Beautiful Tragedy

He just asked the question, just straight out said it. I couldn't believe his boldness, yet he had the guts to just ask. I admired that, I truly did. And strangely enough, I was tempted to tell him, but thinking about it hurt too much. I pictured him and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth, tears brimmed my lids and I just couldn't do it.

I then scolded myself for being tempted to tell a total stranger. Why would I do such a thing? This boy wouldn't know, couldn't know what it would be like to experience what I did. He wouldn't, couldn't feel the emotions that went with the events that had taken place. He wouldn't, couldn't understand it. Ever.

He turned from me, apologizing, yet again catching me off guard. He was apologizing to me? But why?

I glanced at him through my hair, watching him as he interacted with the work around him. He looked down at the vocab sheet, trying to read what it was saying. A kid from France that doesn't know French? This boy truly is strange.

I leaned forward a little, writing my own name on my own vocab sheet and opening my book. "It says to write down the meanings of the words on the back. The words are on page 10."

"Oh, um, thanks."

I shrugged and continued to work, quickly writing them down without having to look at the book. I already know French. I only took the class because I had an extra class space to fill and most certainly didn't want to take gym if I didn't have to.

"You're really fast," he said in awe, playing with his pencil as he chewed on his lip, looking up at me from the thin strands of his golden hair.

"I already know the language."

"Native tongue?"

"Yes and no. My dad was French, but my mom is English. I grew up speaking English, but my dad taught me French as well."

He nodded. "You know, that's the most I've heard you speak all at once."

It was funny how he went from one subject to the other so quickly. I tried to picture the wheels in his mind moving like that, wondering if he was a bit scatter brained or if he just had a lot of questions.

"You ask a lot of questions," I retorted, trying to act as if I was ignoring his statement when in reality I was analyzing his character.

"I have a lot of curiosity."

I chewed on my lip in thought, looking down at my paper. "What are you curious about?" I decided to ask, even with the risks of asking that question.

"You, if you hadn't already guessed."

I had a feeling he knew that I wanted him to leave me alone about my past, but he also knew that I was curious to why he wanted to know so badly. And he was right. I did want to know why he was so intrigued with me. I wasn't interesting at all, I'm just a freak. A messed up freak.

"There isn't anythin' all that interesting about me," I repeated out loud.

"You don't seem that plain to me. You've got walls and layers people refuse to see past or really... even try to look through."

"What makes you so different?"

"I want to see the rose inside the bud. You intrigue me, Niko. Not just because of your hand, but something about you. There's just... something there."

It was silent for a moment as I processed this. I took another moment to think over what I wanted to say or ask. I thought about the table he was sitting at and what he could gain.

"Is this a dare or a bet?"

He looked confused instantly. "What? I don't understand."

"Did somebody dare you to talk to me or are you under some kind of bet?"

"No, of course not."

"Are you gay?"

"No! I'm just - I... well, I don't know."

"Closet cases...," I mumbled under my breath, then looked up at him. "You better not be fucking with me, Echo Daae." I stood up with my books just as the bell rang and walked out the door, too confused about my own rules and yearnings to stay with him an