The Tradegdy of Love

Selorian: It was driven into him that he was the bad kid–a monster. He was neither; he was autistic & people were too scared to care. #storystarters

It was driven into him that he was the bad kid–a monster. He was neither; he was autistic & people were too scared to care. Everybody that was except Amy, Amy would listen too him – for hours on end – of course people were generally nasty to Amy. Beautiful shy Amy who couldn’t keep eye contact and who’s hair appeared lank and dull. Her medication made her skin greasy and spotty, he didn’t care. She was beautiful and sweet and lovely.

Jonathan would take her for walks around the Airways Museum and show her all the world war II planes and then they would sit in the cafe and he would draw them for her – always in green biro. Her favourite was the Suzy. Then it happened, she did not turn up and he knew that he would never see her again. He waited for hours, inside his heart broke, he had no one to tell.

Worst still he felt no surprise when the police turned up on his door step, there was just a deep aching sadness that tied his tongue. He stared at them in the interview room as they accused him of hurting her.

It was the stomach punches that broke him and he with drew into himself where they could not hurt him, where the crashing wall of sound, that was people, washed across his consciousness but did not drown him. He needed Amy. He tried once to explain.

They took it as a confession, Jonathan knew the cold of the cell but did not see anything other than his need. A body turned up dredged from the river, no one was surprised and the court case was a farce. He’d stopped talking and there were wails about care in the community, the community had never looked after him – but Amy had.

He waited within.

He was thin and gaunt, dying of consumption or starvation and pneumonia, something like that, bits hacked up. It hurt.

The Dr frowned at him and had him moved, to a nice place, with a garden but why would he want to be here? She was not here. Another six months before they put him near the pens, biros. There was a green one.

He drew and drew and drew, the Suzy, always and only the Suzy, it was her favourite. The schematics and the real life sketch, he added something to the last one. And curled up, the fever returned and consumed him.


The nurse tisked in the morning but arranged things very efficiently and the funeral was less than a week later. It was strange that a flyby should happen then, but it did, one plane seemed to shimmer as if not real, green sparks of saint Elmo’s fire whooshed along it’s frame and for anyone looking they would have seen that one of the pilots was a woman, the other a man far too big to be flying in the cramped cockpit.

They looked happy.

Posted: Friday, March 27th, 2015 @ 8:38 am
Categories: Flash Fiction.
Subscribe to the comments feed if you like. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

One Response to “The Tradegdy of Love”

  1. Snell-Pym » Finishing Projects Says:

    […] Story The Tragedy of Love = […]

Leave a Reply