Killed

Questions killed you. They always did.

When your first grade best friend came over for the first (and only) time and asked what was wrong with your little brother.

When that kid asked what was wrong with your little brother when he lay on the floor, mouth foamiing on his first day of school.

When your little brother asked what was happening to your mummy's tummy. When he asked why there wasn't a baby later.

When you were twelve, and that kid from across the street asked his mother what
was wrong with the boy, your brother, lying on the pavement, bleeding. You felt like your heart was killed by the car too.

Questions killed you. They always did.

So you needed to be sure that you would never ask any. But babe, face it, you needed an escape.
So you killed two birds with one stone.

You crammed your head with facts, so that you would only have answers, never questions.

You crammed your head with facts, so maybe, just maybe you wouldn't have room to remember.

But darling, who could ever forget what you've seen? You're too smart to think that being valedictorian in high school would let you leave the past in the past.

Everyone told you to be a doctor. You were so smart. So driven. So much potential.

But you didn't. couldn't. wouldn't. be a doctor. To be around the sadness of loss, to be reminded every second of every minute of every hour of every day of your own sorrow would have killed you.

So you went to college to become a business woman.

Third year in college, so close, yet so far. That's when you meet him. Art major. When your life couldn't get any better according to you. When your life couldn't get any worse according to anyone else.

You couldn't stand him. He couldn't form a sentence, just questions.

Who ever thought that you would fall for a boy who had only questions?

You have to have an art credit to graduate with your degree, so you take the simplist drawing class you can find. He's just in there sketching, not part of the class, to advanced, but every day, he's there sitting next to you, constantly asking you what you think of the eye. the flower. the building that he's just drawn. You don't care. You barely glance at the page before muttering wonderful. amazing. incredible. But by the time you really start looking, he stops asking.

It's a relief, a blessing, or so you tell yourself. You can't help but wonder what he's drawn. You don't even know his name, but you want to. You guess in your head in class. in your dorm. all the time. Nothing fits. It's only been a week since he asked last, darling, face it, he's killing you.

Next class he lays it on the table, his sketch book. You don't know but he might as well have just handed you a loaded gun. That is his life, and has been for the past seven years. You look up at him oddly, but you don't dare ask a question. Questions kill you.

Opening the book, you discover his world. It's beautiful. And then the last drawing is a portrait of you. It takes your breath away.

"What's your name? I need a title."

"Heather."

He writes your name right above his signature. You hate yourself for noticing, but you love the way he writes your name. You crane your neck for a second to see what his is. It looks like something a toddler would draw. You can kind of make out two capital letters: F and A.

"My name?" He laughs; you blush, "It's Finn Andrews."

"Hey, Finn, do you want to do something later?"

You catch him off guard, you're close enough to reccognize the happy surprise in his eyes. Maybe questions aren't all bad.