MisFits

Silent Shadow

She was the girl with the old MisFits tank top. The one with the short black hair that said nothing. The one that sat at the very back of the class, backed into a corner next to her unbelievably attractive boyfriend. The one who wore the look of the dangerously sad.

The first time he had noticed her sitting there was on a Monday of the second week of school in algebra. He was hopelessly lost and desperately searching the room for an answer of some sort. And he was met by the MisFits shirt.

He didn't know that he had fallen in love, completely didn't notice it. This was probably because he was staring at the harsh, dark bruises that marred her pretty little arms, the ones she was too stubborn to hide. But he saw her, and knew she was there.

He watched her from afar, careful to avert his eyes if she ever looked up, which she rarely did, if only to watch the teacher pace up and down in front of the classroom. He would look at her, watch as she chewed on the little silver lip ring she had as she listened to the teacher prattle on about variables. He counted the bruises on her arms, legs, sometimes her face. The ones on her face didn't appear very often, but when they did, she didn't look up at the teacher, just down at the floor, the sadness rising up around her like water contained behind a dam.

But the shirt was there, once a week, clinging to her tired body like a protective shadow. He watched as it slowly decayed, little by little, the once pristine white skull peeling away after being washed and worn out so much. She wore it even though the edges were fraying and the teacher frowned at her arms every time it made an appearance.

He didn't dare talk to her, even though she sat only a few tables away at lunch. He began to watch her there too, alone at his table. She never ate anything, just sat and listened to her boyfriend talk boisterously to his friends. She still didn't speak, even though they entreated her to join in, some even trying to flirt with her a little. That was staunched by a glare from her boyfriend, and she herself would quickly avert her panic filled eyes to the grey-tiled floor. He desperately wanted to approach her, tell her that MisFits was his favorite band too, and that he thought it was cool the way she cut her hair. But he didn't dare. All he could do was look.

He felt as if he saw her everywhere, toted about by her boyfriend  like a puppy on a leash, with her sad eyes and simple clothes. He saw her waiting outside of the boy's restroom, remaining there for her boyfriend to come out. He saw them (or heard them) in back hallways and empty classrooms, the sound of yelling piercing through the closed doors. But all he could do was clench his fists and move on, thinking of the bruises and the sad look in her eyes.