A Lonely Valentine

“And the clouds moved closer, looking so dissatisfied,
And the ground below grew colder as they put you down inside;
But the heartless wind kept blowing, blowing…
So now you’re gone and I was wrong,
I never knew what it was like to be alone on a Valentines day.”



Closed eyes will never erase the image perpetually etched into her mind; twisted face, open mouth, brains splattered all over the wall… but most of all the blood. It was everywhere, the dresser, the wall, the body, the gun, the floor, the bed; his bed, her bed.
He was sitting down when he did it, he’d obviously slid after the shot considering the huge smear above what use to be his skull. Pieces of tissue and hair were embedded in the wall, along with a now flattened and gore covered bullet. It was so fucking cliché, all of it, from the picture beside him to the tourniquet still tied around his massive arm; she got rid of the needle, no need for the police to find her fingerprints on a dirty, heroin caked syringe. Fucking junkies...

Her friends always told her not to fuck with drugs, not to hang around him, he was to weird to scary to be even possibly somehow have a connection to the outside world. He was a fresh twenty year old bachelor when she’d met him, she was fourteen year old kid attending a private school -let the rumors run amuck. Long dreds, ink black skin, white teeth, and the body of a professional wrestler/bounty hunter, but kind eyes. Light eyes, like her own, not exactly dark enough to be considered brown but not light enough for hazel, an odd warm mixture of honey hues. His hugs were unforgettable, incredibly gentle for his giant girth, tender kisses to each cheek, and friendly ruffles of hair. His personality didn’t ever quite add up to the gloomy exterior of either him or his music. She met him the day after Valentines.


She’d always been to friendly to strangers, always making a point to pick out the weirdest, most quiet person in a crowd and just talk; they always talked back, loner or not. She met him on the side of the road walking back from her aunt’s house; he was just sitting there in his car, doing nothing but occasionally changing the station on the radio. He was one of the guys her mom always told her not to make eye contact with, completely covered in baggy black clothes and chains. She loved it.

From that day on they hung out nearly everyday, at first just watching movies, wandering around the neighborhood. Then came the drugs, and the drinks, and the music; but she adored every fucking second, finally someone who didn’t treat her like a baby, finally a grownup that respected who she was. It didn’t take long for an unbreakable bond to form, they fought each others battles, they listened, they never judged; they understood each other. As the years past and she matured, the friendship only grew stronger; she’d never acted her age, she’d never looked her age, she loved him with everything she was, and he was in love with a long and buried corpse.

Oh how twisted the covetousness for this dead bitch, the envy in her eyes and the clench of her fist whenever he brought it up. Katie Lily fucking Crocksfeel, some stuck up bitch from South Carolina, nothing but a rich girl looking for a ride on the dangerous side. Her daddy’s money kept the drugs flowing, you see that’s how he got hooked on them, and you see that’s how his life got so fucked up. It was all about sex, sex, sex, drugs and the band; whatever, typical futility. The girl got pregnant, but didn’t stop the drugs. She miscarried- killed herself on overdose. He never forgave himself, as if he could have changed that girls mind.

Slow movements, steady breathing; these are the things she’ll turn to. Cold turkey, no needles, no drugs, no drink- blood, so much fucking blood. Heel down on the picture frame; break the glass that holds that fucking face. And yeah, she cried. She cried like a little punk, but not at the sight of his body laying there, cus’ you see that wasn’t him anymore, oh no, that wasn’t him. It was the fight the night before, the one where she, the now fifteen year old child confessed her “love” for that man; it ended in her slammed the door in his face, spitting one last insult just to win the fight.

“No wonder she fucking killed herself if this is the shit you put her threw.
I don’t know why I fucking tried, I FUCKING HATE YOU RENE.”

He’d been inconsolably depressed for weeks; it had gotten to her nerves. He didn’t tell her why, which infuriated her even more since he told her everything; it was two days before Valentines. He didn’t answer her phone calls, and when she came over he didn’t want to let her in; he was fucked up, bottles everywhere, a basket full of brand new needles, and four tiny packets of tiny clear, snow white crystals on the counter. Four, a total of 200 and up dollars.

”Ree, what’s going on?”
“Mind ya’ business Sammi.”

Blunt tone, thick slurred voice. His eyes were red, flaky dried lines making his cheeks and chin ashy; wrinkled clothes, nappy hair. She touched his face… it’s when he pulled away that she knew. He only got this upset over one person, over one thing. He was seated on the couch now, fumbling with a thin piece of cloth, trying to keep shaking hands steady enough to tie it into a tight not. He must have been about to shoot up when she knocked, everything was measured and ready; he tapped the needle, took a breath, then jabbed the tip into his vein, digging, stabbing. She’d never witnessed that kind of ferocity in him before.

“Ree…”

The argument started at 5:45 PM, at 7:30 it moved from the living room to the kitchen; broken bottles, raised voices. Her hands moved frantically as her voice escalated to a near shriek:

“I. FUCKING. LOVE.YOU. I’m here now, she’s not!”
“Samantha, you’re fifteen. You’re like my fucking little sister!”
“Then why do you kiss me? Hold my hand? What are you afraid of!?”
“The fucking law for Christ sakes, I mean shit you want me to get arrested?”
“Uh, aren’t you the one that told me love is love? What happened to you’re open mind?”
“Look, this isn’t a good time, okay? Just go home…”
“Why, so you can take all the ‘junk’ and wallow in your self pity? Whatever, fuck this.”
“Sam’, just calm down, please. I’m sorry…”
“No, honestly, rotting flesh and bones are more important then the people
who fucking care about you now; ya know Ree’ sometimes you gotta’ just forget and take what’s in front of you.” She went to far; his eyes narrowed, he shook his head.
“Don’t act like you even begin to understand, you’re nothing but
a spoiled little brat who doesn’t know shit. Fuck you doll’, get the fuck out.”
“Fine, that’s what you want?”

She wasn’t yelling anymore. She was out the door. She was walking away. He was calling her name, front screen slamming, thunder of nearby traffic; so sick of this, so sick of him, trying to make him just understand, hand shaking, crying. Her mouth opens; everything goes white.

We’ll flash forward to the day she found him, I guess it’s only appropriate to let finish the beginning. She hadn’t spoken to him in almost a day, he hadn’t called and she hadn’t slept; it only took her five minutes to walk over there, took her thirty to break in. The entire house was quiet, no music, no TV- his bedroom door was cracked. It was eerily familiar, like some scene from one of his many horror movies; where’s the ominous music, the fog, the perfectly timed rain? Her hand brushed against the poster covered door, pushed gently. Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Eyes closed, lungs stopped breathing. Guess he got what he always wanted; he was with the bitch now. She died that day, the final pieces of her sanity slipped away and all the hope and innocence she had left vanished. The girl playing adult finally did grow up, all in a matter of seconds- the blood made a heart shaped splatter, the place where the white void should have been smeared by drying blood. How fucking cliché, right?