The Stolen and The Gone

Four

Author's note:
Why, hello there. Remember to vote and comment :).

Before Piers had past, he used to chant this mantra, "Paper is a good listener." He had anger problems which had first sprouted in high school.

He'd struggled to concentrate and Cameron had been worried about him being less studious than he used to be in middle school. She would sit next to him in all the classes they had together, her intelligence outweighd the other kids in class but she had not bothered to exercise her brain. Her mind was full of thoughts of music notes, drawings and painting and images. She had not seen the need for mathematics or physics.

She tried to help him and tutor him unselfishly, but he never seemed to concentrate on her, his mind wondering to it's own magical place.

One time in English class, ninth year, he'd completely zoned out. The Miss pointed at him and asked him about the book we were studying, Romeo and Juliet. His eyes weren't focused, he didn't even hear what the teacher had said, but he managed to mumble, "Forget it, you're all going to die sooner or later." He got up from his seat and walked out of the door, leaving the class quiet, speechless.

That afternoon after classes, she'd found him sprawled on her bed on his stomach, writing something on a piece of paper with one of her graphite pencils he'd found lying by her study desk.

"Hey," she had said. "With the force you're exerting on that very expensive pencil I'll have to get a new one in less than ten minutes." He gave her a crooked smile.

Piers had not hit puberty as hard as most of the guys in they're year, and the girls were already swooning for his light brown eyes and shaggy dark hair.

"I guess you'll have to get a knew one, then." He patted the space next to him and she layed there, their shoulders pressing against each other.

She frowned at the lyrics he wrote. They were so angry and included some swear words she'd never knew you could use in that way. She took the pencil from him and scratched the swear words out.

"What are you doing? That was my best one yet." He snatched the pencil back, still smiling.

"They don't make sense, and they're rude."

"They depict my emotions," he said in a know-it-all voice. "I'm feeling cussy, what about you?"

She contemplated for a moment and turned to lay on her back and stare at the ceiling. "I'm feeling worried for you."

Piers took one of her long, dark blonde strands and wrapped it around his finger. She looked at him, her blue eyes questioning that mischievous look on his face. He took the pencil again and wrote more cuss words, sticking his tongue out with consentration to put them in a straight line with equal spaces in between.

"I've never seen swear words look so neat," she said.

He didn't pay attention to her, just kept consentrating. She sighed and played with the loose hem in his shirt and watched how he jerked away from her touch every time her finger contacted with his skin.

"Do you see?" He was saying, grinning from the tickling. "That I wasn't listening to you?"

"Clearly, yes," she said.

"But do you also see that the paper was?" He held the paper in both hands and grinned.

There, scribbled in the corners of the page, was the exact words she had said. "They don't make sense," and, "I'm worried."

"People will never be good listeners. I bet those kids and that teacher had forgotten about what I said. They pretend to listen. But if you write the words in black and white, it's perminent, it's like the paper was listening to you, absorbing every curl and dot in the letters you've just said," he had preached as if he practiced it.