is bent on the only person they cannot have.

My name is Asher Rotaliez. I think it's a french name. I'm sure you've seen someone like me around your school. Cute, easy to talk with, never had a girlfriend in his life and was voted most likely to live with twenty+ cats after graduation. The kid who everyone is positive likes someone, but is too afraid to speak to the love of his life.

---action---

This is pathetic. I'm staring in the mirror - or glaring, rather - hoping that maybe today he'll see me. I have about twenty pounds of eyeliner on, and chains dangling from every article of clothing I chose to don today, even mini metal chunks on my self-made gloves. I have a pair of handcuffs - real ones from my moms office - cuffed to my backback and linked to my pants, just so I don't have to take gym class.

You cannot tell me he won't notice this.

But I know he won't. It's a bit of a drag, really. He said 'hi,' once, back in his freshman year, when I was a junior. When I was lying in the gutter trying to decide whether to cry or plot revenge on the people who put me there. When he showed up, the crying won, to my dismay.

He didn't linger. I didn't want him to. Funny, because now I'd give up almost anything to get him to see me.

My hair is lime green today. It's my own special mix of dyes, so I can change the color every day. You'd think it'd be a huge beacon. I mean, every other kid in my class stares, but he just keeps looking forward. He's always been doing that. Looking forward, I mean.

Maybe he's already forgotton about all those things that happened to give him those scars. He doesn't think anyone knows what's under the multible layers, behind that hair of his. It was an accident, really.

It was raining. He was going into a bookstore and I was just leaving. And he pushed the hair out of his eyes, just for a breif second, and I saw. The left side of hsi face, from about mid eye until it reached his hairline, was scarred. It looked...terrifying, really. Like someone had slashed each bit of skin over and over until they were positive it would never go away.

It twined down his neck, when he readjusted his scarf in the parking lot

It covered his chest, when he'd worn that trench coat with a very thin, light shirt. He'd buttoned it moments later.

It even coveres his foot, when there was something stuck in his shoes when he was running track.

I like to think I'm the only one who knows, but what are the chances. If I was unintentinally seeing this, just think, whoever was actually looking for a fault would spot it in an instant.

This is just like my diary. Filled with him.

My name is Sebastian Dietrich van Wolfgehen. I'm told it's german. I'm sure you'd see a kid just like me at your school. Secretive, but obviously a freak. The person who pretends they don't want to be noticed, but then they dress like that, so they obviously do. The one person who says they care for no one, but then then carve on their arm 'I want to meet the love of my life.'

---scene---

"Spit it out," she says. "Do you plan on requiting any of this? Or are you going to keep us in suspense? We know you like someone. You have to tell us who!"

I smile. "I can't tell you, Sarah. If I did, it wouldn't be my secret anymore." If I told them, then the person I love would know in an instant. News travels fast.

And then they'd know I'm gay.

That would cause utter chaos. I'd be screamed at, accused of lying, of using them. For what? I'd ask, but they wouldn't respond, they'd just keep crying.

I really want to tell him this valentines day. I wanted to tell him last year, when he still remembered who I was. It's too late, I think. And even if I wanted, he looks like the meanest person in school, and I don't think he'd argue with the reputation.

Silence ensues in homeroom, and I know he came in. I know because everyone was talking just a minute ago, and they're all stunned, if not by his decorated clothing then by his colorful mohawk. He just got transferred to our homeroom, because he got kicked out of his. A friend told me.

I want to look up, but I'm afraid he'll see right through me. I don't want to see that. Instead, I play his name over and over in my head. Sebastian Deitrich Deitrich Sebastian. I think Sebastian is German, and Deitrich is Russian. Van Wolfgehen is definetly German. I decided to switch to that languge in my classes when I'd learned his name, thinking maybe he'd be there. Turns out he took French.

I try to tell myself he did it because he knew my last name, too, and he knew it was French, but--

Why was he stopping in front of my desk?

Why is he taking out a pen from the huge backpack of his?

Why his he grabbing my hand?

Why is he writing 'I Love You' on it?

Nobody says anything, but then again, nobody can see. He just walks away and talks to the teacher, and gets seated in the back of the classroom, seemingly miles away from me.

From that first day when he cried when help came, I've always wondered just how long he'd been alone. We live on the same street, but I don't think he knows. I don't think he knows that I know he lives alone. The lights are out when he goes home, and they never go on after he leaves. I've staked it out an entire weekend; no one but him leaves that house, and he only buys enough food for half a person.

I want to get to know him, and I think I've just met my opporutnity.

---retake---

I really don't know why I was stupid enough to do this. I guess I figured I'd never get him to notice me. I mean, even when I walked into the room, he was the only person who didn't stare, who didn't even look up.

Why was I wasting my time?

I considered for a moment to start speaking in French. I'd just started the language two years ago, because I knew Rotaliez was French. Then I found out he took German, and I wanted to believe he took it because of my name.

Fat chance.

I planned this, I guess. I'd spent an hour last night searching for the right color sharpie, and I'd practiced writing it for hours until I'd used up all the ink and I'd had to go to buy a new one at the convience store down then road.

I guess it's really a stretch. I'd never spoken more than a sob to him, and he said little more than a greeting. I guess it was more like an obsession than love, but I can't help it. I want to know everything about him.

I want to know what's killing him.

I want to know who's killing him.

I want to know why.

I want to know when.

I want to know everything I can.

I don't want to speak, because I might lose my nerve.

So I wrote it on his arm. The only thing I knew I was sure of. I could of written anything. I'd even complantated an insult at the last second, just because I couldn't bear to hear him laugh at me. Or even worse, if he'd cringed. I think I would of killed myself right there and then if he had.

But he didn't. He just looked at it, and pulled his sleve down. I learned something new; the scars weren't on his arms.

But I don't care about those scars anymore. I want to know abou the even deeper scars that the scars had left behind, that the smiling face hid.

I want to know everying, and I think I've finally made my chance.

---cut---

Sebastian sat in the back of the room, and I sat in the front, heart pounding, the words burning into my arm. I want it to be there forever.

Class ends. It's only homeroom, after all, and I try to leave. I leave last, I always do. The teacher leaves first, because she has another class first period. I like to make sure I'm smiling, and out of habit, I didn't fight for the doorway.

And so he blocked my path.

"Hello," he said, arms crossed defiantly, though he didn't have a hateful look on his face. I realized that even though I'd been nearly obsessed for years now, I never heard his voice. It was great. Like it'd been speaking to shrills of madness for all these years, and I finally met someone who could speak forever and I'd never get tired, but--

"Hi," I managed. "Um...does the ink come off?" I ask, and then I decide how stupid that was. Of all the things I could of said, I had to say that! It was only because my paretns would murder me if the saw those words in male handwriting. I could see his expression, saturated with dissapointment.

"It's only sharpie," he mumbled, and then turned away. I couldn't believe it. The only person I'd ever loved, the only person who made me feel like it was okay to not be okay, and I'd asked if his admittance of love was washable.

Pure genius.

I could of said something, but I'd been stunned by my own words, and he dissapeared into the sea of students.

Tommorow, I promised myself, I'd explain everything.

---pause---

I could hardly believe it. After all that, after all that torment I put myself through, Asher asked if it was eraseable.

Sure, the sharpie would disappear, but love was something that wasn't easliy disposed of.

I would try, though. I'd respect his wishes. That question was as clear as day; he didn't want him, so he'd might as well forget it. I figured i could do it. I also figured I was a good liar, if not to others, than at least to myself.

I can't believe I thought he'd feel the same. He practically had twenty girls hanging off of him. Why would he want a guy that cried the first time they met, who'd been shoved down? If I was in his place, I would of done the same. Well, maybe not. Who knew.

I wasn't sure where I was now. Some class somewhere, nothing important.

I went home.

I came back.

I opened my locker.

I was soaked with paint.

It wasn't a shock, I decided. Somebody had to have noticed what I wrote, and the pink paint and tiny little hate letter proved that. Everything was ruined. I'll go away, maybe, to a nice little place with a hideous view to remind me just how ugly the world is.

I pulled his hoodie off, and wiped up the mess. Another letter stuck to the back of his locker, but I wasn't so sure I wanted to read it.

The idiot that I am, I did.

And nearly wet myself.

'I meant to say 'me too.' '

I'm a bit afraid of what that means. I think it's his handwriting, but I wouldn't know. I think this is it. I'm going to talk to him, I'm going to ask straight forward what it was he was trying to say. I wanted an answer--

"Um, Sebastian?"

It was him.

---curtains---

"Yes?"

"I didn't mean that."

"I hoped not."

Both of them were nervous, and for good reason. Neither of them knew who started it, or what they said, but they were kissing. Neither cared who saw, nor who cared.

Sebastian wanted to know where the scars came from.

Asher wanted to know why he was alone.

One of them said 'I love you,' and then they both decided they didn't care about any of that anymore.