"Oh Lord... I... I still can't believe it! Mase, you're about to make the worst mistake of your life! The worst, I tell you! My God... Malcolm, please try to talk him out of it. Don't just stand there like a mummy watching your son's life go up in smoke! Damn it!"
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"How can you be so... passive, when your son is about to waste all his youth on a marriage to...that young man?"
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My ears were ringing atrociously from this stress, this inexplicable stress that felt like it was slicing into strips any residue of self-confidence I'd once sported in the course of my twenty-three years of life. However, at this stage of my life _ I quickly glance down at my clammy hands and the perspiration dripping from under my suit _ I'm not sure whether the cause of this stress is the man who's been impatient for the last few minutes, standing at the altar in his black suit and pants that hugged his ass so tightly and showed off his gym-sculpted body, to whom I was soon to unite the rest of my existence; or my mother's jerky squeaks as she tried to stop me.
My mother is far from being a homophobic bigot, no, really far from it. In fact, she was the first person I came out to. Well, it's not as if I really had a choice. Firstly, because I was an only child and spent most of my teenage years wallowing in the whispers and criticisms of the walls of my bedroom, which acted as inveterate spectators at every one of my masturbation sessions; secondly, my mother had already cornered me. One day, by some unfortunate deity, she had infiltrated the secrecy of my den (my bedroom, I mean) and for some reason had decided to browse my Internet history. How can I say that it was the most cliché, and sordid, way for a parent to discover their child's homosexuality than to find adult sites in their internet history? Though in my defense, I was only 16, had no friends _only the gold webs and mute parakeets that standardized my eminent social status in my bedroom_ and as I've said before, I spent my adolescence trapped in my bedroom, literally. My mother, a victim of her own anxiety, had some pretty out-there theories with each of her psychotic attacks about how I could be killed because I was rich, therefore she had the loathsome mercy to homeschool me. As a result, deleting my web browser history was clearly not a priority for me. WHATEVER! I got a salty reprimand _ because at sixteen I'd rather learn about history, geography and math than fucking positions_ she said (not very catholic coming from a respectable mother); a pinch on the cheeks (because somehow she still thinks I play with toys in diapers and that the only words I know how to whisper are daddy and mommy), and a long embrace incensed with a look of suave despair: "I love you son, and no matter what you decide to do with your life, I'll always love you and support you ". Thirdly, my father, well, to avoid having to deal with the crazy woman to whom he's given the wedding ring, my mother, hands over all his decisions to her.
My mother is far from being a homophobic bigot, no, really far from it. But she had a hard time accepting that I was no longer a child, and that I was about to get married to the man of my life. She was convinced that the handsome man triumphing in the corner of the room over the myriad of guests was just an opportunist, taking advantage of my naiveté. I don't hold this against my mother though. I've spent eighteen years of my life obeying her decisions, without knowing the world outside my room so I understand why she finds it hard to let go of this bond and realize that I'm capable of making my own life's moves as the adult I'm becoming. But today is my day! I've been dreaming about it for two years, exactly this, in the whitish outfit that devours the fronds of my quivering body, metamorphosing every day to the rhythm of my age. I've wanted this day, I've hoped for it, and I wasn't going to let anyone stand in the way of my wedding, especially not my mother's unpredictable mood swings and emotional outbursts.
"Dad, let's go!"
I grab my father's arm with a firm grip as he finally walks me down the aisle, after furtively beckoning the orchestra, annoyed at the delay of the event, to start the first symphonies to enchant the beginning of my wedding. My father, delighted to see me defying my mother's fury, flashes me a wry smile and firms my arm in his paternal grip. And now I'm moving... I'm moving with discreet, confident steps towards him. In my free hand, which hasn't been stolen by my father's grip as tradition dictates, I have the flowers. They are not just any flowers, but the ones he offered me on the evening of our first date. I had kept them, or had initially planned to return them to him, burnt and delivered to the outdated garden of his house if he ever cheated. But as fate would have it, I'm holding them in my hands, and I can see him, my man, wiping the tears from his eyes. I slump in my happiness, confident that in a few minutes, I'll call him mine and he'll declare me his. His smile is so beautiful, his lips to be worshipped, and the scenery behind him affirming his masculinity... This white filled with red... This white filled with reds... His smile, it disappears. His feet wobble against the wind as if they were melting. Why are they all screaming? Victory who hid behind me, Victory? Wait, where am I? Where the hell am I? The screams drum more aggressively on my ears... It's all dark and my flowers are gone. They've been exchanged for the blood clinging to my hands. And then I lower my gaze to the ground...
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"Mason... Mase... Mase?... Mason!"
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My eyes open abruptly, greeted by the warmth of the dark.
It was just another nightmare to remind me that... that... Ryan is dead.
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