The advertisements on television, the people walking by. “Friends,” family. They all say that “love is in the air this holiday season.” That’s interesting. A rather romantic sentence, one might say. Change “love,” to “sickness” and you have a completely different meaning. If “love is in the air,” then how come I haven’t caught it? The common head-cold, now that is something in the air this season that I have caught. 

   People, “friends,” family, individuals who have doctorates in psychology, et cetera, keep telling me that I am “sick.” I don’t even know who they are talking to anymore. Is it the happy facade I maintain almost everyday? Or, perhaps more likely the layer closer to my actual personality that sometimes shows when that wall crumbles. 

   The empty, emotionless figure peering out through the cracks in his lonely self-erected divider, hoping someone else isn’t looking in.

   I’ve kept this game going for quite some time. It is nothing like chess, a game that I used to describe life as being similar to. This game is dangerous. Who do I allow to know my true self? When do I keep the facade up? What time is appropriate to slide out the little brick, so people can see me? What would happen if they did?

   Questions. Questions, questions, questions. People ask so many questions. It is in our nature to be inquisitive, an insatiable curiosity to learn and know more about our world, and the people who inhabit it with us. This curiosity is annoying. A hindrance. Some of those people ask me questions. “Are you okay?” “How are you feeling today?” “Why’d you do it, kid?” Fine, fine, fine! I’m absolutely great. Feeling much better, I promise. Don’t mind me, just making sure my mask isn’t cracking. Wouldn’t want you to see the real me, now, would I? A quick little chuckle, one of a comforting and reassuring nature.

   There is nothing “comforting” about me. “Monster.” One of my not-so-appreciated titles. They’ve even gone so far as to call me a “psychopath.” I don’t think this name is appropriate. Perhaps because it is the most fitting of all. Now, back to the topic of love.

   I was in love, once. Have thought myself to be in love many times after. In reality, it was only that one time. We’ll just call her “Rose,” how about that? Something basic, yet still pretty. It’s a classic story of coincidence. Of chance. Boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy. Disaster strikes, and the girl cannot tell the boy she loves him. They meet again, it was inevitable, and she tells him. He falls for her. Her looks, her personality, the peculiar similarities between them. The boy wants what he knows he cannot have, in the long-run. But he gets it. Ha, ha, chuckle, chuckle. He sure gets it. I got it. Had it. Whatever.

   Now, you’re probably wondering why I am telling you this. What is this story about? Is it fiction? Is it real? Let’s hope it is the former, rather than the latter. Just wait, wait and listen. Listen, and you shall receive. Don’t ask. I would never give anyone a straight answer, so why you? Dear listener? Anyway, veering off-track! Back to the love story. Boy is in love with the girl. Their relationship is hard to describe. Is it really love?

   No. It was just another game. Is that a lie? Who knows! I sure don’t. The boy’s mother disapproved of the relationship, and so she tried to take it. They would meet in secret, when they could. The boy’s mother would find out, occasionally. This never ended well for the boy. Oh, no. But those pains were different from the ones he felt when he lost his love. But he always knew that someday he would be able to find her again. Maybe. Maybe not.

   Let’s just cut this sappy, crappy “love story” stuff. Get right down to the grisly, ugly truth. Girl was so far away! Oh, so far. In another time, but beneath the same sky. Boy knew he couldn’t have her, yet they still were in love. He tried other people, but they would never suffice. Those relationships were empty. The desire felt was false. Okay, so it is obvious that the boy is me. I’ll just refer to myself in the first-person perspective, now. In one of my meaningless relationships, I actually attempted to tell Rose that I had moved on. Found a new lover. This was a lie, it was simply a one-time-thing gone semi-regular. Rose’s heart was broken. She looked everywhere, trying to find me.

   Stalked me, in a sense. Watched me look happy with the wretched witch I left her for. When we talked at a later date, she told me that she felt like she was alone. That’s funny. I was, too. She wasn’t the one who had no one who loved her. I wasn’t her first relationship, nor would I be her last. She was mine, though. She was my first love, and my last. Knowing that I could never have her broke my heart. A heart that had just begun to feel! Now it feels nothing.

   Well, except envy. Anger. Longing, even. The witch’s “love” didn’t last, and so that awful predicament became a thing of the past. All of those feelings left when I was able to talk with Rose. Not that it was frequent, or even pleasant. Most of the time she was too busy for the boy whom she once loved. Too busy for sick, sad, lonely old me. 

   I just wanted my heart back. Was that too much to ask? I loved her so, so much. The Greek believed that all humans were born in pairs, as one. That we had to find our other half to feel complete. I wouldn’t necessarily say she was my other “half.” That would be the inside. What creeps behind the wall. But she was a part of me. And I really did care  for her.

   Then why did I do it? Well, you see. . . I went down Psycho’s Path. A rugged, cold, and dangerous trail. One that most don’t return from. She’s dead, I’m dead. Well, dead inside. At least I came back from that arduous journey. She did not. 

   Oh, where is she? I told you, don’t ask questions. All answers you desire will be within anything and everything that I say. You just have to pay attention, and find out. That’s all.

   Cut the crap, you say? Alright. Okay. We’ll cut it. Yes, I killed her. Yes, I know where she is buried. Yes, I loved her. Yes, I am a sick, twisted, maniacal psychopath without any remorse or feeling whatsoever. There, does that answer all of your questions? No? Oh, well, I guess I never actually told you where she is. Somewhere, over the rainbow. Under a tree? In a field? Who knows? Oh, shut it! I know that you two wonderful pigs want to know where she is. Let me get my poetic-nature out. Wait patiently, if you want an answer. Wipe that sneer off of your face. . . .

She is buried beneath a single rose, in a field of gray.