Obscuria

A Strange First Impression

(Emilio)

The first time I spotted her in the field was when she started crying.

She'd fallen to her knees in anguish as though she'd just watched her only friends die right in front of her, her pain immense and almost comical. That was the moment I instantly knew to resent her. Honestly, how can you feel so much distress, so much heartache, over not losing those who are already your friends, but strangers not wanting to be your friends? I myself only have a tiny circle of friends in this damned school, and that's hardly by my own choice. But at least I don't cry about it in front of everyone. Her existence feels like a bitter wound on the back of my neck, constantly stinging.

And I remember. I remember her name. Misty Flores.

The English lesson that follows breaktime has a much different feeling from the two lessons before. With the Flores kid completely out of sight, out of earshot, everything seems to have fallen quiet - even though she never really spoke much in physics. Though I must say, she did have quite a loud presence.

"Hey," whispers the voice of Raine, the only friend who I share English lessons with. We're both in the top set, but the other two in our group have fallen behind. "Hey, Emilio. Can I copy the first paragraph from you? I didn't have time to write it down."

"Sure," I whisper back.

Our work is on An Inspector Calls. Today we're supposed to be writing about how "each and every character" was responsible for Eva Smith's death. Personally, I blame it all on Eric and Mrs Birling, but I guess English teachers don't see it that way. And anyway, shouldn't we be more preoccupied with the fact that the Inspector seems to be a ghost? If I were an English teacher, that'd be the only thing I'd be focusing on.

I suppose Flores could help me with this work. Given what she said during her little meltdown on the field, she seems to know all about ghosts.

I catch myself thinking about her again, pitying her at the back of my mind. I know I'm not supposed to feel sorry for someone like her. She's weird. Even if she really is just delusional and thinks she's seeing things like that, it should be a glaring red flag to everyone. I swear on the stars, the last thing she needs is for someone like me to invade her life.

In an attempt to distract myself from thoughts of Misty, I almost silently hum a song that my nan sings to me. I think that, at this point in my life, the song is the only thing that keeps those evil thoughts out of my head. Which is good for me, really, since the only thing I want is to leave Misty and everyone else alone.

"Oi, Emilio," Raine whispers under his breath. "What's up with all the humming lately? Especially today. You thinkin' about that kid on the field?"

"No," I lie, feeling no remorse since lying is the only thing I do to my friends nowadays. "No, I'm just thinking about the work." I know I'm a complete fake, but I can't dwell on that now. I usually just leave the late evenings for feeling sorry for myself.

Raine, unlike me, always seems calm and composed, always uplifting the group and our standards, probably in an effort to cancel me out. He's just so much more resilient and dedicated than I am. Wise beyond his years, as I often say. He even looks older than me, his pale blond hair wispy and almost white. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I get jealous of how well-behaved he is.

He finishes writing the paragraph and pushes my work book back to me. He seems to have noticed my black painted nails.

"You know Beatrix is gonna kill you for that, right?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, I know," I tell him, omitting the fact that I overthought it for hours after painting them, cried into my pillow, and for a while considered scraping it off. "But she doesn't have to know, does she? I'll just make an effort to hide my hands from her; maybe I'll wear gloves. It's not- It's not a big deal, is it?"

Raine stays quiet for a few seconds. Then: "I might have to tell her."

"Oh, come on, Raine, please," I whisper back, beginning to get louder. "You don't have to do that. I can take it off. I can take it off right now. Just please, do not tell Beatrix about the nail varnish."

Raine sighs an exhausted sigh. "Okay," he says. "Take it off and I promise I won't tell anyone."

The first promise.

I nod as if to thank him, and immediately start scraping off the tar-black varnish. The cleaner's probably going to hate me now. As I do it, it's like I'm cleansing myself of something that was holding me back before, even though it feels horrible and wasteful.

I hate myself for saying it, but sometimes I feel like I really hate my-

My life.

Even despite the amazing people who saved me since the day I was born.

"Emilio, Raine, would you please pay attention?" says the old English teacher, Mrs. Fray. "You had a whole breaktime to talk to each other; now's lesson time."

I give her remark a wry smile.

"You know, I think we ought to talk to Misty about that breakdown she had," Raine whispers to me even more quietly.

"What?" I reply. "Are you sure it's worth it?"

"Uh, yeah," he whispers back. "What, are you questioning it?"

"No!" I answer abruptly, maybe a little too loud. "I'm just thinking, if she really is a nutcase-"

"I don't think you're supposed to call people that," he tells me, despite the things that we call people. "Come on, you know that. She's not a nutcase. People with mental illnesses aren't nutcases, especially Miss Flores. And what if I'm right and she's not sick at all? She just needs a little help."

I try to ignore him and copy from the board. Apparently, we're about to have to write a mini-essay, which I hate the thought of. How has this play even managed to become so popular?

"Emilio," Raine whispers annoyingly. "You're doing that ignoring thing again. You know how much I hate that."

"Okay, fine," I respond desperately. "I'll talk to her as soon as I get the chance, I promise. Now will you please just leave me to my work?"

His lack of a response indicates yes. Sometimes, when I'm trying not to think of something, Raine's soft voice is music to my ears, but in times like this, when I have to focus, his silence is more than welcome. Especially since I'll now be focused on helping Misty Flores. We've both made a promise to each other today, and our group never breaks a promise. Not even me, not even in my darkest moments.

It's just that something feels different with Misty. She's just so peculiar, and she makes it so clear, and it gets on my nerves so much because I want to be different too - just not in that way. Any way but that way. It's just so easy to pick her out in a crowd - almost like I'm picking on someone too feeble to protect herself. And because of that, I feel like I can't keep up this friend act for much longer.