Simple Man

- TWO -

Friday, October 2nd, 1998

The abrupt sound of a heavy textbook startled Kyra Wolfe, rudely tearing her away from a most pleasant daydream. The poor girl was brought out of a fantasy full of superheroes and back into the mundane existence of fourth grade. It was only reflexive that Kyra looked in the direction of the sound but she regretted it almost instantly. She wasn't successful in locating the source of the noise but unfortunately succeeded in making eye contact with Laurel Davies—part-time classmate and full-time arch nemesis. "What, freak?" Laurel mouthed.

Kyra sighed, rolling her eyes as she turned back around. She tried her hardest to pretend she didn't hear Laurel say, "Kill yourself..." under her breath and tried even harder to block out the quiet snickering of the other students around her. It was a twisted, nasty remark but it wasn't the first nor the last time she'd hear it. Kyra didn't want to dwell on Laurel because what would be the point? Kyra had scarier things than a bully to worry about; things no nine-year-old should ever have to worry about. As far as Kyra was concerned being bullied was just one more terrible thing to add to the pile of terrible things that seemed to accumulating in her life as of late but they had to get in line.

It was then a small movement to the left of Kyras' peripheral caught the attention her school assignment had miserably failed to capture. Her deep, dark brown eyes began to follow the dust as they made their ascent up to the ceiling. Kyra remained still, barely allowing a breath to disrupt the unhurried chaos. She watched the motes orbiting around one another like two classically trained dancers performing in the spotlight of a sunbeam. The blinds had little success keeping the sunlight out as it filtered through and washed everything in the classroom with the same golden hues of a vintage camera filter.

Other than the soft scratching of pencils on paper there was almost perfect silence. Kyras' own pencil began to move; her hand languidly doodled in the corner of her long-neglected worksheet. She was only half aware she was doing it and much less conscience that those graphite lines mimicked the spiraling route of the dust. She gave more thought to dust than anyone had any business to—it was borderline existential but Kyra wouldn't have known what that meant. Everyone—herself included—just thought she was a weird kid. Kyra didn't mind being thought of as weird, it meant people left her alone and that's how she preferred it.

Making friends no longer mattered.

Her mom was dead. So what else could possibly matter to a little girl when her whole world had fell out from underneath and life had yet to catch her? No one else had to understand Kyra because she understood Kyra. She understood because she had seen things that could never be unseen. She had seen things she can't talk about with anyone—not even to Iyana. Kyra knew it would have been a strange thing to say out loud but she couldn't help but feel a kindred connection to this dust. Much like the dust, Kyra felt helpless navigating herself through what her therapist called her "new normal." She hated, hated her new normal. She wanted her old normal and was angry there was nothing she could do to get it back.

Much like the dust she was unsure where she would ultimately land but wherever that was it would never feel as good as landing back in her mother's arms just one more time. That's if she even landed, Kyra was doubtful she would find solid ground ever again.

"Miss Breault?" Mrs. Tripp called, her harsh voice butting itself in between Kyra and her ruminations.

Kyra continued to stare up at the ceiling making a pointed effort not to respond. Mrs. Tripp disliked Kyra and Kyra didn't care much for Mrs. Tripp

"Miss. Breault." Tripp repeated, more firmly.

Kyra reluctantly drew her eyes away from the waltzing dust and turned them to the disapproving pucker of her teacher, "Yes... Mrs. Tripp?" Kyra sighed.