My Love

Why isn't he dead? He's supposed to be dead. For five fucking years, he has been gone, buried under the ground. Which usually means not living. Non-breathing. No shit to that when you are dead. But he showed up on my doorstep, speaking and looking very alive. "Good morning, princess. We need to talk. If you will let me?" And I stood silent, staring. Because I was the man who threw him in prison all those years ago. And I was the one who got him killed. I promise, I'm not psychotic. I just needed him gone. He was an evil man taken off the streets. Jules Santin. First, the love of my life, and then my nightmare. His last name sounds pretty similar to satan, right? And I didn't take that as a sign.

. . .

It all started when Jules and I went on a blind date. I had just come out as gay, and I was jittery. But as soon as I walked into the restaurant, it was clear he was feeling nervous too. The sweat stains on his light blue button-up made that evident. But before I had even noticed that, it was his beauty that had struck me. With brown eyes and a chiseled jawline that was covered by a shadow of stubble, he looked unapologetically handsome and sweet like honey. I now know that it was all an act. The nonchalance and grace were a facade meant to make me feel comfortable and loved. He used it to protect himself from the fact. Being a killer.

. . .

He was in my living room. Sitting there without a care in the world. Or that's what it looks like. There is an edge in the air, and it could just be me creating the feeling, but I don't think so. Jules looks almost as good as when I fell in love with him. I say almost becuase of who he became the night he betrayed me. And that betrayal runs deep and broke my heart. The hatred in my very being made me wish he were dead even more. But he is very much alive, sitting across from me on the uncomfortable couch I purposely sat him on. The sun was in his eyes, as if it were peering in on our conversation, watching to see if this was going to be like the last time I saw him.

. . .

Our first date went well. We talked, and we talked, and then... We talked some more. Our second date went even better. He invited me to his house to cook. And that's precisely what we did. We cooked. And also talked. He became the light that I had been missing from life, not knowingly. In a matter of weeks, we were dating, happily together. My first gay relationship was going wonderfully.

. . .

"Why the hell are you here?" That's what I wanted to ask him. How are you not dead, when I watched you get buried, when I funded the funeral? It was the least I could do for killing him. But instead, I asked about his life and if he wanted any cranberry juice. It was his favorite drink before he died. The smile that lit up his face gave me chills. It was the same smile he gave me when he loved me. Or I thought he did.

. . .

Two years. That's how long it took for me to notice the signs—the bad ones. Staying out late, cursing me out when I questioned him. There was a cycle, love bombing me and then hating me. He first said I love you on our one-year mark. We were watching a movie, The Titanic, and when Rose said, "I'm flying, Jack!" He leaned over and whispered, "That's your favorite line, right? I'm flying?" I nodded shyly and smiled. He said that he loved me because of that. Becuase my favorite scene from a movie was so beautiful. He said, "I love you, and I always will." And then I kissed him, and believed in my very being that he would love me, like Jack loved Rose.

. . .

"My darling, why are you crying? Have you been harmed?" I jumped. "Did you just zone out as you have for years?" The tone of his words made me cringe. They were almost caring. Almost. "Why are you here, Jules? Get it out now before I call the cops and send you to prison for a second time." I spit the words out like poison. It was the second time I had talked to him in years. The first was me saying, "Come in," when he showed up at my doorstep. The words made his gaze darken, and he stood up and stalked towards me. "You want to know why I am here? It is because you imprisoned me for something I didn't do." Silence stretched out between us. I stared in shock and said, "What? You killed my brother."

. . .

I found Jules burying Casper in my backyard on our three-year anniversary, not in person, but on a video. Jules was like a tornado. Wiping up everything from the ground and not letting it settle for the longest time. Our house was always wrecked from his rages, and my heart was cracked because of him, even before he betrayed me. Jules was having one of his episodes of not coming home until late, so I opened his computer to watch a movie. Why his? I still don't know. But. An email came in with a link. So, naturally, as any normal person, I snooped. I clicked it, and a video of a dead man being dragged filled the screen.

. . .

"You dumbass! I never killed Casper. He killed himself, and I was saving your family from more controversy. He was a public figure! A politician who already got backlash from you for being gay!" His face was red, and his eyes looked ready to kill someone. Hopefully not me, I thought.

. . .

I gasped, not expecting what I saw. A man I knew well, Caper Winik, my brother, was getting dragged in the mud, and he was dead. Very dead. And then I felt all the blood leave my face. It was Jules, my first and only love, dragging him through our backyard. And then the dragging stopped, and Jules was digging a hole in the soft soil. It was where a rose bush had been planted, just yesterday. "Does that mean..." My brain spiraled, and the one thought that was chanted in my head was check under the roses over and over. And so, I ran out of my house and dug, as if my life depended on it.

. . .

I looked up at Jules and held his gaze, with a strength I didn't know I had. He did kill Casper. Otherwise, all of the lengths I went to were for nothing, and the villain was me. Not him. "You could have said something to me. You could have gotten out of this." My voice was shaky, and it didn't sound believable. "No... I couldn't. Becuase of the contract I signed with your family. Casper's family. If I stayed silent, they would get me out of jail, replace me, and I could start over. And... They would give me money—lots of it. So here I am, starting over, even after everything. Even after you locked me up and proceeded to pay someone to kill me in prison, all because you thought I killed your brother."

. . .

I saw his foot first. And then the knee, and then the torso, and then the face. All I could do was stare at my brother, dead in my arms. The next thing I did was pick up the phone and dial 911. The cops showed up quickly. A dead politician is never a good thing. I showed them the video, and then we waited for my boyfriend, whom I thought loved me. He showed up late at night, slurring his words, drunk. And he left less than five minutes later, in handcuffs. My parents talked to him for an hour, and then he confessed to the murder of Casper Winik. Just like that, my life changed. And for the worse.

. . .

I stared at Jules, stunned, and I fainted. The truth finally dawned on me. When I woke up, I was in bed. Jules was gone, and in his place, there was a note. It read, "My dear, I will always love you, but as I have seen over the course of years watching you from afar and then today, I will leave you to live life to its fullest. I have contacted your parents to tell you the whole story of your brother's death and my imprisonment. Godbye for the last time, my love. Do not tell the cops about me, because they will only think you are crazy. Goodbye."