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Synopsis and Prologue of my gay romance (Suicide warning) (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
Prologue of my gay romance (Suicide warning)

Track 00- The Priest and the Matador
March 19[SUP]th[/SUP], 2012.

The night is angry.

Dark clouds swarm overhead, perched like vultures over the city. Below, well dressed people walk this way and that, eyes cast warily upward. They’re on their way to nightclubs or parties; the way home from the theatre.

From far away, they all look the same. Strip away the skin and everyone bleeds red.

The truth is- a truth Taylor learned a long time ago- there’s more to living than being alive.
Breathing. Eating. Sleeping. Existing. Strip away everything a man cares about- everything worth caring about- and you leave him with nothing but himself.

Most people never learned that lesson. Never learned how dreadful their own company is.
He stands on the balcony, looking into the room, the sky above him pregnant with rain. Inside, the party is raging- or as close to it as a cocktail party can be. The music is soft and subdued, quiet enough for everyone to talk about their diets or work-out routines.

In the corner, a group of women who could have walked off a runway. Pretty, stick thin, with the kind of vapid energy and toe-curling laugh he expects hell would be full of. They all majored in something like Fashion or Photography or English Literature but all they really want is to meet a Doctor or a Lawyer. Get a
place in the suburbs, near the good schools. Have babies. Drive a four by four and never go further than the store.

They were in Amy’s sorority, he thinks. Kappa Gamma Go Fuck yourself. He’s noticed a few of them peeking at him shyly. His mother must have told them about his scholarship: Son of a senator and a candidate for District Attorney; Brother to a surgeon; handsome, fabulously wealthy and a full ride to Harvard Law to boot. Right now, they’re all surrounding Amy. She’s showing her ring proudly.

Even Taylor has to admit she’s beautiful tonight. Classically beautiful, with blue eyes and blond hair that tumbles down her back. She’s wearing a red dress that perfectly matches her lipstick. She’s an art critic. Taylor read one of her articles once. She’d gone to meet with a woman in New Orleans he met once, in another life. An artist who ran a commune in an old hotel.

She’d come up to him a few days before, drilled him about what little he knew about her. Her history; her protégé’s. Nowhere.

Across the room, his brother, Evan, sits with his fraternity brothers. A few sports players, one or two journalists, fellow doctors. Their conversation is quieter, but occasionally they break out into uproarious laughter.

His parents, Angela and Andrew, hover around the room, never staying with one group or person for too long. His father is dressed in a charcoal gray suit that matches his hair; his mother in an elegant black dress with a plunging neckline, a string of pearls around her neck that matches her earrings in a way that screams "I spent three hours picking the perfect outfit."

His brother- With his presidential, all-American good looks, strong jaw, square face and charming smile, looks almost exactly like his father. Taylor, with his round face, pointed chin, black hair and green eyes- looks more like his mother. Cute, rather than handsome.

He’s spent the entire night alone on the balcony. He almost gave the party a miss; another night with people he can’t stand, drinking bottles of wine alone while his parents shift from looking on disapprovingly and doing their best to ignore him.

Inside, His mother is talking to a pretty young woman he doesn’t know, doubtlessly from a good family. She looks around to find her son and, sees him alone, gestures for him. He shyly looks away and gazes out over the city.

He grips the balustrade tight, his knuckles whitening. He begins biting the skin around his thumbnail- raw and pink- until it bleeds.
"Hey." A voice at the doorway. He turns to her; observes her with a cool disinterest.

"I'm Emma." She introduces herself. She really is startlingly pretty; brown hair, green eyes, a deep tan, but not so deep as to draw attention to itself. Her cocktail dress is a pretty but subtle green, cut short to show off her legs.

She has her hand out. He didn't notice that. He reaches out his own and shakes it. Fast; loose. The handshake of someone who isn't good with people.
She looks down at his hand. Her smile widens to hide her distaste.
"Do you need a tissue?"
He looks down. His thumb is bleeding; he can even remember doing it now that she's pointed it out. No more than, what, thirty seconds ago? He takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his thumb with it. He replaces it in his pocket and pours himself another drink. He drains the bottle into his flute and places it on the balustrade next to two others. He coolly takes another sip.

She smiles to hide her discomfort. People have been doing that all night.
"Do you need some water?"
He doesn't listen- something else has grabbed his attention. A soft melody, drifting out from the party. A song he knows so well.
A song he heard once at the end of the world.
A song he loved.
He loved a lot of things once.

"I loved this song." He says.
He's not changing the topic. There is no topic. There is no conversation; just two people speaking at each other.
"'Cause soon I'll be leaving you..." he sings. There are tears in his eyes. He looks out to the sky.

When did he start crying? He can't remember. He can't remember a lot of things. The last time he smiled, how much he's had to drink, even the name of this pretty woman who introduced herself so politely moments before.
He doesn't need to remember.

"Soon I'll be leaving you...."
He's gripping the balustrade tight- so tight he can feel every jagged contour of the granite biting into his palms.
Before he even realizes he's doing it, he's standing on the balustrade, looking down at the city beneath. He stretches his arms out as if to fly.

He hears the woman scream. He hears a rush of footsteps; panicked shouts. He hears the music cut out.
They must have hired a piano player. It doesn't matter; he knows what comes next. The words are carved into his heart as permanently as any tattoo; deeper than any scar.

He dives out into open air.
Last edited:


This totally blew me away. Beautiful word choice and I loved the way that his internal dialogue was stilted, almost like poetry or a song lyric.


Senior Member
Thanks everyone who took the time to read this, even if you didn't review. :) Just an update: I recently completed the first draft.