He is everything in my dreams

I'm sick of hearing that phrase every day without qualms.

My parents always force to make me into the perfect image of a boy who is out-standing, gentle, and considers the only thing that matters is the happiness of others. It is typical to think that you should care about those who, according to the rules of modern society, love you the most. But does owning the same blood connection make an effective connection between people? I want to know if I am the only one who is wrong.

I don't feel that warmth in my chest that I'm supposed to feel.

Do you have something you want to do?

I look at the crumpled papers balled up in the corner of the room next to my piano. I bite down hard on my lower lip, not caring about the fact that it's parched from the summer and might crack.

Is it really there?

I won't lie; I miss it. The reason my piano is taking dust twenty-four hours a day since one hundred and eighty-two sunsets ago is ever present in my soul. That memory clings to my memory with no intention of letting go and setting it free. The only thing that persists is this emptiness that causes my discomfort.

I enter my respiratory system with the scent of the icy air and loneliness in one breath before the feeling of being watched takes haste to invade me after so long. Something similar to an old shadow eager to wreak havoc on a quiet day. Then I exhale. It is not in my plans to think about the reasons why that happened but to make the unheard effort to forget and ignore it. It's the least of it, it's only a matter of time before it reveals itself. Should I worry about that feeling? No. Whatever happens, it will be something I will experience on my own.

"You only think of yourself, Eron."

Even in my quiet solitude, I can hear the annoying Milan Montjoy's voice. People label him my "brother" as we are children of the same parents, or actually, one of them, but we are not. Thus, we are intertwined.

For me, the title of a friend has a higher power than that of a blood brother. The former you can pick and choose and discard whenever you wish, but the stupid blood connection never, much less so when living in an environment where the human tide insists that if you have no affection or appreciation for your blood mate, you are subnormal. It's the fault of the ever-present DNA in our system.

Fuck biology and chemistry! Pair of perverse wretches. If deoxyribonucleic acid ties me to a person, they can get lost in that opinion wherever they please. In the bathroom of the most corrupt politician if you like.

I move my pupils toward the ceiling, then to the clock strategically left on top of the nightstand. With a sigh, I let go of my already battered lower lip and stood up.

"Darkness, and bleak moments don't last forever...."

I try to tell myself to convince myself, even though I'm just another line among the papers scattered under the bed.

I come across another crumpled but legible piece of paper in the visual tour. I can read the question: Why am I the only one being hurt?

But what a role. Now, the memory plays like a movie in my memory.

"Is this yours, Eron?" Milan asked that time as he looked at the paper. His gaze emitted a pride that was so strange to me. What was so special about it? Do I sing for you so you can teach me this song on the piano?

"Do you want to make my ears bleed?"

"I'd love to hear your voice, my friend. I'm just afraid to ruin your harmony with me.” Yes, those words better suited my desires, but I shut him up and curved my lips into a cynical smile instead.

"Hey, Eron! I don't say this to just anyone, but you'd be perfect in the role of Dimple, the boy wonder."

I snatched the paper from his hands and searched for nice words to say, but it came out, "It's just a draft. It doesn't matter now. How can you be so heavy-handed?"

"Someday, when it's ready. Wait for me." That request came to my mind when I was already out of context for the conversation.

I laugh feebly at that other attempt at a promise that was never fulfilled.

At last, I leave the lonely space that is the owner of my childhood fantasies to go out into a more desolate—coma-, space-, and cruel space: the world.

South Dakota is the closest thing to a freezer in cold weather; it's easy to deduce without being a genius. I miss the mist coming out of my mouth from the cold of the winter season because this summer heat is suffocating and keeps me sweaty, but if I think about it, I prefer it to freezing.

Before boarding the bus, I put my mouth cover on and walked quickly to one of the free seats at the back.

Seconds, minutes... Anyway, time goes on forever in a bus full of rowdy girls, other noisy boys, not to mention disrespectful students. So many screaming voices together are unbearable. All of it, really, along with the weather, is making me lose my temper just as eight o'clock in the morning is getting underway.

I tense up when a girl sits in the booth next to mine. I close my eyes and catch her intentions to initiate a conversation. To clarify the message, I lean the side of my head against the window. Mistake. The hot glass burns the uncovered area of my face. Damn! I also turn with the intention of getting comfort, and at once, I take the opportunity to teach her that public transportation is not a place to tease or flirt. My back receiving her gaze will give her an understanding of that.

I'm not being rude; I don't even know her. It's a valuable and free lesson given by the very talented Eron Montjoy.

Ah, my charitable action of the day.

"Montjoy Eron, March ninth, nineteen ninety-three, South Dakota," the strange girl murmurs. I don't miss the annoying sound of her fingernails tapping the seat.

Nosy and annoying girl, August 18, 2016, South Dakota.

"Tattletale and stalker," I growl.

Well, you do stand out in the public. That's what Milan says. I huddle better against the window.

"Hey, Eron Montjoy!"

"So loud..." I muttered.

"Is it true about Faven Hope?"

Inevitably, my muscles proceed to tense.

"I don't think someone so resplendent would have been able to...."

"Not all that glitters is gold," I interrupt, sitting up. Now, I do look at the busybody. Just get lost.

"They didn't find any traces, nor anything concrete enough to incriminate him," she continues, oblivious to my desire to never hear her.

"I regret to inform you that it did happen. Were you his stalker, too? You're doing a bad job. Go bother the daycare you came from; I want to sleep."

"Ah, Eron, I'm just looking to confirm something for which there is no proof," she winks. I shudder that he does, in the negative sense.

"I doubt they'll publish those kinds of photos in the media," I turn my back on her again. "Be quiet, please. You irritate me."

"You, being close to his family, didn't you see them?" She questions again as if it were nothing. The photos after the fact, I mean.