~
Paul trails a few feet behind me as we walk to lunch. He holds a pile of papers in his hands, bumping into people as he focuses all his attention on reading the latest development of a story I've been working on.
We're nearly to the cafeteria before he finally looks up at me. "Jeez, Em, that was . . . that was powerful." The latest chapter explores the reaction and feelings of one of my characters as he learns of the death - the suicide - of his best friend. Shock turns to anger, and anger in turn to pain and grief. Emotions I know only too well.
"Thanks." I take the pages back from my best friend, a tall, attractive African American guy. He's always been a polar opposite to me. He keeps his black hair cut close, wears khakis to school, gets good grades, plays sports and hangs out with friends. My long, unevenly cut hair is light purple, dyed from a natural silvery blonde. I've always been a rebel with a passion for black leather and death metal. I've got a couple of tattoos. He wouldn't be caught dead going five over, but I'm pretty relaxed about my (illegal) drinking habits.
We've been the best of friends for as long as I can remember. We have pictures together in diapers, my favourite being one taken when his black fuzz was just barely sprouting and his large dark eyes gaze up at the camera, while I sit beside him, seconds away from bashing him on the head with a building block. My arm is raised in the photo, block in hand, hazel eyes trained on my target.
We sit down for lunch with a group of his friends. As per usual, I don't eat and instead pull out a pad of paper and a pen and resume my writing, losing myself in the story, letting the words flow through me. The bell startles me back into reality; the entire lunch period passed in what felt like only a moment.
I gather up my things and make to stand, but my head is still lost in the land of my story and my leg slams into the corner of the table. Gasping in surprise and pain, I drop my things and grab the edge of the table to keep from falling over. Paul apparently hasn't noticed my absence, as he's taken off for the stairs. Gingerly, I reach down to collect my things, balancing precariously on one leg and one arm still clutching the table, but a calloused hand beats me to it. The hand scoops up the fallen pages and pen. I stand and come face to face with my aide.
It's a guy. He's thin but well built, with slightly long ruffled black hair and bright blue eyes. He gives me a shy smile as he hands my things back. The left corner of his mouth raises slightly higher than the right, and his left cheek is dimpled. Not bad looking. I don't recognise him, but that doesn't matter. I don't care who he is.
"Thanks," I tell him curtly, grabbing the papers and pen, a thin strand of purple hair falling out of place to rest just above my eye. It tickles. Absentmindedly I reach up to brush it up off my eyebrow, and his eyes follow the back of my hand, probably studying the intricate pattern etched into my skin. Self-consciously I quickly pull my hand back down and tuck it into my pocket.
"Yeah, you're welcome. Working on homework?" he adds conversationally.
I can't honestly say yes, but I don't want to tell him that I was writing, because I've tried to tell others about my writing before, and I was met with only ridicule and mockery. Still, I don't want to lie to him, even though I've never seen the guy before in my life and there's a fairly high chance I'll never see him again, so I keep my response a short and simple, "Sort of."
Before he can have the chance to speak again, I brush past him to get to my next class.
~
Lying in the hospital, I think about the girl with the purple hair. I didn't give her much thought after she left the day we met, and I haven't seen her since, but somehow my mind drifts to her. I never found out her name. I never got the chance to ask why the purple hair, or the meaning of the tattoo on her hand. For some reason she interests me, piques my curiosity. I want to know more about this girl.
Setting aside my thoughts for the time being, I log onto Wattpad on my phone to check for notifications and messages. My only notification is for a comment on one of my poems by a user I don't recognise, theblackdaydreamer. I read their comment.
theblackdaydreamer: I thought the poem was well composed and the choice of words very fitting. However, iiit'sjosh99, the meaning is unclear. Given your other work, which was very clear and to the point, I think this could be rewritten better.
I frown. At least they were polite about their criticism, and added compliments too, but jeez. I'm not used to getting criticism for my work, and who's this stranger to tell me that I need to rewrite my poem? It's my writing, done the way I wanted it to be written. If they don't like it, they can write their own poem they way they want it.
I force myself to stay calm as I type a reply.
iiit'sjosh99: Hey theblackdaydreamer, thanks for reading my work. I appreciate your feedback. However, this poem was intentionally made somewhat vague. As with much good poetry, the meaning is open to the personal interpretation of the reader. As you've said, I've written poems with very clear-cut explanations before, but I personally prefer to be the type of author who doesn't force their readers into a box. I'd like you and all of my other readers to be open to evaluate the poem as he or she will and get whatever out of it that you will. Again, thank you for reading, and have a nice day. :)
I post the comment and turn off my phone before rolling over to take a nap.
A/N: Sorry for the delayed update. Been very busy lately. Happy early Halloween lovelies. Comment what you're gonna dress up as :D I'm going as a vampire with two of my friends. Stay safe and have fun, and don't forget to comment, vote, and follow. Catch y'all later!
-16SecondsofNothing
