Tears
On My Pillow
By Aura
He sat staring out the window. Outside the sun was shining, a
cheerful shade of yellow that glowed around him like a cloak of happiness. Far
down below, but not far enough to not be heard the guys had invaded the
swimming pool. He could imagine, judging by the screams and laughter of four
voices he knows so well, that by this time every other patron of the hotel had
been successfully frightened off. Sometimes the guys had that effect, he
thought with an amused expression.
He wished he could be down there, with them. Playing, joking,
laughing. Just being there and not feeling like the outsider all the time. He
didn’t blame them feeling this way. But then sometimes they didn’t really help
matters. He didn’t mind the fact that four of the five of them had best friends
that didn’t include him. He was a lot older than they were and he had excepted
a certain level of loneliness to be a daily part of his life as long as
Backstreet existed. Which deep inside he hope would be for a very long time
still.
But sometimes a part of him speaks up; a part he keeps locked away
as deeply as possible. Unfortunately it still escaped sometimes, rearing its
head to the injustice of it all. He didn’t always agree with this head, but
sometimes he had to admit it had a point.
He had expected and accepted the loneliness; he accepted the
outsider status he had received within the first months of Backstreet's
existence. He just never expected the pain. All of it, any of it. He never
expected to cry himself to sleep five out of every seven nights a week had. And
he was convinced that number would increase proportionally if the weeks got any
longer.
Why did I
have to be me? He wondered for the umpteenth time why he couldn’t have
been a normal; boringly normal some would say, just like every other person he
saw walking on the street. Someone who didn’t care so much, who didn’t love so
much. Who wouldn’t so readily give up their own life and happiness for others’
lives and happiness. He supposed he could leave, start over. Be somewhere else
where the pain wouldn’t stab through his heart every time he saw the feelings
and thoughts of anger and resentment flow over the faces of the people he loved
most. How we hate you sometimes.
There were moments when he felt no love surrounding him, only
anger, resentment and sometimes the cloak of hate. That cloak was the one that
pierced his skin, reaching his very being. That place of sanctuary for others
was his prison of despair in those moments.
He beat his fist against the window. Why! Why can’t they see that they are killing me! Why can’t they see
that I love them more than life, more than myself? I would die for them. I
would bear any torture for them. He thought that in some way he was already
bearing torture for them. And they didn’t know it. He bore the torture of their
anger, hurtful thoughts and those moments of hate they sometimes had.
And he bore the torture of fighting back forces far larger than
he, all to protect them. They didn’t know of all the politics and secret
meetings and negotiations he’s lived through to keep Backstreet on track.
Sometimes just to keep the four of them on track, not dead in an alley or hung
out to dry for recklessness. And the times they do know of they accused him,
with those thoughts of anger and resentment, of meddling, of being bossy, of
treating them like children, of trying to run the show.
In his prison, he sometimes felt the urge to just walk away. To
open the door, walk through it, close it behind him, and walk away. Into the
shadows, out of their world. Where the hurt would fall from his heart, where
there might even be no loneliness. But every time those thoughts began to
surface as real decisions to be made, something would happen that would make
him stay. A smile from one, a gentle hand on his shoulder sometimes. Moments
where a thank–you thought, or a thought of affection from them surrounds him
like a warm blanket of comfort. In those moments he lives, completion in his
being like blood in his veins. Those moments were there, in equal proportion.
Sometimes more.
But the human heart was not built to survive the alternating
currents of love and hate, and in the end he supposed that was what would kill
him. One day his heart would just stop beating, too tired to brave another
wave.
He sighed, exasperated with his melodramatic thoughts. He wondered
if he wasn’t killing himself sometimes.
It was only a fight, not even quite a fight: just a difference in opinion on
how to best deal with the situation at hand. They thought one way, he thought
another. They, of course, didn’t know of the midnight conference call, the one
where he fought to protect their rights, their freedom to follow their own path
– to decide themselves where to go from here. He was given conditions, and he
had to stick to them if he expected to be obliged. But getting the guys to play
ball when they got themselves all worked up was another matter. He supposed
tonight there would be another call and another argument with the bosses. He
wondered, also for the umpteenth time, why they didn’t just start their own
record company and then sign themselves on!
And why did he do this to himself anyway? They were big boys now;
they could help with the midnight fights. But as soon as he asked the question
he knew the answer: because they weren’t big boys when they started out.
Because they were so young when they started, the executives would take only
him seriously. And it was a hard-won respect. The guys didn’t know better, they
were too young to understand all the underhanded politics and selfishness that
could destroy them at the whim of a peeved executive. And by now, things had
gotten to such a point that they still wouldn’t know any better, they would
have to catch up on ten years of hidden history to even begin to understand where
the other side of Backstreet-business stood. Maybe he was selfish, or trying to
be bossy. But then, looking after them had become second nature to him – as
natural as breathing is to everyone else.
He really
would die for them.
At that moment, AJ barged in the door of the groups’ shared living
room, oblivious to the fact that he was dripping water all through the hotel
and particularly on the couch he was investigating on. Oh well, he would no
doubt discover this later as AJ was the one that was always on the couch. Finding what he as looking
for, he turned and looked at he person sitting on the windowsill, indecision in
his eyes. Then obviously deciding what
the heck, he asked: "So you gonna come down at some point?"
"Will I be welcome?"
"That depends, you still gonna be an asshole when you get
there?"
The pain was back. "Well I am a bit tired. I didn’t get a lot
of sleep last night. Maybe I’ll just stay here and take a nap. "
"Suit yourself." And he closed off the outside with an
indifferent slam of the door.
**********************
That night more tears fell on Kevin’s
pillow.
