(no subject)
She glanced up from her crumpled, sweaty paper. He stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame perfectly portraying his insolence and indifference for the whole matter.
"Well...who then?" she underlined the first few words in dark chipping graphite, then colored over them, colored gray.
"Not your parents. Everyone does their parents. Leave it to your first grade teacher." He looked at his fingernails, scratched his neck, he smiled.
"This isn't a joke."
"Did I say it was? Be unconventional." she didn't respond. He sighed, strode to her bed. Sat. She didn't look at him. He leaned forward. She doodled. "Look, don't do it if you don't want. Hell, don't leave anything."
Nothing. Her hand jerked. "No...I want to."
He threw himself backward, spread across her comforter. The dog crawled up beside him and licked his nose. He patted it offhandedly.
Hours passed like this, the two of them in her bedroom, the window open. Outside, sunlight trickled through still oak leaves and spattered silently on the black pavement of the roadside. A lawn mower buzzed.
"What have you got?"
She rubbed her stained finger under her nose. "nothing."
"Read it."
"Dear Mrs. Branten;
I would like to thank you for your services as the first to teach me how to write. Through you, I have learned grammatical structure and phonics. This knowledge has allowed me to communicate myself, but alas, perhaps not well enough. This will be my last use of these abilities.
Nothing you could teach in first grade would have prepared me for what I have faced. Where in my math book did I have the equation for human affection? These talents you thought I innately had, or that I would learn alone, I never conquered. I'm not intending to blame you for my inadaquacies; more, I am trying to absolve you of guilt. I am writing this to thank you for this final chance to say what needs to be said."
"hmm...I like it."
"Thank you. I don't feel like I accomplished much."
"Who's next? Let's write one to the postman."
"Actually, I'm getting tired."
"Ok."
As she tried to stand, her legs gave out and she rolled to the floor. The damp towel across her arms fell away in a bright red flush of movement. The carpet sipped at it gently. He stood, looking her over. Her face had turned ashen gray, like badly erased pencil marks, blue around the lips. Her eyes fluttered. The dog, disinterested, wandered out the door. After a few more moments, he followed.
Outside was timeless. Outside, nothing had happened to unbalance the tranquility. The lawn had been mowed; the leaves scratched at each other discontentedly in the hot muted breeze. He walked slowly, thinking, the dog behind him. Perhaps there was something more he could have done. But it was getting late.
^----- This was how you made me feel tonight. Fuck you.
(this was a creative piece meant only to symbolize how I felt. This is in no way representative of any future plans for myself or others. No animals were harmed in the making of this.)