Cyanide Apples

We were schoolboys, oblivious to the outside world. Children, not yet corrupted, finding each other and sticking together. Best friends. Star-crossed lovers. Romeo and Juliet, every fiber of the world trying to tear us apart. At least that’s how it was in my mind, hoping one day he’d realize how much he actually adored me and I wouldn’t have to wait any longer. Perhaps it was more like Helena and Demetrius, me lapping at his heels and begging for affection, him unaware of my feelings. It seemed he was my one true love, even if he wasn’t fully aware of it- I lusted after him anyway. I tried not to, I swear. I just couldn't help it.

His beautiful pale skin, shining eyes, the thin curve of his lips, it all made my heart flutter. I can still feel that stubborn tuft of silky hair that always stood up on his scalp, calloused fingers tracing along leather books, smooth cheeks pushed upwards in a smile. I recall the bump of his neck as he tilted his head back in a laugh, chest arching up towards the sunlight. I was quite fond of the way he said my name, stretching out the first A, a soft roll on the L, squishing together the second A (pronouncing it like an E) and the rounded N.

We first locked eyes when I asked aloud a question regarding the orbit of the planets, which prompted a passionate discussion between us. We began to move towards other subjects that we shared common interest in, working together in the school's science lab when we felt like it. Chris was thorough, adorably headstrong, persevering throughout sleepless nights until his project was done and hypothesis proven. His mind worked miraculously, considering each and every detail of a problem as having its own answer. Every Wednesday we would meet in the school library, talking for hours on end. He loved astronomy, aspired to touch the stars. His favorite thing to talk about was Jupiter- 'dear old Jupiter', he would say, pointing it out to me each day with the most enthralled grin. The best part about him, though, was his love of music. The look on his face that took him over as the symphonies played, the way his pupils dilated and his mouth parted in awed euphoria. Sometimes he would close his eyes and simply let the sounds wash over him, carry him to some faraway place. I would stare at him for so long that once he did come back down to earth, his face would flush and he would punch me lightly on the arm, giggling. That face would infiltrate my dreams, dreams that I dared not think of, dreams that would cause me to wake up with damp sheets and panting breaths. Many other boys woke up like this, too, but their dreams were filled with plump breasts and curvy thighs, nothing like the image of his slender shoulders and sharp jaw. None of the other boys thought of men as I did, such a thing was seen as disgusting, let alone illegal. And yet, despite my efforts against it, my unconscious mind slipped towards Chris when I fell asleep, occupying itself with fantasies of hiding in the library after dark on one of our Wednesdays and doing those illegal things I so desperately wanted.

It was on one of our Wednesdays in the library, I remember, that these fantasies got the best of me. We were talking about the stars and whether it is even possible to physically come into contact with one, if the human body would burn up or survive. There was a joke made and we doubled over in laughter, slapping our legs and tearing up. I remember after the laughter died down we stared at each other, huffing, faces red. Something in my chest flipped, a pulsing and burning coursing under my skin. I found myself leaning forward, senses blinded by love, as he stared uncomprehendingly. I wanted to feel those thin, cracked lips against mine. I wanted to thread my fingers through his fine, polished hair. I wanted him to kiss me, kiss me until we were completely intertwined, become one like the stars imploding throughout the galaxy. I reached out to cup his face, my hand shaking- reaching out to kiss him, reaching out to become stars. Then, sharply, startlingly, his name cut through the air of the library. I sprang backwards as if I were a prey spying his predator. I saw one of our peers running towards us, smiling wide. Chris had blinked rapidly, utterly confused, before slowly turning his head towards our classmate, whose name slipped my mind. Eric, maybe? Ellis? He was holding an envelope. He wore an excited expression when he looked at my best friend, but his face quickly fell to pain when he saw me. I realized something good had happened to Chris… and something bad to me.

The news spread quickly through our school, rumors like fire catching on papers strewn across wooden floors. Chris had been granted a scholarship we both had applied for. I had not.

He left, though he almost did not with the fear of leaving me. I was happy for him, and urged him on. I could get another scholarship somewhere else, it just meant we might not be together. I knew this day would come, the day in which we parted, and it shaved off a few pieces of my heart like wood chips tossed in the bin. Chris and I did not talk about what I almost had done. We did not talk about whether or not he would have obliged, or if he thought I was disgusting, or if he hated me. I next saw him when he invited me to a concert- yet another night stuck and stained in my memory, tainted by grief. That seemingly perfect night, the night where we saw each other again after so long of painstaking waiting. That was the night he fell ill.

I wasn't even aware, sat afar from him due to some complication with our tickets. I got the call the next day after lying in bed awake, thinking up billions of possibilities to explain why he didn’t say goodbye after the music had ended. Why I did not see him. That morning I got my answer, though I almost wish I never had.

He had died. Nineteen years old. The love of my life, I was sure of it, and he was dead. They said it had to do with spoiled milk, tuberculosis, something, I wasn’t paying attention. They tried everything they could, but the two surgeries they performed failed.

I spent the day locked in my room, curled on the floor, hands cupping my ears. My tears soaked through my clothes, but I made no effort to stop them. Sometimes the walls collapsed onto me, inwards, and my body followed suit. My skin peeled towards my organs, the particles of my blood sticking to each other, condensing until I was nothing but a tight ball of molecules. Other times, oxygen filled my veins until I popped, my bones and tissue scattered across the floor, and I floated- floated up and up until I was air, just air.

I tried to stay strong. Told myself that his legacy would go on, that I would dedicate my life to him. I would try to do enough work the both of us, as if he were still beside me. I detached myself from all religion, picked apart my human consciousness. I decided I would see him again one day, in the afterlife, where we could kiss and marry and do whatever we pleased without the threat of rejection or punishment.

I became a professor. Every now and then I would go out at night and pay men to lay with me, then pretend to take interest in women- or, even better, in nothing but my work. I had quite a low sex drive, but most human bodies require some sexual activity to stay sustained, whether it be solitary or with another. Sometimes I would go months without any contact with that part of my body, that part of myself. But occasionally, I just couldn't deal with the grief anymore- maybe I had met someone with his name, or I caught a glimpse of dear old Jupiter up in the sky, or I heard a song that he used to hum as he read. No matter the case, I would steel myself and go find a lover. They weren't always prostitutes; sometimes I would encounter another homosexual and make a deal to meet up at a later date, satisfy each other. If one needed it, they would simply send a coded letter or turn up to the other’s house. I would imagine the person next to me in the bed (or the alley, if we were in a pinch) was the boy from my childhood- my love, my Juliet.

When I began working on my machine, I named it after him.

Christopher the machine. I imagined I was reconstructing his brain instead of a device for war. The computer was supposed to save millions of people from the Nazis, break the Enigma code that they used and use the messages to help people. I needed to do what would make him most proud.

And in the end, I managed to do it. I built the machine that rescued Great Britain. I saved countless souls from death and torture. And how did my country thank me? They prosecuted me for ‘gross indecency’ in response to a consensual sexual encounter with another adult. Another male adult, which was why it was illegal. I was thirty-nine years old when they gave me the choice between prison and chemical castration. I was advised to choose the latter.

They put me on hormones, dry tablets shoved down my throat. Tremors took over my hands. I developed breasts and impotence. I was soon unable to perform sexual activities. I would stand at the mirror and poke at the new tissue forming on my chest, the heavy weights that bounced as I walked. I hated them. Maybe I would like them more if I felt attraction towards women and their bodies, but I couldn't take pleasure in looking at myself- quite the opposite, I realized, and promptly tore down everything with a reflection. My brain was so fucked up from the chemicals that I couldn’t think straight anymore. I lost my genius. I was unable to do the simple task of crossword puzzles that used to bring me so much joy. I couldn’t even get through making myself breakfast without getting confused and sobbing in despair at how pathetic I was. I would have frequent panic attacks in public and even in solitude, the anxiety squeezing and suffocating me. I found I couldn’t get out of bed, overwhelmed with helplessness. I lost the motivation to walk, eat, sleep, bathe- which I could barely manage to begin with, what with figuring out the temperate, staying awake, and of course having to face my starved, mutilated body.

I was forty-one when I put cyanide in an apple and bit into it, the juicy fruit glistening on my teeth, the syrup spilling down my throat, the poison making its way into my bloodstream. Chris loved apples, and I had a habit of eating one every night before bed. This time was the same as all the others, I just wouldn't wake up.

I fell asleep thinking of him, of meeting him in the afterlife and finally sharing that kiss I reached out for so many years ago.

I was killed by my country despite the tiresome, seemingly impossible contributions I made.

I was killed because I was a homosexual and that seemed to matter more than the fourteen million lives I saved.