𝙼𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚗

The moon shone bright, illuminating the abandoned train tracks with a pale glow. Zephyr from the west tousled his hair and an owl hooted in the background. Impatient, Myron lit a spliff and brought it to his lips. He shut his eyes and inhaled, then blew out a cloud of smoke and watched as it dissipated in the air.

In the darkest corner where the moon failed to see, the only sign of a presence was the small, incandescent flame from a cigarette being lit. Behind the flame, someone spoke in a rough voice. "You're here awfully early."

Myron shrugged, "Misery has no time." Then he squinted his eyes. "Cut it out with the theatrics, Dru and come out of the shadows, will ya?"

Dru chuckled and threw the cigarette onto the tracks, Myron watched the ember ashes flicker and die out. Dru Williams stepped forward, suddenly engulfed in the pale light. Huddled in a fading grey hoodie that read 'WM Football'(Dru did not play football nor did he favor the sport) in bold white print and skinny jeans that rode low, he folded his bulging arms and scanned Myron from head to toe. "Rough day?"

"How about a rough life."

"Wanna talk about it?" He asked with a raised brow, his eyebrow piercing glinting seductively under the moonlight.

Myron took another pull at his spliff and exhaled a ring of smoke. "What are you my fucking therapist?" He gave a bitter laugh. "I don't pay you for advice, I pay you to make me forget my problems. Not talk about them."

Dru chuckled, raising his hands in defense. "Calm down, Mi amigo." Then his face grew somber. "It's never wise to bottle up your emotions. It will consume you, and eat you up inside until one day..." His voice softened. "It will all be too much to handle."

"Why do you care?" Myron asked curiously.

He smiled a sad smile that had the moon weeping at his feet. Up close, Myron took note of his eyes for the first time.They were startling little things. His right eye was a blend of sundrops and stardust and his left eye resembled the color of rich soil. Myron believed the term was called heterochromia. How beautiful his eyes were, and how unfair.

"You know there's this spanish proverb that always stood out to me: Hay remedio para todo menos la muerte." Dru stole his spliff, ignoring his protests and wrapped his mouth around it taking a deep pull and exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

"There is a remedy for everything but death," Myron said.

"You speak spanish?" Dru extended his hand and Myron took the spliff from his fingers.

"Ah but to be a poet you must speak many languages," Myron smirked.

"I forgot you're one of those literature junkies."

And suddenly Myron was pulled back into reality and was reminded of his true self. A spoiled, opulent boy who belonged to his estate, not standing in an abandoned train track on the other side of town. He stared at Dru and saw a boy like himself yet not. Myron was a scholar; a man of intellect that breathed the words that he wrote. While Dru was written in sin; a personified turpitude. Purple bloomed across his knuckles, his sharp cheekbones decorated in a kaleidoscope of bruises. The snake shaved on the side of his head hissed dangerously at him. Dru was everything he should stay away from. Dru was the boy on the wrong side of the tracks and Myron was the rich kid with too much power for his own good.

Clearing his throat, Myron said. "What do you have for me today?"

Dru straightened himself. It was back to business. This was the reason for their visit. Not to stand idly and have deep conversations about life. "What are you looking for?" Dru shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Anything strong."

"I only got Molly on me but the stronger stuff is in the car." He handed him a small clear plastic bag of multi-colored pills.

"This will do." Myron nodded in approval, shoving the bag into his back pocket. "Thanks." He dangled a crisp hundred dollar bill in his face.

Dru chuckled and swiped the bill between his fingers. "Daddy's money I presume?"

Myron scoffed. "Why don't you mind your business and do what you do best, selling that shit."

Dru's face darkened instantly. "You think I enjoy what I do? You think I'm satisfied with selling shit that'll kill you off one day? Slowly poisoning you? No. I don't enjoy doing so but I have no other choice, and that's not an easy thing to admit. This is the only way I can scrape by and the job I have at that shitty fast food joint isn't enough to provide for my family. But you wouldn't understand that now would you?" He said, with an edge of bitterness in his voice.

"I do understand."

Dru shook his head. "No, you don't. You can only imagine my situation but you'd never understand the struggles. So go back to your mansion on the hills. You don't belong in the slumps."

Myron wanted to retort but the words died on his tongue. Despite wearing a turtleneck, the cold air nipped ferociously at his flesh but Myron failed to notice. Dru's phone pinged, interrupting the moment. He looked down at the screen, his face softening slightly. "It's mi hermana. I got to go." With that, he saluted Myron and sauntered to his car. Myron watched as he disappeared in the dark, mingling with the shadows.

──────

Myron arrived home at 2am, stumbling slightly in the dark. He was on the foot of the staircase when the light switched on and his eyes fell upon the tall looming figure belonging to his father, Erik Coldwell.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

A sardonic grin grew on his face. "I wish I could say hell but I'm already there."

It came before he knew it. A sudden pain exploded on his right cheek and a metallic taste of blood appeared in his mouth. He rubbed his cheek and cackled loudly, the harsh laugh resonating throughout the room. "That's funny. This must have brought back so many fondful memories of you and mom."

Erik grew rigid. "I have tried and tried with you and I have had enough, Myron."

He tried? Ah what a foolish word isn't it? Tried.

Many have tried and countless have succeeded. However the man standing before him stinking of whiskey and tainted lies was not amongst those who had tried. You see people try for things they care about. And Myron learnt a long time ago that Erik cared for many things but he wasn't among them. Suddenly, something within him snapped and all he saw were shades of red. He grabbed the nearest thing he could get his hands on and threw it against the wall. The porcelain vase scattered at their feet- shattered remains of their unhinged relationship.

"Sometimes I'm happy that mom isn't here anymore because if she was, then she would be stuck here with you. I just wish when she died, I could have gone along with her."

"Myron-"

He side-stepped his father and walked out the door, closing it with a loud slam.

When he pulled up to the Rothschild's residence, Cyrus was leaning against the iron wrought gates with a cigarette stuck to his rosy lips. "Took you long enough." He flicked the cigarette and stubbed it with his shoes.

Cyrus looked like Jack the Ripper with his long black trench coat billowing behind him like shadows curling at his tail and moon shine in his hair. His eyes narrowed on his splitted lips and the blood trailing down his neck. "I would go on a limb here and say that you're not alright so let's hurry inside so that I could bandage you up."

It took two minutes to drive along the path leading to his manor. The Rothschild's manor sprang from the earth. Its walls were barren of any moss or creeping vines. The windows were large, mullion, and glass-stained windows that resembled that of a cathedral. They pulled into the driveway that sweeped into a wide circle. Nestled in the center was an ivory fountain with ivy.

"Mother is sleeping so it's best if we keep quiet," Cyrus said. They hurried inside, bypassing the grand piano room and tip-toed up the spiralling staircase, and into his room on the west wing. Cyrus's room vividly portrayed his personality; oak floors and golden trinkets. Self -made grotesque paintings aligned every inch of his walls.

"I see you still have those horrid paintings hung up," Myron mused.

"Ars longa, vita brevis," Cyrus remarked.

Art is long, life is short.

His fingers traced one of his paintings, a woman with a gaping mouth, jaw split open. "I simply paint what I dream and what I dream, I paint."

"Those aren't dreams. They're nightmares."

Cyrus's mouth curved upwards. "What's the difference?"

"Fair point."

"Sit." He gestured towards the bed and entered his adjoining bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, cotton swab and ointment. Myron sat on the edge of the bed and he kneeled down before him (a comical sight) and dabbed the wet towel on his lips.

Myron appreciated the lack of questions, for Cyrus already understood. He always did. After a moment of silence, Cyrus was done. He stood up and stretched his limbs.

Myron looked at his feet. "I miss her desperately," he said quietly. "I miss waking up to her fresh baked olive bread in the mornings to falling asleep to her fingers combing through my hair. And it hurts—" His voice broke off, a sob wracking his chest. "So bad that one day she'll become a feverish dream. That all she'll be is a living ghost haunting every memory. That I'll never heal from this. You see, Cyrus." Myron looked into his eyes, tears blurring his vision. "Reality is nothing but a nightmare."

Cyrus said nothing, he didn't quote a proverb, he didn't recite Shakespeare. Instead, he pulled Myron into his arms and held him as he sobbed in his chest. "I'm not good with words of my own. I can only paint. But you, Myron is gifted. Channel what you feel through your own art: writing."

"Thank you."

He tilted Myron's chin to get a proper look at his lips. He ran a finger across his lower lip and Myron swore his face was on fire.

A look of approval washed over his face after assessing the results. He nodded and headed back to the bathroom. He walked into the room with a cigarette between his fingers saying, "You need this." Myron took it from his fingers and inhaled deeply. His insides burned slightly but he welcomed the pain. "Use your gift, Myron."

He climbed into bed, and said.  "Good night, I'm beat." Tugging onto the covers, he closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep. Myron watched him for a moment before pulling out the small leather-bound journal he always carried along in his pocket and walked to the windowsill. He flipped open the book and paged past his ink spilled pages of scribbled words and dorky drawings until he settled on a blank page and begun to jot down:

here I am with chipped wings
protruding scars, torn ligaments, a glorious strip of vermillion
oh how the mighty has fallen!
a bouquet of magnolia and amaryllis
has blossom on my mortal flesh
the blood of Adam flow within you
but the blood of the divine flow within me
the gates of heaven welcome you for
God so loved his people
that He created man in His spitting image
yet
I found myself in the deep dark crevices of your heart
because man
man is the root of all evil
oh how the mighty has fallen
indeed.

The sun began to peek curiously over the horizon, enveloping the earth with a rosy hue. Myron haven't slept that night nor had he returned home. Cyrus laid next to him and during the night, his shirt had ridden up exposing a sliver of pale skin and a trail of light hair leading past the waistband of his shorts. Myron quickly averted his eyes, his ears pinked.

He ran his fingers across the rugged pages, a satisfied smile tugged at his lips. Checking his phone, he read the time was 6 am, an hour before school. Before he could shut off his phone, he decided to send a text.

TO DRU WILLIAMS:

𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺

read 6:01 am

Almost instantly, his phone vibrated in his hand.

FROM DRU WILLIAM:

𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘳

Myron gave a huff of laughter and turned towards the window to watch the sun rise.

──────

unedited.

Author note

I guess I should apologise for that shitty excuse of a poem, but let's pretend it was the most brilliant piece you've ever read, shall we.

In other news, ya'll should listen to mars by sleeping at last. Because everytime I listen to that song I think about this book and it's just so good wow.