4. Born Original, Die Copy

“Nico?” Ryan whispered rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he emerged from his room.

I lift my head and he’s not half asleep in my doorway anymore, he’s right beside me on the couch examining my bruised eye. It’s probably purplish-black by now, it still hurts and I still can’t open it.

“God, what did he do?” he whispered leaning back to turn on a light so he can see it better.

“Punch me in the eye,” I answer the rhetorical question.

“Has this been iced? This looks bad,” he continues.

“I tried icing it before I left last night,” I answer.

He turns my face toward him.

“At least it wasn’t my nose this time,” I continue.

He’d punched me in the nose last time causing it to bleed.

“Can you open it?” he asks sitting back.

I try and a tiny sliver of light seeps into my eye before I close it again.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I asked,” he muttered still concerned.

He got up and dragged me with him to the freezer, he pulled out the ice cubes. He let go of me and pulled a Ziploc bag out of a drawer. He filled it with ice and dragged me back to the bathroom, leaving the spare ice cubes to melt on the counter in their tray.

The bathroom was bright and white, like a lot of bathrooms but it also seemed like a beacon in the dark place that was his apartment.

He knocked things aside and had me sit on the counter. He moved my mess of hair aside and placed the ice against my eye. It was cold and wet with condensation.

“You should have just stayed here,” he muttered.

“It would have happened regardless,” I responded.

“I wish you could just stay here,” he continued dabbing my eye.

“They’d kill me if I did. Or call the cops on you. Get you put in prison for something,” I reasoned.

“But you keep running back here, it shouldn’t be here that you run. If anything, it should be there. Your mom should be worrying over this not me,” he continued.

“I think you’re supposed to worry when I’m hurt, isn’t that what boyfriends do?” I reply sarcastically.

“I mean I shouldn’t be the only one,” he answers

“Well, you are,” I reply. “She encourages it.”

“She didn’t even try to stop him?” he questioned.

“No,” I answer.

He pulled the ice bag away from my eye to look at it.

“The therapist never says anything about these?” he asks pointing to my eye.

“My sisters have been assessed by the same therapist, they’re fine, I’m fine, by default. Despite the fact that she actually understands and attempts to treat my anxiety,” I reply.

“But you’re not fine. And I’m sure there’s something wrong with the way they treat you. Your siblings are supposed to be there for you, you’re supposed to lean on them. I didn’t have that luxury as an only child. It has to be worse being completely alone when you’re surrounded,” he countered voice wavering.

“Can we not talk about this right now?” I sighed.

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault he punched me,” I replied.

He leaned his head on my shoulder and wrapped his hands around my waist. I still wasn’t used to him being this close. I pressed a kiss to his cheek. His five o’clock shadow was pricking my skin but I ignored it.

“What should we do on this lovely day?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Can we go out? I’ve been in this apartment since yesterday and as much as I like home, I’d like to go out,” he continued.

“Alright, Columbus, we’ll go out,” I joke.

He kissed me on the lips.

“Bring your guitar,” he added.

“I can’t play it outside. You know how that will go,” I reply.

“For me, we’ll find somewhere secluded, quiet. Like a park or something. You’ll be fine. Please, you haven’t performed in forever,” he begged.

“I always perform for you, but there are reasons I don’t do it in public. Fainting being one of them. I don’t want to end up in the hospital,” I continue.

“Please, please,” he continued.

“Okay, secluded though,” I reminded him.

“Come on,” he said pulling me off the counter.

I followed him, he picked up my guitar from the end of couch and handed it to me. I took it from him shyly. He pulled me to the front hall where his keys hung on a hook and his wallet in a bowl. I think it showed his jock personality leaving things out where robbers could easily find them. Then again, if he put them anywhere else he might lose track of them and complicate his life. I didn’t have space in my mind for these normal worries.

He opened the front door and locked it behind him. He secured his keys to a belt loop on his pants and took my hand again as if I were a toddler who’d get lost or run out into the street without his guidance.

We exited out the back door to where his car waited. An older four door sedan in red. The windows were water-stained by the rain two days ago but otherwise the car was relatively clean on the outside. He unlocked the car with a metallic click of a button and we got in. The sky was overcast, and gray. I tucked my guitar in the back and got myself comfortable in the passenger seat. We drove around in the gloom of the day, people milling about in the streets going about their days, work, home, play.

All similar and yet, different. Their outfits, personality, bright or dark, their skin, expressions, and ages all varying. My mother and sisters seemed identical, smaller versions of the original. Younger versions of the original following in the elder’s footsteps. I was nothing like my dad, I wasn’t a copy in anything but looks. Same brown hair and muddy eyes. But the personality was different and the interests. He had played sports in high school and been the typical jock, granted he’d played basketball instead of your typical football. He scraped by in Math and Science where I flourished with the technical subjects. I was musically inclined and loved to write, maybe I would see more of my traits in him if he wasn’t always drunk, too. Maybe it was all there under the intoxication and he never knew, untapped potential that died when he became like everyone else. Nine to five job in a city of a million-other people with other nine to five jobs. Doing the same motions everyone else did to get through the day. Digressing. Accepting. Conforming. Never thinking for himself, just following like a mindless robot.

I didn’t want any of that for myself, I didn’t even want to stay in this city. Ryan would probably end up moving to a bigger city to pursue acting or football and maybe I’d follow him. Carve my own path in a new place none of my family had been, I’d come back with exciting stories of the world well their lives continued on simple, smooth and boring in the place they were born.

Ryan drove up a hill to where there was a dog park and hiking trails. He was determined to hear me play, he really was trying to find seclusion. He parked in the last sign of civilization for miles, a black tarmac parking lot lined with white lines, that had replaced older yellow lines. The parking lot was nearing empty early this morning. I retrieved my guitar from the back seat and followed Ryan off the beaten path into the mosquito-ridden brush.

We found some logs to sit on and I tuned the guitar well Ryan picked at the dirt, leaves and sticks at our feet. A semi-circle of cleared area was made by him moving his foot back and forth. Once I was ready I started going over simple chords. A, G, E minor, C. Ryan started requesting things and I complied with his demands. Singing gently along as best I could, sometimes just humming if I couldn’t remember the words because they were songs he liked and not me. My voice never rising higher than average talking level, I was hoping the woods wouldn’t make it carry and attract an audience out of the park.

Sometimes Ryan would sing quietly to make me feel better about my nerves or forgetting the words. He wasn’t bad but he could use practice. Ryan seemed to be on the copy path but then there were things like this that made him seem like he strayed. Being gay, hanging out with a high school boy instead of his college friends and getting drunk on Saturdays and Sundays. Singing in the middle of nowhere. Even some of the music he listened to seemed out of the realm of normal, it wasn’t rock, pop, or emo like most jocks, some of it was jazz, synth, or alternative.

“How’s writing going?” he asked as I ended another song.

“Slow,” I replied.

I never got how authors filled hundreds of pages for one story. None of my stories had exceeded sixty-five pages. Maybe I was better at short stories. But I always seemed to end up in the realm of too short for novel and too long for short story. I felt poems were always supposed to rhyme or have some line pattern and I hardly got anywhere with those rules. Free-verse felt too open, made it feel like I was writing endless radiations of the same things. Looking for the right way to say it but never quite finding it.

“Do you have any originals?” he asked.

The words had been flowing easier since he confessed. I was wondering if this was what it was like to love and be loved back. A switch flipped and I understood those movie characters, who wanted to spend every waking moment with the one they liked and who liked them. They were clichés, though.

I was nervous, my songs never seemed perfect, done or good enough. I’d never tried to play or put chords to words either.

“You don’t have to,” he said when I didn’t answer.

I started thinking about the words swirling around in my head and played random chords to see how they suited them. I picked chords eventually and started playing my own song. Ryan sat still and in a trance listening. His blue eyes fixed on me.

Born Original, Die Copy

You were born an original

Don’t die a copy.

Don’t settle for normal,

Settle for less,

You deserve to be yourself.

You deserve more,

You can be more.

Be a lover and a fighter,

Not one or the other.

Rise above the malice,

Strive for the peace.

Hold your hand out,

For others to take up.

You were born an original,

Don’t die a copy.

Don’t settle for normal,

Settle for less,

You deserve to be yourself.

If you give up,

You’re joining everyone who’s given up hope.

If you give up your life,

You won’t be able to help others rise,

To see the sunrise.

To love who was destined for you.

You won’t be able to grow strong,

If you become a copy.

You were born an original,

Don’t die a copy.

Don’t settle for normal,

Settle for less,

You deserve to be yourself.

And not die alone.

You’ll find someone,

If you just wait,

Just wait.

They’ll be there reaching out,

For you.

They’ll hold you close,

Hold you dear.

You were born an original,

Don’t die a copy.

Don’t settle for normal,

Settle for less,

You deserve to be yourself.

And you deserve love no matter what,

They say.