Weapon: Spear
He leads a ferocious life, like a lion in a jungle and then he met him. He leads a life of tranquility, his voice mellow and sweet like honey and then he met him. Two lost different beings, finally owns each other.
1985
I am sitting on the grass under an old tree with a contorted face and a crumpled paper balled in my right fist. I tried to calm myself down by doing breathing exercises but it only intensifies the anger welling up inside me. Right now, you're wondering why I'm raving mad. Just earlier this morning--a mere five minutes ago, my art teacher—Ms. Liezel Cajulao—gave me a thorough review of my work. We were required to make a series—artworks that have a connection with one another—for a mock gallery. The results from a panel of critics will decide the fate of my grades—not that I give a damn about the marks, but I must pass. I can't afford to repeat another year. Back to the current issue, Ms. Cajulao says that my art is like a blank slate of emotions. To make it simple, she can't feel anything when she looks at my work and the critics seems to agree, based on what's written on the paper anyway. The footnote below says that I must channel feelings to my work. Well, I did get a justifiable grade but I'm stressing over the comments. That's why I decided to take a breather under this tree, but I haven't calmed down, not even a little bit.
From my position, I can clearly see the school's tracking field and got a tad bit surprised when I saw a student still practicing despite the morning's scorching heat. He was a javelin thrower. I can see him gaining his momentum by running, his right hand holding the javelin tightly as he throws it. The javelin lands far—from him, at least because it landed just meters away from me.
I repeat, meters.away.from.me.
I can hear the fast beating of my heart, the adrenaline rush resonating in my nerves. I stare at the javelin with pure shock and horror and diverted my gaze angrily at the approaching bastard. How dare he endanger my life? I drew an exhilarating breath, gathering my sanity to handle the situation correctly.
"I'm sorry—"
"You ought to be careful, boy. I could have been impaled! I'm seventeen years old and even though I've been through shit earlier, I'm not ready to die yet!" I exclaimed as I cut off the student's apology. I can see him chasing his breath for he ran towards my direction, the sweat glistening on his fair skin and making his hair wet. His eyes are expressive, those brown orbs looking at me with guilt. One word comes in mind upon looking at him—beautiful.
"I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to throw the javelin towards your direction. I'm fifteen years old and I don't want to kill you," he apologized once again with a bunny smile. The apology sounds sincere enough, but I'm not the type to let everything pass easily.
"I demand compensation," I replied with lips pursed into a thin line.
"How about soda and a date with me?" He suggests with a mischievous grin.
"Soda sounds good."
"I'm Vaughn Martines, and I'm sorry about the javelin."
"Nice to meet you, Vaughn. My name is Clyde Maxwell."
1986
A date turned into two.
Two dates turned into three.
And it goes on and on...until it's getting pretty annoying because he clearly loves me but he's a coward to admit it. I mustered the courage to confess my feelings for him while he's sketching my face as we lie on my bed in my apartment. Well, I fell for him when I accidentally threw the javelin in my direction. No, I'm in love with him even before that. I saw him getting out of Ms. Cajulao's room, trying so hard to look calm and collected even though he's clearly pissed. He looks so cute and that's how I fell for his charms. I really want to catch his attention so I decided to practice my javelin throwing skills. It's really hot, considering it's ten in the morning and I'm practicing like an idiot on the tracking field. Throwing the javelin at his direction is quite risky, but at least he did notice me.
