Instead of speaking to her, we stared as she floated from class to class alone, her uniform skirt like a tent over her wide hips. They were simple questions: “are you new in town?”, “where did you live before?”, “what made you come here?” But I was too wrapped up in the social politics of St. Mary’s at this time seemed backwards and though I’m sure she had a reason, I never found it out what it was. It was senior year and we were all more than ready to graduate and go to college where we would have boys in our classes. Instead she scribbled something in her notebook: “check library for Shakespeare collection” I read over her shoulder.Īs time went on, Leilani became a prime conversation piece for everyone in St. Wanting to say something to her so badly, I blurted out, “I think it was around $60.” They had drifted away from me and I needed them back. Her eyes were distinct: almond like in shape and color. I watched Leilani as she eyed a copy of the collection that was on the desk of the girl beside her. I’m sure my mother didn’t even know how much she paid for it. I gave mine to my mother and she purchased all of the books. “I…I don’t know.” Syllabi for all of our classes arrived in the mail in the summer. “How much is the Shakespeare collection for this class?” I wanted so badly to stroke it and that longing scared me. Her hair was a thick sheet of black and it hung over the back of her chair, taunting me. I assumed she did not know perfume and make-up were not allowed. Her lips were stained coral and she smelled like candy. It might have been the darkness of her skin, compared to the paleness of all of ours that pulled me in. Natural desire had pushed me that way and it would have burned within me had a decided to sit anywhere else. Sitting behind Leilani had not been my choice. My friend Rebecca walked in a few moments later and noticing that there was no empty seat next to me, looked confused. She had positioned herself at the front of the classroom and I took the seat directly behind her.
I still remember the first day I saw her. But with nothing with which to deflect, and a now acute awareness that an honesty about troubles would only be a burden upon the clearly happy and content people around him, he could only remain gravely silent, a furrowed brow christening his chastened pout.įiled under writing short story fiction 1000 words submission Better to face up to the facts than employ a deflective irony. Humour used to be a good defensive mechanism, but as soon as he had become aware it of being a defense mechanism he no longer felt comfortable using it.
Why should they have to put up with him, me, he thought, and though they would eventually give up the ghost, leaving him content that they no longer felt him burdening them, he would arrive home to contemplate with disdain the way in which he felt left out, out of touch, disconnected, misunderstood. His friends tried to include him as best they could, but this only made him feel more depressed, because they were the ones making the effort to drag this morbid, succourless husk out of his own little world, when it was him who should be making the effort. Sucking the life out of every happy moment, projecting an arcing aurora of negative energy in a kind of reverse feng-shui as he sulked and skulked about in the corners of rooms It wasn’t just that he was depressed, it was that he was therefore depressing, towards himself and all those around him. But the problem lay not so much in the problem itself but in the problems that he felt about his depression.
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