The Danger of Devotion

The Silence

"Police Identify Body Found in Cobalt River..."

Ruth Williams. Seventeen years old. Honor roll student. Student council president. Vice president of the chess club. President of S.A.D.D. Captain of the volleyball team. Co-captain of the swim team. 4.00 GPA. Naturally gifted. Wealthy. Inquisitive. Thoughtful... Recently deceased.

The air was still and silent. The silence rang loud in my ears.  I found myself yearning for the bell to ring—even moreso than usual. Everyone felt it, everyone was forced to feel it. There was no escaping it. The town was somber, mourning, aching at the loss of such a prized pupil.

Unsurprisingly, I did not know her. I didn't know anyone, not really. I was the epitome of an outcast in every sense of the word, but I had grown accustomed to that.

But that fact did not make the lump in my throat any easier to swallow, nor did it alleviate the feeling of my clenched gut.

No one was left untouched. I could have glanced around the room and checked, but there was no point. I knew everyone was feeling it, whether they knew Ruth Williams or not. We are all touched by the rare tragedies that occur within the confines of this suffocatingly small town.

Isn't it funny, how a benefit of living in a small town can simultaneously be crippling? Togetherness breeds uniformity. Uniformity of feeling is what made that day so excruciating, even for those who did not know Ruth Williams on any sort of personal level.

For a moment, I allowed my mind to wander to Janice Jones. I couldn't help but wonder where she was and how she was feeling. From what I'd observed, Ruth Williams was her best friend, and perhaps one of her only friends. I could not even begin to imagine that type of devastation.

The lunch bell pierced the air like a dagger does skin, interrupting my train of thought. I didn't mind though. In fact, I don't think I'd ever been so relieved in my life to hear that bell. We were quite literally saved by the bell.

But even the cafeteria was deafeningly silent that day. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break the silence somehow. I could not bring myself to do that, of course. There was no need to draw any attention to myself.

I was nibbling on my crappy ham sandwich when I recalled the events of the day prior. I was reminded of Janice Jones' intrusion into my line of sight, and in turn her intrusion into my mind.

I found myself longing to see Janice Jones. To hear her voice, to watch as her lips formed a pout, and then, hopefully—if I could get so lucky—a smile. I tried to convince myself that this desire to see Janice was just because I felt sick to my stomach and wished someone could kill the silence, but in truth I had developed a soft spot for Janice Jones. I could not help myself.

I was so lost in thought that I did not even notice Mr. Gallagher, my oh so beloved guidance counselor (yes, that was sarcasm), speaking to me.

I averted my gaze to his face as his hands waved in my face rather rudely. I knew that I grimaced, and I knew I would pay for that in his office.

"Aidan? Hello? Can we please talk in my office?" I could tell today was not his day, and that he'd probably done dozens of these conferences already. The bags under his eyes were more defined than usual, and his unkempt hair was flat out a rat's nest that day. I felt sort of bad; I knew that he tried his best, but frankly he just did not belong in this profession.

It is for that reason that I stood quietly and followed him to his office on the opposite side of the school. For once I felt fortunate when he forced me into small talk on the way there. It seemed he was the only one in the entire district who spoke that day.

When we arrived, Mr. Gallagher got right to business.

"Aidan, I feel that I can and should be honest with you, but either way I'm sure you're already aware that I am required to conference with all the students following the horrible tragedy that's occurred. It's protocol."

He peered at me, expecting some kind of response, to no avail. I never meant to be difficult, he simply was not the ideal person to talk to. Recognizing he wasn't getting a response, he sighed inwardly and clasped his hands together.

"So how are you holding up? How are you feeling?" He questioned, trying and failing epically at genuine concern. That was precisely the problem—the facade. The least he could do was master the act of caring, but he couldn't even do that.

This time, though, I humored him with something of a response. I raised my eye brows at him, much to his discontent. I scoffed, rolling my eyes, standing, and walking out of that bleak and depressing office. I could hear him calling out my name. I didn't really care though.

Instead of returning to the cafeteria and then inevitably to world history, I sauntered out to my jet black 1990 Firebird. Although I wasn't an A+ student or anything, doing so was still uncharacteristic for me. Usually I'd show up at the very least. But not that day. I couldn't bear it.

I got in and turned the stereo up high, a random Arcade Fire song putting my racing mind at ease.

That was enough silence for today.