#mutt malvern

Flashbacks while dying are a cliche. I prefer to think of it reminiscing. After all, who doesn’t want to think about seventeen years of bs while I’m hurtling towards the sea on the back of a bloodthirsty horse. 

Stupid horses. Stupid races. Stupid island. If I hadn’t been so hellbent on kicking Kendrick’s pretty face off his pretty horse, I’d be long gone. 

Also my dad. He wants me to run the estate, or whatever. Not that I care about horse breeding. I just want danger. The thrill of that one step closer to death. 

Now I’m a bit closer than a step. 

I don’t want to think about Kendrick, but once his name flashes across my brain it’s like it’s all I know. That ugly, edge lord jacket that’s probably older than me, those muck boots from the 1700s, that hair that hasn’t been cut since the last time I cared about myself (AKA: never), that smirk that makes me want to serenade the beach... 

Um. 

Just the thought of him makes me want to drown faster, makes me love every second of the pain of the horse’s (what was its name again? I can’t be bothered to remember) teeth. His name is like a gun barrel to my head, a knife to my wrist. There’s danger and fear and that first prick of pain, but the thrill is enough to make me lean into the bullet. 

I’ve always known I’m gay. Some people take a while, but I’m a doer, not a thinker. And ever since pre-school, when I chased pretty Tommy around the playground until he let me hold his hand during snack break, my dad has tried to stop me.  But I didn’t want to change for him, for anybody. So I didn’t. 

And then I met Sean Kendrick. We became friends in second grade. In third grade, we walked each other home every day. In fourth grade, we shared everything, like swings and crayons and laughs. And in fifth grade, he held my hand during lunch time, and I didn’t even have to ask. 

My dad didn’t like it. But I did. My dad told me it was wrong, but even by then I had already figured out that whatever he said I should immediately ignore. Unless it was “son, here’s some money and freedom.” In which case, be polite enough to take it. 

Anyway, Sean and I remained in that weird, in-between phase of friendship and something more. We were too young to understand exactly what was going on, but we were kids. Who cares? 

And then his dad died. His grew distant. My father took him in, but he told me he couldn’t stay if we kept on being more-than-friends. We fought. I lost; I felt like I was always losing fights then. It was because I used words. Now, I know that punches are much more effective (although maybe not against my dad). 

Sean and I refused what he said at first. Sean would work in the stable, and I would help him, and every now and then we’d brush shoulders or hands and I’d blush like a five year old when his touch lingered. 

Things were fine- not great, but fine- until my dad started threatening again. He said he’d take Corr for good and leave Sean to the horses if we didn’t stop. I was forbidden from helping with barn work, and Sean was forbidden from the house. He had his flat, and I had my bedroom, and we were supposed to stay there. Sean tried to not care. He’d still squeeze my hand when he walked by, and one time he even dared to brush his lips across my cheekbones, more of a promise of a kiss than a real one, but I knew his heart wasn’t in it. 

Finally one day my father was at his wit’s end. He told me if I even looked at Sean for any reason other than one he approved of, Sean had to leave. My heart felt like it had been trampled in the races. Sean’s expression remained stony, his jaw set. That look of determination had always given me butterflies; it was so serious, so unlike the Sean that I knew as a child, that it made me feel special. 

I thought he would protest. I thought we would be together forever. But I was wrong. Instead he nodded and briskly strode out of the room. I was shocked. 

“It’s for the best, son,” my father said as he patted my shoulder. “Someday, you’ll find a nice girl to settle down with and forget about this whole fiasco.” 

And it was on that day that I vowed to hate Sean Kendrick. He stole my heart and kept it in the pocket of his ugly jacket for years, only to throw it to the horses like just another piece of meat when he got the job he wanted. 

I moved on. Sean wasn’t my only relationship, although I’m forever haunted by the fact that he was my first relationship, first kiss. I learned the value of secrecy, of hiding what I am to make myself more palatable. 

And now I’m here. Dragged to my death while Sean watches on with the girl he loves. It hurts, but it feels right. Right, that I am cursed forever to be forgotten by Sean Kendrick. 

And so, as I’m dragged beneath the waves, I almost smile. The gun wasn’t in Kendrick’s hand. The knife wasn’t his to wield. I was the one in control.