Christian Hudanich ~ Grade 10

          Sunlight streamed in through the dirtied window, coming to a crest on a streaked

face, highlighting every bump and groove. It caught on his damp eyelashes, dried and

cracked lips, and pale cheeks long since devoid of vitality. It caught on his thin, greasy

hair and on his patchy forgotten stubble. It went past the man’s face and shown

through the stagnant air. Dust motes floated lazily and carelessly, but that was all.

Nothing else cared to move. Then a sliding of sheets and soft, groggy groans roused the

still, tranquil euphoria of early morning. A barefoot emerged from the disheveled sheets,

then another. Next followed two legs, a torso and the rest. Unsteadily, he got to his feet

and clumsily shuffled in a drunken, off-kilter sort of way.

          Slowly and gently, he padded his way over to his heavy oak dresser, which was

coated in a thin layer of dust. He dressed slowly, yet didn’t pay heed to what he dressed

in, slipped into his worn-out faded red slippers and shuffled out his bedroom door. On his

way, he slowly wiped his face off on his sleeve, clearing away some of the morning’s

sleep as well as a few of his dreams.

          Then, after a brief face wash, he moved downstairs. He loaded the antiquated coffee

machine and slid its respective pot underneath. He popped two slices of bread into a

matching toaster, picked up the morning pape and sat down in his creaky wooden chair

to wait. He read the paper without really reading it, mostly just staring vacantly at the

ink, paper, and pictures. The bread popped, but went relatively unnoticed. Once he did

however notice his toast was ready, he got up slowly and uncertainty and pluck the

slices from the waiting toaster. He grabbed two muggs, filled them up with bitter

coffee, put two plates with a slice each on the table and sat down across from an

identical array. And then he ate slowly, bordering on tediously, so as not to rush the

moment. His first appointment would be around 3:00 that afternoon, so he’d have

plenty of time. So there he sat, with two coffees. Two slices of toast and two chairs.

Two beds. Two heavy oak dressers. Two dirty windows. Two dust moat-filled rooms. Yet

only one set of disheveled sheets. Only one newspaper. Only one.

          After sitting there and zoning out a little, he collected the fragments of though that

lay dispersed throughout the air surrounding him, got up, and attempted at a rather poor

job of clearing and watching the two sets of dishes. Once they were stowed safely 

away in their respective cupboards, and with a generous amount of grumbling, he

managed to amble his way over to the stiff green couch. He fell down onto it none too

gracefully, falling as if the weight on his shoulders were more than the few wisps of a

faded old t-shirt. And there he sat.

          It had been some time since he had a chance to just sit. But everything come to a

draw eventually. Just like how after a deluge of seemingly endless water pouring from a

darkened sky, a white bud will poke its way around the drooping curtain of grey,

brushing off the storm clouds to reassure the world that all is not lost. Though for now,

the rains continue.

          After a period of time where in he could remember nothing, he decided that he was

through with sitting. Being a bit more awake, he got up and made his way through the

house. He grabbed his coat from the cramped closet. Then he grabbed his keys and

headed out the door. Outside sat a little Toyota Camry, silver only in name for it had long

since lost its shine. The seats were stiff black leather that supported passengers, but

did nothing to comfort them. As the man slid into the driver's seat, he leaned over,

buckled the passenger seat in next to him, then secured his own belt. The clock on the

dashboard read 6:46, but it had gone hopelessly out of time so the man wrestled out

his phone and saw 2:48 displayed in bold white font across the picture of some smiling,

happy child’s face.

          “Sh-t!” and with that, the man backed up and sped down the quiet, lazy street. The

sun gently crested upon the rooftops and windows as a gentle breeze ruffled up some

of the asps and maples nearby. A soft ripple expanded across the calm pond on his

right, while birds went about their usual fare of feeding and building. He sped past all of

this and raced towards where he remembered was the high school. With a little bit of

backtracking and some risky 5-point turns, he finally arrived in front of the tired looking

brick building that had long ago worn off all of its paint. He pulled into spot number 456

right next to the door mostly out of habit, hopped out and raced up the concrete steps.

As he entered the building, he noticed several students passing by but the general

atmosphere seemed the relaxed climate of after school activities and events. He

walked up to the front desk where a kind looking woman in her late 40s sat reading

Eleanor and Park. She glanced up, set the book down and rearranged herself in her desk

chair.

          “How may I help you?”

          “Uh...hi. I'm here to see Mr. Simons.”

          “Of course, right this way”

          The secretary led him through a maze of hallways until they arrived at a small office

door labeled Guidance Office in glitzy gold font. A soft knock and a low muttering and he

was shoved into the room, the door closed behind him. He quickly made his way across

the room and sat down in an old armchair, fidgeting nervously as though he were back in

high school, reduced to his former adolescent self.

          “How're things going?” asked the dark-haired, middle aged man who sat behind a wide

desk wearing a severe black suit.

          “Fine.”

          “Good, good. How are you sleeping at night?” Simons said, eyeing the man’s

clenching and unclenching fists.

          “Fine” the man repeated hurriedly and distracted.

          “Okay, good.” Simons said tentatively. “Let's skip the pleasantries and discuss why

you are here today.”

          Suddenly interested in something other than the paisley carpeted floor, the man

replied pointedly, “I am here today because I have a right to know anything and

everything about how the students interact in their day to day lives.”

          Flustered by this sudden response Simons proclaimed, “Sir, I can tell you that our

students are a thriving, creative cohesion of children from all backgrounds. They are all

tolerant and successful students,” Simons replied almost automatically.

          “Huh, you know what, I think I just read that somewhere recently. Oh yes! The

student handbook. So do you want to give me a better answer, or do I need to ask

someone else who won’t just spew administration bulls---t at me?” the man shot back.

          “Sir, I’ll have you know, we make sure our students are educated and disciplined on

how to conduct themselves as sociable and as amicably as possi-”

          “Goddammit! Why are you lying to me.” he screamed, spraying spittle across the

room. “A sociable society wouldn't tell its peers to hang themselves, or jump off a

f---ing bridge, would they? Because if they would, then I'm missing something,” the

man seethed.

          “Uh-”

          “Now I want you to think very carefully about those next words. Cuz’ I’m not feeling

too nice right now, so don’t make me force the answer out of you” the man threatened

violently.”

          “I think” Simons replied slowly and hesitantly. “That our students can be...misguided

at time. There are certain individuals, such as your son’s aggressors, that tend to

deviate from the norm, shale we say. However, I believe as the guidance counselor of

this school, that many of our children uphold virtuous morals and mindsets.”

          With a somewhat compliant answer at last, the man asked, “So then what’s being

done about those “Misguided” students. Because my son is gone, I understand that, and

no amount of bitching to you or anyone else at this godforsaken facility will bring him

back. My concern is the others that Simon left behind. What happens when the next kid

who thinks he’s the coolest and most popular guy decides to poke some fun at my

son’s classmates. What then? Huuh? What happens when this happens again, because

I know for a fact that a school like this practically breeds monsters.”

          “As I understand it, the school administration is doing everything possible to not only

mourn your loss, but to also prevent this situation from ever happening again.” Simons

replied, reverting back to his administrative, detached voice.

          “You know what, that's great. I’m sure you guys have been doing the same thing for

years now and have convinced your bureaucratic little heads that eventually, this flawed

system will work. But you know something? Something you idle, administrative little

workers will never understand is that as society grows and evolves, so does bullying.

It's not a one solution fixes every case. But I can see that it's hopeless ‘cause that’d

take too much time out of your precious schedule.” and with that, he got up and

stormed out of the room, breezing past the front desk lady whose nose was so far into

her book, she barely noticed him.

          Simons shouted after him “Wait! Sir! Wait!” but without another word, the man

shouldered open the rusted glass double doors, raced down the concrete steps, and slid

into his car, performing the same ritual as he had earlier that day.

          After driving past the blur of his neighborhood, he pulled into his overgrown driveway.

As he rolled down the grown path, he felt as though he were in some lost, magical

jungle, where the trees knitted a tight, protective roof over him and the briars and

weeds held back the advancing world from his little paradise. The birds flew from tree

to tree, filling the space with bird song and bright flashes of tailfeathers. Then the car

slowly rolled into the warmly lit garage and can to a general stop.

          He sat there, again not thinking much, and felt the safety of his imaginative paradise

as it closed in around him from behind. He imagined himself being enveloped by layers of

soft oak and maple leaves as bird lulled him to sleep with their obliviously cheerful

tweets. The sweet smell of apple blossoms filled his nostrils as the warmth from the

dying sunlight breathed life into his cheeks, slowing his breath till he slipped into the

deep foliage of his paradise jungle.

          Several hours passed, then several more, until the moon came and went, passing

over the man without much to contribute. Then, ever so slowly, the sun creeped into the

early grey morning sky. A small trickle of light seeped from the slowly advancing day and

found its way in through the garage’s soot stained window, through the plaster dust

filled air, and into the dormant car. It then fell upon the ear of an upturned head, shining

from behind so that it shone reddy-gold in the dim surroundings. Gently, his lips parted

to let in the still air that encased everything inside the car. The air cupped the man’s

sallow cheeks and boney features, allowing the slow rise and fall of his chest, but not

much else. Again, the man seems to hang, semi-conscious in the euphoric sense of

blissful suspension. As the sun slipped up higher above the distant horizon, it began to

fill the stagnant air, causing it to glow in a halo like fashion. At the arrival of this new,

proclaiming light, the man woke to find that early morning had indeed arrive. With a

gentle sigh of content, he opened his eyes a little more to begin facing the reality of the

day. He shifted his feet, giving his legs time to wake up with the rest of his body. As he

moved his head to look around at his unusual surroundings, he groaned and rubbed his

aching neck, complaining to no one in particular about a particularly nasty crick.

          With the task of rousing himself out of the way, he slowly opened the door which he

had curled up against the night before and headed inside. Despite the unusual change in

sleeping location, nothing else changed too much from his morning. He changed, rinsed

his haggard face, and set about making breakfast. In when the toast and coffee, and

then he sat down to wait again. However, instead of grabbing the newspaper that lay on

the floor in front of his tired old front door, he turned over the events of yesterday's

conversation. He thought about how the lady at the desk seemed nice enough, but

hadn't cared at all when he stormed out of there so abruptly. An Simons too. He had

seemed kind and understanding, at first glance. Sure, he was detached and formal, but

he wasn't mean, at least not until they had brought up his son. His son...

          With the thought of his son, the man found it hard to concentrate. Everytime he tried

to refocus on the conversation, images of ropes and trees and crowds of boys would

cloud into his mind like and invasive plant penetrating a pure, flourishing forest. The

rope tightening around an outstretched tree limb as a boy fit it around himself.

Grey-black fog seeped into the man’s sight as the visions commanded full control of

him. He wanted to stop, to focus, to forget how it had happened, but he couldn't. He

couldn't draw his attention away as the boy, barely old enough to know what the world

around him really was, kicked and gurgled, realizing too late, that he made a mistake.

And the bystanders, laughing it off as though it were some joke. Thought to them, it

was. That's all it was to them, a joke.

          With this resolute thought, the man turned towards the window cut into the wall

next to him, allowing the sun shine through the fog that obscured his vision, as well as

light both the room and his thoughts. The light caught on each individual mote as it

turned itself over in the air. It suspended itself along with the dust motes in the air, still

and immobile, as if waiting. The dust, the light and the man, all perched in the air,

waiting to fall. Waiting.