Obsession

I clung tightly to my mother's skirt, an automatic smirk curving my lips as I surveyed the children around me whom, at the tender age of four, I had already labeled as worthless, useless Neanderthals. A kind looking man-the teacher-is busy reassuring my hysterical mother that I would be fine.

Looking back, my mom's fit was my very first impression to my entire social circle for the next fourteen years of my pathetic life. Classes don't really change in small towns. I wonder if many people, around fourth grade when it started to get clear, remembered my mother's hysteria and related it back to my... Let's use the word eccentricity.

I actually recognize one of the boys and wander over to him, away from my panicked parental unit stressing about me being taken from her like my father was. When I reach him, I can't help but notice his hair, wild, long, curly and genuinely red. It almost didn't look natural and I told him as much. "You look stupid." was the very first thing out of my mouth. He whipped around, bright green eyes flashing with anger, and I was officially introduced to Kyle's razorblade tongue for the first time.

He better not think I didn't notice his obsession with keeping his hair hidden after that, however. How I would regret that insult when I wanted nothing more than to peek at those wild locks, hidden by a ushanka that, thanks to hellish this everlasting winter, was never temperature-improper.

OoO

Obsession is not a word to use lightly.

It implies danger, madness, negativity. Obsessions absorb time, energy, and sanity relentlessly. Obsessions are addictive.

Actually, let's focus on that analogy for a moment. You trade an addiction for an addiction, yeah? You substitute obsession for obsession.

That's why I'm here. To forget him.

If only for a moment.

OoO

Do you remember those two little boys in kindergarten, first, and second who seemed to be forever fluctuating between playing nicely and rolling around on the floor, throwing childlike punches, kicking, biting and spilling forth words no little boy should know but inevitably learn from their elders?

That was Kyle and I.

We became notorious for it, our little group. Stan, faithfully standing up for his fiery best friend. Kenny, there more for comedic relief and mediation. Kyle, who loved all of us except for me. And me, Eric. The ignorant bully who was kept around for perhaps the sole reasoning that all little boys love crude humor and a good fight.

Everyone loved our fights, verbal or physical. What I enjoyed more were our unspoken games, the challenges and silent competition for grades, popularity, dominance, bragging rights, et cetera. I think our private war was mostly just about winning. About beating each other.

OoO

I finished hosing off the ground, watching the gasoline-tainted water wash down the drain, cleansing the cool concrete of the basement. Slowly, I look up at The Box sitting in the corner. The Box that needs to burn. I can't burn it, though, not yet. Not until I can forget him.

What's in the box, you ask? Things. Things, the kind of things you collect over eleven years-make that twelve, actually-of knowing your rival/friend thing. I have clothes, I have one of his stupid ushankas, I have old schoolwork, books of his, a stolen journal from seventh grade, even a used insulin needle. I know I'm fucked up, don't look at me like that.

I also have pictures. Lots and lots of candid pictures, taken discreetly with phones, through his windows, et cetera. Hey, at least I stopped breaking into his room at night.

Despairingly, I sighed, dragging an old ripped sheet tied and stuffed with debris into the middle of the room, making sure the water was still on in case something went wrong. My heart began to pound, my breath coming in pants as the silent room was filled with the smell of gasoline, sharp and strong enough to make me feel giddy as I unscrewed the cap to the container. I doused the poison over the debris liberally, feeling my breath hitch in my throat as I reached for a lighter, my favorite, the lime green one I modified last month.

I rubbed my thumb across the top, satisfied to feel the slick liquid still seeping slowly from the tiny flame thrower. Giggling anxiously, I stepped forward to crouch down near a long puddle of gasoline that I'm pretty sure would be enough to light the whole thing up.

OoO

It was fifth grade that my obsession really began.

It was almost subconscious at first. I hardly even noticed how I started to refer to him-usually mentally-as mine, as being longing to me. It didn't faze me when it occurred to me how beautiful he was when he was flushed with anger and how sometimes, especially when he was reading or sleeping in class or on the rare occasions a substitute made him take off that damned hat, I really wanted to touch him, his hair, his face.

It wasn't until seventh grade that I came to the conclusion that I wanted so very badly to own Kyle Broflovski.

OoO

Carelessly, I swiped my thumb across the switch, my heart skipping a beat in my excitement as flame exploded violently from the lighter like a miniature flame thrower, instantly sending the gasoline aflame. The pile of abandoned wood, cardboard, paper, cloth and trash burst into a bright flame that radiated heat, licking at my already hot face and making me shudder, giggling maniacally. I backed a safe distance away, watching my creation, my precious artwork fill the room with rancid smoke and firelight.

As it became hard to see I took in a large, poisonous lungful of air as a mildly sadistic smirk overtook my face. I could feel my eyes glaze over as I slumped against the wall behind me, eyes fixed on the bright flames licking at everything flammable that it could reach. I have no doubts in my mind that my love would gladly burn me up.

For some reason, that excited me.

OoO

Middle school is a harrowing time of hormones and the first taste of drama and forbidden fruit.

It's when girls develop curves and a vague knowledge if the power behind them, the time that boys learn how to be respectful in their admiration-or learn how to take a slap to the face like a man.

It was also when other people started to notice how beautiful he is.

It was mostly girls-from cheerleader types to the bookworms he studied with after school-, but there were a couple guys as well, comfortable in this new age of acceptance. Kyle didn't really notice-or if he did, he was good at pretending he didn't.

That's when the jealousy was born.

It burned hot in my chest, made me feel sick and lightheaded with anger and possessiveness. It clutched at my sanity and drove me farther into my fights with him. I made crude comments, combated him over every little thing, called him horrible things, anything to keep his attention on me and off of everyone else.

It didn't help that Butters was so starry eyed for him. He was so clingy, worse than any of the pin-up dolls fluttering their eyelashes at my Jew.

Because of how popular he was with the girls (with his dazzling smile and politely kind nature (when he wasn't fighting with me, anyway)), and probably because he's pretty effeminate, he also attracted a lot of bullies.

Seventh grade was the first time I ever beat somebody up in his defense. I don't think he ever heard about it.

Eighth grade was the first time I snuck into his room to watch him sleep and snoop about his room.

I was obsessed. It was-is-terrifying.

He hated me so much.

OoO

I forgot about him at first, but after what could've been mere moments or dragging hours, I caught myself thinking that the fire reminded me of his personality, so passionate and destructive yet so hauntingly beautiful.

'That's counterproductive,' I scolded myself mentally, brain quite foggy, almost as foggy as the air around me. Hot-boxing a gasoline fire, in retrospect, was not a good idea. I almost felt high, high enough that I thought it a brilliant idea to throw my bag of weed into the flame to add to the hypnotic aura of the room. I didn't notice a difference, but I could hardly breath, leave alone think. Using all my energy, I forcefully pushed all thoughts of him from my mind and focused on the oddly distant flames growing and roaring and destroying whatever their fiery fingers could clutch at. Hazily, I tossed my box of matches in to help the flames, before realizing belatedly that the gesture was pointless.

My anger, my hate, my frustration melted, the wax emotion melting as I flew too close to the sun, so self assured that I was blinded by my fantasm invincibility.

But he had no place in my mind and for that I was grateful.

It didn't take long for the limited air to cut off enough oxygen to my brain that I passed out, slumped like a broken toy against the wall.

OoO

Today, we had a fight. Like every other day. I can't even remember what it was about. But it kept escalating and escalating until I snapped and screamed, "You filthy no-good son of bitch kike!"

He was having a bad day. I already knew that. I know everything about him, after all, and I should've known he couldn't handle being pushed when he's upset.

But the last thing I expected was for him to burst into tears in the middle of a crowded school hallway, surrounded by awed students who count watching us fight as a hobby.

"Why the fuck are we fighting?" he gasped out between sobs, unashamed of the tears pouring from his pretty green eyes. I stumbled back, startled, completely without an answer. He clenched his eyes shut and fisted his hands tightly, screaming, "Why, Eric? What did I do to deserve your hate? Tell me! I... I can f-fix it!"

He's always loved to fix things.

I ran out of the school, thoughts tumbling over themselves. I needed fire. I needed to forget.

OoO

When I woke, I was miserable. The room was cold and I felt numb in the darkness left over from the lack of fire. Charred debris and ash covered the 'fire pit'. My throat felt like it was on fire and my lungs protested every gasping breath of poisonous, sooty air. Worst of all, though, worst of all is that the first thing I was conscious of thinking about were his pretty green eyes.

I wondered if either of my dangerous obsessions would kill me if I asked nicely.

In the end, that passive thought was my downfall.

OoO

Hiya y'all. I'm at Duke Young Writer's and I wrote this for Multi-Genre writing. I think it scared Ms. Kiser a little. I MIGHT be inclined to continue it. Might. Reviews are encouraging, of course...

Henry, Ash-If you're reading this I am going to kill you.

QUESTION! How many readers are-or were, I guess-DYWC campers?

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