The Library In the Back Room

He sat at his desk. Well, it was really a small table attached to a chair. Not really a “desk” in his opinion. He balanced his head on his fist. His teacher was late, which wasn’t uncommon at Tuskegee University, or anywhere else to be honest. Teachers were people too. His headphones, wirelessly streaming “Nobody Gets Me But You” by Spoon, disconnected him from the rest of the class. He liked it that way. He didn’t want to be bothered by the…others. He indeed felt he was above them. He was an English major in an English Composition class, and with the last name ‘Hemingway’, he looked down on them. He knew it was wrong, that was the funny part to him. He was an idiot. His desk-thing was clean, besides the pair of aviator sunglasses that sat on the corner. He stared at them. He was consumed by his reflection. He was such damn narcissist. He loved his face, his eyes in particular. He looked exactly like his father. He peered deeper into his own gaze. Yes, now he could even see it. Those eyes, they were symbols of hatred and confusion; symbols of weakness and disengagement. Oh how he hated his father. He embodied him. He was him. He was different on the inside, but every bit like him on the outside. He had tried once; tried to impress him, but his father was a man who could not be impressed. He had given up a long time ago. This was around the age of 14, maybe 15, whenever his father left him the second time. He shrugged whenever he thought of it. There was no need to bother himself with that nonsense. Suddenly, his English teacher came through the front door. He smiled and placed his sunglasses in his backpack.