Far Too Young to Die
ii
*FIVE YEARS LATER*
“I know. I get it. One of the more challenging aspects of writing an essay—or anything, really—is actually beginning it,” Vic recalled telling one of the AP English classes he interned with four years ago.
And now, as he stared blankly at the next unmarked page in his leather journal, the candor of his words felt all too discernible. He gripped the painted, golden yellow wood of his pencil and lightly touched the ivory-colored lined paper with the sharpened graphite tip, yet no words influenced his fingertips to move.
He was filled with a sort of funny feeling, like he knew what he wanted to write while simultaneously, he didn’t. The ideas had been tumbling around in his mind for the past few days, but now that he was putting forth an effort, he came up dumbfounded. He stole a glance at where the three manila portfolios lay at the opposite corner of his desk, each one containing synthesis essays from each of the three AP English classes he taught. They seemed to taunt him, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the other papers that littered his desk; he knew that the main reason why he was so desperate to add another journal entry was because he was procrastinating, postponing reading and grading them until later in the forthcoming weekend. With a sigh, he tore his eyes away from the folders.
Vic’s gaze roamed to his desk calendar, and the sight emphasized the significance of that particular day. His lips turned up into a small grin at the thought and with a boost of elation, he finally wrote “September 5” in the top right corner of the page. He paused to sip from his bottle of Honest Tea Peach White Tea before continuing: “Five years.”
He slightly lifted his pencil and studied his fresh words, dissatisfaction uncomfortably nibbling at his brain. Partially from the penmanship he often referred to as “chicken scratch,” but mostly because he disliked the petty introduction. It was a recurring phenomenon for Vic, and the reason he only sporadically wrote was that he could never produce something that he didn’t feel discontent with. However, the rational side of him knew that not even the man he intended to base the entry on would read a single word. He had no one to impress in the name of literature, which seemed to minutely enfeeble the degree of his internal unease. Defying his strong urge to ponder something different, he wrote again.
“1,825 days, plus one for the leap year.
Six years ago, I never would’ve predicted my life to turn out this way, for on that night, as I tightly grasped the wooden rail, gazed over the tranquil water of the creek before me, and recited to myself my final goodbyes to everything I had ever known, I was incapable of envisioning my life lasting longer than the following couple minutes. I figured that I’d draw in a final breath, release the rail, lean forward, and let gravity assume its role in the universe and pull me into what would’ve been the biggest mistake I ever made.
Because if I had jumped that night, I would’ve missed the opportunity to realize that the demons that plagued my mind were possible to defeat, that the darkness I had become so accustomed to wasn’t as perpetual as it seemed, and that finding the light at the end of the tunnel was an adventure that no one could traverse for me.”
Vic set his pencil aside, downed another mouthful of his tea, and reread what he had written so far with indifference. He was no longer infatuated with the start of the piece; his focus was what he was going to write next. He then decided to allow his fingers to do the thinking.
“Of course, I couldn’t have reversed the direction of my existence by myself. It was the undying support from those I care for that served as a medium through which I discovered my own perseverance, as if my situation was a movie wherein the key to the resolution resided in me all along.
Although the fact that I’ve lived to see my twenty-fifth birthday and that I’ve lived my entire life up to this moment are accomplishments that I cannot solely thank anyone for, I must acknowledge that the only reason I climbed back over the rail that night was because of him.
We met under the most coincidental, yet dismal, of circumstances. I had walked away from my dorm with one goal: to succeed in what I had failed to do five times prior. The plan was foolproof, success seemed guaranteed. I left the campus while everyone was asleep. I snuck toward the city and I crept past the toll booth guard and through the trees until I reached my destination. I knew that I wouldn’t survive a fall of what must’ve been three or four stories. There were no wounds to apply pressure to, no pills to be pumped from my stomach, no hapless younger brother to remove the barrel from between my lips and pry Papa’s pistol from my violently trembling hands, no one to remove my head from the noose seconds after hearing my stool collide with the ground, and no one to admonish me for chain-smoking Marlboros just to finish off my final pack.
I was alone… or so I thought.”
Vic ceased as the door to the apartment’s second bedroom was pushed open, and an orange tabby cat slid through the small gap. The cat trotted straight to Vic and affectionately brushed up against his ankle. With a small smile, he lifted the slender kitty and set him on his lap, gently scratching him behind an ear and then in front of the base of his tail. “What’s up, Edgar?” Vic questioned him quietly.
The cat only responded by beginning to purr and one of his owners spoke again. “You only came in here to remind me that it’s dinnertime, didn’t ya? Let’s see, what time is it…?” Vic grabbed his phone and illuminated the screen to see the time, and was almost shocked to see that it was nearing seven o’clock p.m. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, little dude.” Edgar, as well as the second cat, Boo Radley (which was often shortened to Boo), had highly attuned senses and were aware that their evening meals were served at around six. Vic had been so consumed by his writing that the priority had slipped his mind. (A/N: disclaimer: I do NOT own the name Boo Radley. It is from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. You probably know that, but I feel as though I should say this anyway.)
“Alright. Come on, you.” Vic softly placed Edgar on the ground and stood, dropping his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and walking into the living room.
The apartment Vic shared with his lover was as cozy as it was small, yet it suited them nicely and it was the best they’d be able to do. Since Vic only had a Bachelor’s degree in English education, he didn’t qualify for the pay raise that teachers with at least a Master’s earned, which left him with an annual wage of around $25,000. During the first part of the day, Jaime served as a clinical psychology intern in a local private practice to receive on-the-job training that the university classroom couldn’t offer. By three, he was adorned in a forest-green apron and was employed as a part-time café server in the small coffee shop that was tucked into a corner of a local bookstore.
Vic strolled to where the cats’ food dishes were located next to the kitchen counter. He brought both dishes into the kitchenette and set them on the counter, then turned to fetch the bag of cat kibble from one of the cabinets. He poured a scoopful of food into each dish while Edgar and Boo—a pleasantly plump feline equipped with alert, green eyes and long, raven-black, silky fur— watched in anticipation. Just as Vic was returning the bag back to its cabinet, he caught the sight of Boo licking his chops. He picked up both bowls and the cats took this as a cue to position themselves as Vic lowered their dinners into their respective spots. Boo emitted a somewhat vociferous meow, as if to demand why their meal had been delayed for so long. They wasted no time in digging in as Vic quietly retreated to where he abandoned his journal.
He quickly skimmed through the entire entry before eagerly starting from where he left off.
“I have no clue how long I was out there before he showed up. All I remember is that I heard his foot snap a twig just as I was about to let go.
He approached me once he realized what my intentions were, and that I was steadfast in achieving them. He persuaded me to climb back over to where it was safe, he threatened his own suicide, and I decided I’d rather not play with fire and risk burning someone else. He allowed me to cry into his shoulder, he raptly listened to the maelstrom of emotions I unleashed and the same explanations revealed to the countless specialists I encountered back when my parents were desperate for anything that could salvage their damaged son.
That was the night that both of our lives changed forever. Because he made a promise to me that he’d be my friend and my supporter—a promise that he has not broken— is why I decided that maybe, just maybe, I’d give life one more try. I had an epiphany that night, a point that I didn’t fully fathom until we were walking back to school together.
I never wanted to die.
I made five attempts to end my own life. Six, maybe, if the ordeal at the bridge counts.
But I never genuinely wanted to die.
I just longed for the misery to end. In my opinion, if death was the only thing that’d put me at peace, then so be it.
However, a part of me had realized that if dying was something that I truly desired, I wouldn’t have been crying as hard as I was. I wouldn’t have spent a few extra minutes smoking those last cigarettes or whispering those final goodbyes to the world as I clung to the rail. As I looked over the water, it occurred to me how permanent of a decision I was choosing to make, that once my body struck the ground, there’d be no going back. Some misfortunate soul would discover my body in the morning but by then, the vessel that I used to personify would be lifeless and mangled, devoid of the essence that was once my character.”
His pencil stopped moving, for he was abruptly presented with a mild case of writer’s block. He felt like he needed to describe the contrast between who he was years ago and who he was now… or something like that. Frankly, he didn’t know what to write next, and he was aware that the current ending was insufficient.
He perused through his most recent addendum, which resurfaced the poignant memories of how low he had stooped at that bridge. He fought hard to swallow the lump forming in his throat and the tears that burned his eyes just like they had thousands of times before. Picking up the plastic bottle of tea, he chugged down the remainder of it, and he found that the action served as an unlikely source of inspiration.
“I remember, five years ago today, when I confessed my love for the wonderful man that wholeheartedly aspired to see me through the healing process, he countered by asking whether my love was directed at him or the selfless act he performed that night. And while I remain very grateful for his roommate banishing him from their dorm for the night, I know with every fiber of my being that I love inch of that man just for epitomizing perfection. There is no other face I’d rather wake up to than his, no one else I’d prefer to share the lazy weekends with, to cuddle with, to make love to, to discuss nothing in particular with at the small hours of the morning when neither of us can fall asleep.
Love is a hard sensation to explain. At first, it was weird, it was alien, for no other reason than it was something other than the inherent depression I had grown so used to. It was one of the challenges of recovering, because in a way, it almost felt as though happiness wasn’t as legitimate as sadness. I’m having difficulties conveying what I mean here; the only thing that can really sum it up is a quote from a song by Nirvana.
‘I miss the comfort in being sad.’
So in short, I don’t know how the dust of fallen stars managed to converge ideally to construct my lover, my best friend, and the person I’ve been with for half a decade, but goddamn it, Jaime, I’m so glad you fucking exist.”
Vic frowned at his last paragraph; he thought it ruined the solemnity of the entry. He countered this idea by trying to justify it and convincing himself that the statement could demonstrate that no personal essay was required to expound his feelings for Jaime. All of Vic’s sincerity was portrayed through the end.
Mulling over the remembrance that no one would ever lay an eye upon what the journal contained, Vic shrugged and closed the book with his pencil inside. He briefly studied the owl embossed in the tanned hide of the front cover before standing and leaving the room. He strolled into the kitchenette and retrieved a granola bar from a cabinet, tearing the package open and biting into it immediately. He chewed it slowly as he perched himself on the counter.
The resplendent, chartreuse numbers of the stove clock stood out in the dim apartment. Vic was pleased to see that the time was a couple minutes shy of seven-thirty, which was when Jaime got off work.
Halfway through his snack, his phone started to incessantly buzz in his pocket. The unexpected tickle against his leg startled him; fishing the phone from his pocket revealed that the caller was none other than Jaime himself.
Vic answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, bookworm,” Jaime’s cheerful voice sounded through the receiver. Vic’s heart fluttered at the use of the endearing nickname. “I’m thinking about just picking up some take-out for dinner tonight. Is Chinese okay?”
“Oh, yeah. That sounds fine.”
“You want your usual?”
“Yes, please. You want me to find us something to watch on Netflix?”
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind.”
“Alright. What do you wanna watch?” He took another small portion of the granola bar into his mouth.
“I don’t know. I’m kinda feeling something along the lines of a thriller, or horror. Maybe an action movie. I don’t care. It’s up to you, really.”
“I’ll look through some. We can pick when you get here.” Vic leaped off the counter and discarded the half-eaten bar in the garbage can.
“Alright. Whatcha up to?” Jaime asked curiously.
“I was writing a bit. I’m trying not to think about all the papers I have to grade this weekend. My AP kids wrote their first synthesis essay of the year today.”
“Wow, on a Friday? You’re evil. How’d they like that?”
“Oh, they hated it.” A crooked grin crept onto Vic’s face as he remembered the chorus of groans that erupted from all three classes as he distributed the essay prompts.
“How did Chris like it? He’s one of your AP students, right?”
“Eighth period. He didn’t seem to care. But then again, he knows I know you. He’s probably not gonna misbehave in my class anytime soon.”
“Of course he won’t, because he knows I’ll teach him a lesson. But hey, I’m about to go in and order our food. I’ll see you when I get home, okay?”
“Okay. Love you.” Vic felt his heart skip a beat as the words—just two simple words—escaped his lips, similar to the way they had every day for the past five years.
“I love you too, babe.”
After they hung up, Vic, in a blissful state, nearly skipped to the second bedroom to acquire the laptop and charger cable from the second desk that served as Jaime’s study before prancing to their own bedroom. Netflix, Chinese food, and the love of his life sounded like something that was almost too good to be true.
Upon entering the room, he noticed that the cats had made themselves comfortable on the queen-sized bed: Boo in the center and Edgar nestled between the pillows. “Really, guys?” Vic asked, mocking frustration as he crawled across the bed (which disrupted Boo’s relaxation atop the tribal-print blanket sea) to reach an electrical outlet on the other side. He plugged the laptop in and opened it, turning it on and pushing his pillow against the headboard to lean on it as the computer booted up. Vic plopped down onto the bed and draped the covers over his legs.
“Alright, what do you guys wanna watch on Netflix?” he inquired, gently scratching the orange cat behind his ear. The only replies to Vic’s question were a flick of Boo’s tail and soft purring from Edgar.
He opened Netflix and logged in, scrolling through the several offered categories of movies displaying covers for the most popular movies ranging from action and adventure to, finally, thrillers. Vic clicked on it and began to browse through various titles. As he did, he added Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code to his mental list of possibilities, even though Jaime wasn’t as enthusiastic about Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon series as Vic was.
Vic sighed and aimlessly scrolled until he came across a title of a book he’d read before: Flowers in the Attic. Curious, he clicked on the cover. The movie only had a three-and-a-half star rating, but this failed to deter him. It was classified under “psychological thrillers,” so he figured it would intrigue Jaime. Satisfied, he reached into his pocket for his phone and then sent his partner a text.
Vic: Does Flowers in the Attic sound okay? It’s a psychological thriller ;p
Jaime: Are you still convinced I’m a workaholic? Haha… but yes, it sounds fine…
Vic: Yeah, you’re a bit of a workaholic, but you’re so passionate about what you do and it’s cute. I love you. Come home already, damn it.
Jaime: Almost home, love. I’ve been waiting to see your beautiful face all day.
The message sent just as the traffic light turned green, Jaime slowly releasing the brake and tapping the accelerator as the pickup truck in front of him started to move. The aroma of the Chinese entrées wafted throughout his car and he smiled, for no other reason than the butterfly-inducing man he was about to go home to. He steered right at the intersection, merged into a turn lane, and entered the deceitful apartment complex, whose recent paint job involving a color scheme of brown, white, and gray effectively disguised how rundown each residence actually was.
After driving to his particular block and parking next to Vic’s car, Jaime unhooked his seatbelt, grabbed the plastic bag full of food, exited the car, and unlocked the door to apartment number 504-1. He stepped inside to find that the living space was dim; the only source of light was coming from their partially-open bedroom door. A crinkling sound originated from somewhere in the black that swallowed a majority of the apartment, but it shortly stopped. As Jaime closed and locked the door behind him, Boo appeared from the dark carrying a crinkle ball in his jaws.
“Hello, Mr. Radley. Lookin’ dapper as always,” Jaime murmured, crouching to greet the cat as he dropped his ball and approached his owner. He seemed especially interested in the contents of a certain, white bag with a red pagoda printed on the front. “Hey, no people food. I’m pretty sure you’ve had your dinner.”
Jaime stood, walking past Boo and peeking into the bedroom. He thought Vic was oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, his eyes transfixed on his computer screen.
“I see you,” Vic stated, shifting his gaze shifting to look at his wonderfully eccentric boyfriend.
“Damn it,” Jaime whispered harshly to himself, pushing the door open farther. At the sight of the second cat snuggled next to Vic, Jaime expressed a bit of mock-disappointment. “Edgar Allan Poe Preciado Fuentes, I don’t approve of you stealing my man like this.” He placed his keys on the dresser before continuing to the bed.
Vic giggled as Jaime kneeled beside him, cupped his cheek with a strong hand, and kissed the bridge of his nose, something Vic absolutely adored. They glanced lovingly into each other’s eyes for a moment before Jaime spoke. “I’m gonna go change into something more comfortable, okay?”
“Alright. Make it quick. I really wanna see this movie.”
Jaime crawled off the bed and headed to the dresser, slipping off his red and white Vans and his socks. “Enlighten me, Vicky. What’s this movie about?”
“‘After a tragic accident leaves them fatherless, four children move into their mother's mysterious family mansion in hopes of an inheritance. Instead, they are imprisoned by their evil grandmother, leaving them to survive a nightmare of cruelty.’” Vic read the description.
Jaime tossed his burgundy T-shirt off and discarded it on the ground, leaving Vic to secretly admire his broad, sculpted back. The former rummaged around in a drawer until he removed a blue Star Wars tank top and threw it on. “It’s based on the book. I read it awhile ago.”
As he unfastened the button on his black skinny jeans and unzipped them, Jaime sincerely replied, “Sounds interesting.”
Vic began to unpack the bag of food, setting out two white boxes, a Styrofoam carton of what, presumably, contained eggrolls, packets of soy and duck sauce, fortune cookies, and chopsticks. “God, this smells so fucking good,” he remarked.
Jaime lifted Edgar, who emitted a cranky meow in protest. “I told you, Edgar. He’s my man, and you need to back off.” He gently rested the irritable feline at the foot of the bed.
“You are such an idiot.”
“He needs to learn his place.”
“Shut up and sit next to me, you fool.”
Jaime peeled the covers back and scooted close to Vic, who was examining the contents of one of the boxes. “This one has fried rice; it’s yours. You want me to start the movie?”
“Of course.”
Vic moved the laptop so it would be on both his lap and Jaime’s. As the movie started loading, Jaime spoke. “Hey.” He slightly raised his box. “Here’s to five years.”
The smaller man felt his cheeks warm and a small, flattered grin stretch across his face at the mention of their anniversary. He had started to think that Jaime had forgotten, but Jaime had waited the entire day to say it in person. “And many more to come,” Vic added, and they lightly touched their boxes together in a toast that was unique—yet unsurpassable—to their relationship.
When the film began, a comfortable silence descended between the two as they ate, and persisted even when the food was gone and their bellies were full. Vic cuddled into Jaime’s side and snaked an arm around his waist, while Jaime simply draped one of his burly arms around the smaller one’s shoulders, pressing his lips to the top of his head as he did so.
The movie wasn’t necessarily scary, but one part that evoked a bit of emotion in Vic was the scene where the older brother, Chris, sliced the inside of his arm with a single-edge blade. He hadn’t done it with the intentions of self-harm, but to use his blood to prevent the younger brother, Cory, from starving, after their grandmother decided to not feed them for a week as punishment for an alleged incestuous relationship between Chris and the older sister, Cathy. Vic had temporarily squeezed Jaime’s waist at this scene, who understood the evocativeness in what was occurring.
When the end credits appeared on the screen, Vic said, “Well, the movie’s okay if you haven’t read the book. What a stupid ending.”
“The ending’s convenient. Corrine became an insensitive bitch, and she dies.”
“Corrine didn’t die in the book! And the book went more in-depth with Chris and Cathy’s relationship. They confess their love for each other and stuff.”
“I wonder what Harry Harlow would say about that.”
“Is that the guy who did the experiments with monkeys?”
“Yeah. He was convinced that love was something that could be scientifically studied.” Jaime closed the laptop and moved it off to the side, not even bothering to log out of Netflix. “Like, he separated baby Rhesus monkeys from their mothers and raised them with two surrogates: a wire mother who provided nourishment and a mother made of cloth. He observed that the baby monkeys would go to the wire mother to be fed, and then spend hours cuddling with the cloth mother. Harlow would scare the baby monkeys with these weird robot things, and naturally, they were terrified, and they’d run straight to the cloth mother for protection. But you see, he’d only keep the monkeys in isolation for fixed periods of time: three months, six months, one year, even two full years. He found that when taken out of isolation, even for only three months, that the monkeys were psychologically disturbed. One isolated for three months went into emotional shock, stopped eating, and died after five days, and when isolated longer, the effects were more adverse. And with this movie, the four children were imprisoned in a bedroom with only occasional visits from their mother, and over the progression of the plot, her visits get more sporadic, to the point where the younger twins barely recognize her, and the older two ended up falling for each other. Without their mother’s love, they kinda turned to each other.”
Vic processed his partner’s words for a moment, impressed with how he related the events in a work of fiction to a sliver of his knowledge. It emphasized how utterly profound and intelligent Jaime was. “What do you think about love?” Vic questioned curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“Like… I don’t know. Do you think it can be scientifically studied?”
“I don’t know, honey. I mean, his experiments did shed some light on how infants are dependent on affection from their mothers to be able to socially develop properly, but that’s it as far as that goes. Love is so broad these days, you know? You love your mother, your friends, your significant other, inanimate and nonmaterial things, and so on.
When I was little, I never really felt like I cared about Chris. I don’t know. He was annoying, he soaked up more of my parents’ attention than I did, all that typical sibling competition. But I remember when I was maybe thirteen, I was watching him climb a rock climbing wall. It wasn’t a tall one that you wear a harness for, just a short one in a playground. But despite my mom supervising him, I just recall watching from a distance and just praying that he didn’t get hurt. Worrying about him, even, in case Mom couldn’t catch him if he fell. I thought it was weird, because I always swore that I hated him. In my opinion, sometimes love just happens. I mean, of course, it’s not so that you immediately love everyone you meet, but—like depression—maybe love doesn’t require a rhyme or reason to exist.”
Vic wanted to speak, but, once again, he was amazed with Jaime’s insight. His thoughts traveled to his own parents, the ones who relentlessly helped Vic through his process of finding happiness. He figured, after the hell he’d dragged them through, that indeed, his parents’ love for him was unconditional, and the emotional bond between them was fed on the simple fact that Vic was their son.
He pondered about the world’s broken families, but he determined that to love someone as family, one must first accept them as family.
He turned slightly to allow himself to nestle deeper into Jaime’s comfort, securing this by using his free arm to loosely hug his waist. He nuzzled into Jaime’s chest before mumbling, “What about us?”
“Romantic relationships, well, those are a little different. Of course, I didn’t choose to have a crush on you, didn’t choose to fall in love with you. And maybe some characteristics of yours led to it, but it was beyond my control. When I look at you, I feel love. I don’t need to remind myself of why I fell for you, of all the things I cherish about you to keep love alive. I have you, in person and in memory. I can’t picture being in this position with anyone else, and I certainly don’t want to.”
Vic lifted his head to glance at Jaime’s face, which was painted with a relaxed and calm expression. He was serious about every word that passed through his lips, and Vic felt his heart swell. He wasted no time in gingerly connecting their lips in a brief, amorous kiss, before Jaime whispered “I love you.”
Vic smiled. “I love you too.”
“Vic?”
“Mmm?”
“I’ve been thinking. For the past few days or so.”
The smaller man tilted his head quizzically. “About?”
“Well, uh, about u-us. We’ve been together for five years, and I, um… ah, I’ll just say it. Vic, why don’t we get married?”
The way Vic’s jaw parted and eyebrows raised slightly was a misleading representation of the unadulterated shock that surged through him at the question. He hadn’t expected a proposal, and had never given much thought to matrimony.
“Now, I know, this isn’t how people ask. I didn’t want to pressure you by asking in public, and, oh, you know, we’re not really the kind of people who go on romantic dates in nice restaurants, and… Jesus, I don’t even have a ring. I just… I wanted to ask before chickening out, and…” Jaime was evidently disoriented and intimidated by his inability to interpret Vic’s reaction; all he could fathom was that he was surprised. His doubts began to catch up to him as soon as it was too late to brush off the idea. He knew Vic loved him, but the concept of lifelong commitment—it was daunting. Intuitively, he could feel the impending rejection descending upon his conscience like a thick fog. His heartbeat quickened and he longed to rewind time to before the words could leave the mouth that he felt could, sometimes, disconnect itself from his brain whenever it chose. “Oh, God… ah, never mind, I…”
He raked an apprehensive hand through his hair, which, in an attempt at poetry, Vic described as being a dark shade of brown equivalent to the coffee Jaime drank in the mornings, free of cream and sugar because he relished the bitter taste that Vic couldn’t stand.
“Jaime,” he said gently, moving his hand to caress his partner’s cheek. “Let’s do it.”
~
Come the following Monday, only one other person had cognizance of the newborn engagement: none other than Chris Preciado himself, who, at two minutes before final bell, was chatting amiably with a fellow classmate, Jordan. Vic was grateful that he was so trustworthy; if he had told another student about their teacher’s relationship with his brother, no one had confronted him about it to seek its validity.
From his desk, he quickly scanned the room to ensure that none of the fifteen students in his eighth period were misbehaving, even though he knew that his AP students were more disciplined than the rest. Seeing nothing suspicious, he leaned back in his swivel chair and took a swig from his bottle of Honest Tea Earl Grey Tea, the conclusion of another dreadful Monday putting him in a relaxed state.
His eyes landed on his planner, which was open to September, with upcoming and past assignments recorded in their respective dates: a vocabulary test on Friday, a small, easy diction project due in a week, and so on. He picked up a black ink pen and—in September fifth— wrote:
“The storm clouds only hide the sun.”
“I know. I get it. One of the more challenging aspects of writing an essay—or anything, really—is actually beginning it,” Vic recalled telling one of the AP English classes he interned with four years ago.
And now, as he stared blankly at the next unmarked page in his leather journal, the candor of his words felt all too discernible. He gripped the painted, golden yellow wood of his pencil and lightly touched the ivory-colored lined paper with the sharpened graphite tip, yet no words influenced his fingertips to move.
He was filled with a sort of funny feeling, like he knew what he wanted to write while simultaneously, he didn’t. The ideas had been tumbling around in his mind for the past few days, but now that he was putting forth an effort, he came up dumbfounded. He stole a glance at where the three manila portfolios lay at the opposite corner of his desk, each one containing synthesis essays from each of the three AP English classes he taught. They seemed to taunt him, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the other papers that littered his desk; he knew that the main reason why he was so desperate to add another journal entry was because he was procrastinating, postponing reading and grading them until later in the forthcoming weekend. With a sigh, he tore his eyes away from the folders.
Vic’s gaze roamed to his desk calendar, and the sight emphasized the significance of that particular day. His lips turned up into a small grin at the thought and with a boost of elation, he finally wrote “September 5” in the top right corner of the page. He paused to sip from his bottle of Honest Tea Peach White Tea before continuing: “Five years.”
He slightly lifted his pencil and studied his fresh words, dissatisfaction uncomfortably nibbling at his brain. Partially from the penmanship he often referred to as “chicken scratch,” but mostly because he disliked the petty introduction. It was a recurring phenomenon for Vic, and the reason he only sporadically wrote was that he could never produce something that he didn’t feel discontent with. However, the rational side of him knew that not even the man he intended to base the entry on would read a single word. He had no one to impress in the name of literature, which seemed to minutely enfeeble the degree of his internal unease. Defying his strong urge to ponder something different, he wrote again.
“1,825 days, plus one for the leap year.
Six years ago, I never would’ve predicted my life to turn out this way, for on that night, as I tightly grasped the wooden rail, gazed over the tranquil water of the creek before me, and recited to myself my final goodbyes to everything I had ever known, I was incapable of envisioning my life lasting longer than the following couple minutes. I figured that I’d draw in a final breath, release the rail, lean forward, and let gravity assume its role in the universe and pull me into what would’ve been the biggest mistake I ever made.
Because if I had jumped that night, I would’ve missed the opportunity to realize that the demons that plagued my mind were possible to defeat, that the darkness I had become so accustomed to wasn’t as perpetual as it seemed, and that finding the light at the end of the tunnel was an adventure that no one could traverse for me.”
Vic set his pencil aside, downed another mouthful of his tea, and reread what he had written so far with indifference. He was no longer infatuated with the start of the piece; his focus was what he was going to write next. He then decided to allow his fingers to do the thinking.
“Of course, I couldn’t have reversed the direction of my existence by myself. It was the undying support from those I care for that served as a medium through which I discovered my own perseverance, as if my situation was a movie wherein the key to the resolution resided in me all along.
Although the fact that I’ve lived to see my twenty-fifth birthday and that I’ve lived my entire life up to this moment are accomplishments that I cannot solely thank anyone for, I must acknowledge that the only reason I climbed back over the rail that night was because of him.
We met under the most coincidental, yet dismal, of circumstances. I had walked away from my dorm with one goal: to succeed in what I had failed to do five times prior. The plan was foolproof, success seemed guaranteed. I left the campus while everyone was asleep. I snuck toward the city and I crept past the toll booth guard and through the trees until I reached my destination. I knew that I wouldn’t survive a fall of what must’ve been three or four stories. There were no wounds to apply pressure to, no pills to be pumped from my stomach, no hapless younger brother to remove the barrel from between my lips and pry Papa’s pistol from my violently trembling hands, no one to remove my head from the noose seconds after hearing my stool collide with the ground, and no one to admonish me for chain-smoking Marlboros just to finish off my final pack.
I was alone… or so I thought.”
Vic ceased as the door to the apartment’s second bedroom was pushed open, and an orange tabby cat slid through the small gap. The cat trotted straight to Vic and affectionately brushed up against his ankle. With a small smile, he lifted the slender kitty and set him on his lap, gently scratching him behind an ear and then in front of the base of his tail. “What’s up, Edgar?” Vic questioned him quietly.
The cat only responded by beginning to purr and one of his owners spoke again. “You only came in here to remind me that it’s dinnertime, didn’t ya? Let’s see, what time is it…?” Vic grabbed his phone and illuminated the screen to see the time, and was almost shocked to see that it was nearing seven o’clock p.m. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, little dude.” Edgar, as well as the second cat, Boo Radley (which was often shortened to Boo), had highly attuned senses and were aware that their evening meals were served at around six. Vic had been so consumed by his writing that the priority had slipped his mind. (A/N: disclaimer: I do NOT own the name Boo Radley. It is from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. You probably know that, but I feel as though I should say this anyway.)
“Alright. Come on, you.” Vic softly placed Edgar on the ground and stood, dropping his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and walking into the living room.
The apartment Vic shared with his lover was as cozy as it was small, yet it suited them nicely and it was the best they’d be able to do. Since Vic only had a Bachelor’s degree in English education, he didn’t qualify for the pay raise that teachers with at least a Master’s earned, which left him with an annual wage of around $25,000. During the first part of the day, Jaime served as a clinical psychology intern in a local private practice to receive on-the-job training that the university classroom couldn’t offer. By three, he was adorned in a forest-green apron and was employed as a part-time café server in the small coffee shop that was tucked into a corner of a local bookstore.
Vic strolled to where the cats’ food dishes were located next to the kitchen counter. He brought both dishes into the kitchenette and set them on the counter, then turned to fetch the bag of cat kibble from one of the cabinets. He poured a scoopful of food into each dish while Edgar and Boo—a pleasantly plump feline equipped with alert, green eyes and long, raven-black, silky fur— watched in anticipation. Just as Vic was returning the bag back to its cabinet, he caught the sight of Boo licking his chops. He picked up both bowls and the cats took this as a cue to position themselves as Vic lowered their dinners into their respective spots. Boo emitted a somewhat vociferous meow, as if to demand why their meal had been delayed for so long. They wasted no time in digging in as Vic quietly retreated to where he abandoned his journal.
He quickly skimmed through the entire entry before eagerly starting from where he left off.
“I have no clue how long I was out there before he showed up. All I remember is that I heard his foot snap a twig just as I was about to let go.
He approached me once he realized what my intentions were, and that I was steadfast in achieving them. He persuaded me to climb back over to where it was safe, he threatened his own suicide, and I decided I’d rather not play with fire and risk burning someone else. He allowed me to cry into his shoulder, he raptly listened to the maelstrom of emotions I unleashed and the same explanations revealed to the countless specialists I encountered back when my parents were desperate for anything that could salvage their damaged son.
That was the night that both of our lives changed forever. Because he made a promise to me that he’d be my friend and my supporter—a promise that he has not broken— is why I decided that maybe, just maybe, I’d give life one more try. I had an epiphany that night, a point that I didn’t fully fathom until we were walking back to school together.
I never wanted to die.
I made five attempts to end my own life. Six, maybe, if the ordeal at the bridge counts.
But I never genuinely wanted to die.
I just longed for the misery to end. In my opinion, if death was the only thing that’d put me at peace, then so be it.
However, a part of me had realized that if dying was something that I truly desired, I wouldn’t have been crying as hard as I was. I wouldn’t have spent a few extra minutes smoking those last cigarettes or whispering those final goodbyes to the world as I clung to the rail. As I looked over the water, it occurred to me how permanent of a decision I was choosing to make, that once my body struck the ground, there’d be no going back. Some misfortunate soul would discover my body in the morning but by then, the vessel that I used to personify would be lifeless and mangled, devoid of the essence that was once my character.”
His pencil stopped moving, for he was abruptly presented with a mild case of writer’s block. He felt like he needed to describe the contrast between who he was years ago and who he was now… or something like that. Frankly, he didn’t know what to write next, and he was aware that the current ending was insufficient.
He perused through his most recent addendum, which resurfaced the poignant memories of how low he had stooped at that bridge. He fought hard to swallow the lump forming in his throat and the tears that burned his eyes just like they had thousands of times before. Picking up the plastic bottle of tea, he chugged down the remainder of it, and he found that the action served as an unlikely source of inspiration.
“I remember, five years ago today, when I confessed my love for the wonderful man that wholeheartedly aspired to see me through the healing process, he countered by asking whether my love was directed at him or the selfless act he performed that night. And while I remain very grateful for his roommate banishing him from their dorm for the night, I know with every fiber of my being that I love inch of that man just for epitomizing perfection. There is no other face I’d rather wake up to than his, no one else I’d prefer to share the lazy weekends with, to cuddle with, to make love to, to discuss nothing in particular with at the small hours of the morning when neither of us can fall asleep.
Love is a hard sensation to explain. At first, it was weird, it was alien, for no other reason than it was something other than the inherent depression I had grown so used to. It was one of the challenges of recovering, because in a way, it almost felt as though happiness wasn’t as legitimate as sadness. I’m having difficulties conveying what I mean here; the only thing that can really sum it up is a quote from a song by Nirvana.
‘I miss the comfort in being sad.’
So in short, I don’t know how the dust of fallen stars managed to converge ideally to construct my lover, my best friend, and the person I’ve been with for half a decade, but goddamn it, Jaime, I’m so glad you fucking exist.”
Vic frowned at his last paragraph; he thought it ruined the solemnity of the entry. He countered this idea by trying to justify it and convincing himself that the statement could demonstrate that no personal essay was required to expound his feelings for Jaime. All of Vic’s sincerity was portrayed through the end.
Mulling over the remembrance that no one would ever lay an eye upon what the journal contained, Vic shrugged and closed the book with his pencil inside. He briefly studied the owl embossed in the tanned hide of the front cover before standing and leaving the room. He strolled into the kitchenette and retrieved a granola bar from a cabinet, tearing the package open and biting into it immediately. He chewed it slowly as he perched himself on the counter.
The resplendent, chartreuse numbers of the stove clock stood out in the dim apartment. Vic was pleased to see that the time was a couple minutes shy of seven-thirty, which was when Jaime got off work.
Halfway through his snack, his phone started to incessantly buzz in his pocket. The unexpected tickle against his leg startled him; fishing the phone from his pocket revealed that the caller was none other than Jaime himself.
Vic answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, bookworm,” Jaime’s cheerful voice sounded through the receiver. Vic’s heart fluttered at the use of the endearing nickname. “I’m thinking about just picking up some take-out for dinner tonight. Is Chinese okay?”
“Oh, yeah. That sounds fine.”
“You want your usual?”
“Yes, please. You want me to find us something to watch on Netflix?”
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind.”
“Alright. What do you wanna watch?” He took another small portion of the granola bar into his mouth.
“I don’t know. I’m kinda feeling something along the lines of a thriller, or horror. Maybe an action movie. I don’t care. It’s up to you, really.”
“I’ll look through some. We can pick when you get here.” Vic leaped off the counter and discarded the half-eaten bar in the garbage can.
“Alright. Whatcha up to?” Jaime asked curiously.
“I was writing a bit. I’m trying not to think about all the papers I have to grade this weekend. My AP kids wrote their first synthesis essay of the year today.”
“Wow, on a Friday? You’re evil. How’d they like that?”
“Oh, they hated it.” A crooked grin crept onto Vic’s face as he remembered the chorus of groans that erupted from all three classes as he distributed the essay prompts.
“How did Chris like it? He’s one of your AP students, right?”
“Eighth period. He didn’t seem to care. But then again, he knows I know you. He’s probably not gonna misbehave in my class anytime soon.”
“Of course he won’t, because he knows I’ll teach him a lesson. But hey, I’m about to go in and order our food. I’ll see you when I get home, okay?”
“Okay. Love you.” Vic felt his heart skip a beat as the words—just two simple words—escaped his lips, similar to the way they had every day for the past five years.
“I love you too, babe.”
After they hung up, Vic, in a blissful state, nearly skipped to the second bedroom to acquire the laptop and charger cable from the second desk that served as Jaime’s study before prancing to their own bedroom. Netflix, Chinese food, and the love of his life sounded like something that was almost too good to be true.
Upon entering the room, he noticed that the cats had made themselves comfortable on the queen-sized bed: Boo in the center and Edgar nestled between the pillows. “Really, guys?” Vic asked, mocking frustration as he crawled across the bed (which disrupted Boo’s relaxation atop the tribal-print blanket sea) to reach an electrical outlet on the other side. He plugged the laptop in and opened it, turning it on and pushing his pillow against the headboard to lean on it as the computer booted up. Vic plopped down onto the bed and draped the covers over his legs.
“Alright, what do you guys wanna watch on Netflix?” he inquired, gently scratching the orange cat behind his ear. The only replies to Vic’s question were a flick of Boo’s tail and soft purring from Edgar.
He opened Netflix and logged in, scrolling through the several offered categories of movies displaying covers for the most popular movies ranging from action and adventure to, finally, thrillers. Vic clicked on it and began to browse through various titles. As he did, he added Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code to his mental list of possibilities, even though Jaime wasn’t as enthusiastic about Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon series as Vic was.
Vic sighed and aimlessly scrolled until he came across a title of a book he’d read before: Flowers in the Attic. Curious, he clicked on the cover. The movie only had a three-and-a-half star rating, but this failed to deter him. It was classified under “psychological thrillers,” so he figured it would intrigue Jaime. Satisfied, he reached into his pocket for his phone and then sent his partner a text.
Vic: Does Flowers in the Attic sound okay? It’s a psychological thriller ;p
Jaime: Are you still convinced I’m a workaholic? Haha… but yes, it sounds fine…
Vic: Yeah, you’re a bit of a workaholic, but you’re so passionate about what you do and it’s cute. I love you. Come home already, damn it.
Jaime: Almost home, love. I’ve been waiting to see your beautiful face all day.
The message sent just as the traffic light turned green, Jaime slowly releasing the brake and tapping the accelerator as the pickup truck in front of him started to move. The aroma of the Chinese entrées wafted throughout his car and he smiled, for no other reason than the butterfly-inducing man he was about to go home to. He steered right at the intersection, merged into a turn lane, and entered the deceitful apartment complex, whose recent paint job involving a color scheme of brown, white, and gray effectively disguised how rundown each residence actually was.
After driving to his particular block and parking next to Vic’s car, Jaime unhooked his seatbelt, grabbed the plastic bag full of food, exited the car, and unlocked the door to apartment number 504-1. He stepped inside to find that the living space was dim; the only source of light was coming from their partially-open bedroom door. A crinkling sound originated from somewhere in the black that swallowed a majority of the apartment, but it shortly stopped. As Jaime closed and locked the door behind him, Boo appeared from the dark carrying a crinkle ball in his jaws.
“Hello, Mr. Radley. Lookin’ dapper as always,” Jaime murmured, crouching to greet the cat as he dropped his ball and approached his owner. He seemed especially interested in the contents of a certain, white bag with a red pagoda printed on the front. “Hey, no people food. I’m pretty sure you’ve had your dinner.”
Jaime stood, walking past Boo and peeking into the bedroom. He thought Vic was oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, his eyes transfixed on his computer screen.
“I see you,” Vic stated, shifting his gaze shifting to look at his wonderfully eccentric boyfriend.
“Damn it,” Jaime whispered harshly to himself, pushing the door open farther. At the sight of the second cat snuggled next to Vic, Jaime expressed a bit of mock-disappointment. “Edgar Allan Poe Preciado Fuentes, I don’t approve of you stealing my man like this.” He placed his keys on the dresser before continuing to the bed.
Vic giggled as Jaime kneeled beside him, cupped his cheek with a strong hand, and kissed the bridge of his nose, something Vic absolutely adored. They glanced lovingly into each other’s eyes for a moment before Jaime spoke. “I’m gonna go change into something more comfortable, okay?”
“Alright. Make it quick. I really wanna see this movie.”
Jaime crawled off the bed and headed to the dresser, slipping off his red and white Vans and his socks. “Enlighten me, Vicky. What’s this movie about?”
“‘After a tragic accident leaves them fatherless, four children move into their mother's mysterious family mansion in hopes of an inheritance. Instead, they are imprisoned by their evil grandmother, leaving them to survive a nightmare of cruelty.’” Vic read the description.
Jaime tossed his burgundy T-shirt off and discarded it on the ground, leaving Vic to secretly admire his broad, sculpted back. The former rummaged around in a drawer until he removed a blue Star Wars tank top and threw it on. “It’s based on the book. I read it awhile ago.”
As he unfastened the button on his black skinny jeans and unzipped them, Jaime sincerely replied, “Sounds interesting.”
Vic began to unpack the bag of food, setting out two white boxes, a Styrofoam carton of what, presumably, contained eggrolls, packets of soy and duck sauce, fortune cookies, and chopsticks. “God, this smells so fucking good,” he remarked.
Jaime lifted Edgar, who emitted a cranky meow in protest. “I told you, Edgar. He’s my man, and you need to back off.” He gently rested the irritable feline at the foot of the bed.
“You are such an idiot.”
“He needs to learn his place.”
“Shut up and sit next to me, you fool.”
Jaime peeled the covers back and scooted close to Vic, who was examining the contents of one of the boxes. “This one has fried rice; it’s yours. You want me to start the movie?”
“Of course.”
Vic moved the laptop so it would be on both his lap and Jaime’s. As the movie started loading, Jaime spoke. “Hey.” He slightly raised his box. “Here’s to five years.”
The smaller man felt his cheeks warm and a small, flattered grin stretch across his face at the mention of their anniversary. He had started to think that Jaime had forgotten, but Jaime had waited the entire day to say it in person. “And many more to come,” Vic added, and they lightly touched their boxes together in a toast that was unique—yet unsurpassable—to their relationship.
When the film began, a comfortable silence descended between the two as they ate, and persisted even when the food was gone and their bellies were full. Vic cuddled into Jaime’s side and snaked an arm around his waist, while Jaime simply draped one of his burly arms around the smaller one’s shoulders, pressing his lips to the top of his head as he did so.
The movie wasn’t necessarily scary, but one part that evoked a bit of emotion in Vic was the scene where the older brother, Chris, sliced the inside of his arm with a single-edge blade. He hadn’t done it with the intentions of self-harm, but to use his blood to prevent the younger brother, Cory, from starving, after their grandmother decided to not feed them for a week as punishment for an alleged incestuous relationship between Chris and the older sister, Cathy. Vic had temporarily squeezed Jaime’s waist at this scene, who understood the evocativeness in what was occurring.
When the end credits appeared on the screen, Vic said, “Well, the movie’s okay if you haven’t read the book. What a stupid ending.”
“The ending’s convenient. Corrine became an insensitive bitch, and she dies.”
“Corrine didn’t die in the book! And the book went more in-depth with Chris and Cathy’s relationship. They confess their love for each other and stuff.”
“I wonder what Harry Harlow would say about that.”
“Is that the guy who did the experiments with monkeys?”
“Yeah. He was convinced that love was something that could be scientifically studied.” Jaime closed the laptop and moved it off to the side, not even bothering to log out of Netflix. “Like, he separated baby Rhesus monkeys from their mothers and raised them with two surrogates: a wire mother who provided nourishment and a mother made of cloth. He observed that the baby monkeys would go to the wire mother to be fed, and then spend hours cuddling with the cloth mother. Harlow would scare the baby monkeys with these weird robot things, and naturally, they were terrified, and they’d run straight to the cloth mother for protection. But you see, he’d only keep the monkeys in isolation for fixed periods of time: three months, six months, one year, even two full years. He found that when taken out of isolation, even for only three months, that the monkeys were psychologically disturbed. One isolated for three months went into emotional shock, stopped eating, and died after five days, and when isolated longer, the effects were more adverse. And with this movie, the four children were imprisoned in a bedroom with only occasional visits from their mother, and over the progression of the plot, her visits get more sporadic, to the point where the younger twins barely recognize her, and the older two ended up falling for each other. Without their mother’s love, they kinda turned to each other.”
Vic processed his partner’s words for a moment, impressed with how he related the events in a work of fiction to a sliver of his knowledge. It emphasized how utterly profound and intelligent Jaime was. “What do you think about love?” Vic questioned curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“Like… I don’t know. Do you think it can be scientifically studied?”
“I don’t know, honey. I mean, his experiments did shed some light on how infants are dependent on affection from their mothers to be able to socially develop properly, but that’s it as far as that goes. Love is so broad these days, you know? You love your mother, your friends, your significant other, inanimate and nonmaterial things, and so on.
When I was little, I never really felt like I cared about Chris. I don’t know. He was annoying, he soaked up more of my parents’ attention than I did, all that typical sibling competition. But I remember when I was maybe thirteen, I was watching him climb a rock climbing wall. It wasn’t a tall one that you wear a harness for, just a short one in a playground. But despite my mom supervising him, I just recall watching from a distance and just praying that he didn’t get hurt. Worrying about him, even, in case Mom couldn’t catch him if he fell. I thought it was weird, because I always swore that I hated him. In my opinion, sometimes love just happens. I mean, of course, it’s not so that you immediately love everyone you meet, but—like depression—maybe love doesn’t require a rhyme or reason to exist.”
Vic wanted to speak, but, once again, he was amazed with Jaime’s insight. His thoughts traveled to his own parents, the ones who relentlessly helped Vic through his process of finding happiness. He figured, after the hell he’d dragged them through, that indeed, his parents’ love for him was unconditional, and the emotional bond between them was fed on the simple fact that Vic was their son.
He pondered about the world’s broken families, but he determined that to love someone as family, one must first accept them as family.
He turned slightly to allow himself to nestle deeper into Jaime’s comfort, securing this by using his free arm to loosely hug his waist. He nuzzled into Jaime’s chest before mumbling, “What about us?”
“Romantic relationships, well, those are a little different. Of course, I didn’t choose to have a crush on you, didn’t choose to fall in love with you. And maybe some characteristics of yours led to it, but it was beyond my control. When I look at you, I feel love. I don’t need to remind myself of why I fell for you, of all the things I cherish about you to keep love alive. I have you, in person and in memory. I can’t picture being in this position with anyone else, and I certainly don’t want to.”
Vic lifted his head to glance at Jaime’s face, which was painted with a relaxed and calm expression. He was serious about every word that passed through his lips, and Vic felt his heart swell. He wasted no time in gingerly connecting their lips in a brief, amorous kiss, before Jaime whispered “I love you.”
Vic smiled. “I love you too.”
“Vic?”
“Mmm?”
“I’ve been thinking. For the past few days or so.”
The smaller man tilted his head quizzically. “About?”
“Well, uh, about u-us. We’ve been together for five years, and I, um… ah, I’ll just say it. Vic, why don’t we get married?”
The way Vic’s jaw parted and eyebrows raised slightly was a misleading representation of the unadulterated shock that surged through him at the question. He hadn’t expected a proposal, and had never given much thought to matrimony.
“Now, I know, this isn’t how people ask. I didn’t want to pressure you by asking in public, and, oh, you know, we’re not really the kind of people who go on romantic dates in nice restaurants, and… Jesus, I don’t even have a ring. I just… I wanted to ask before chickening out, and…” Jaime was evidently disoriented and intimidated by his inability to interpret Vic’s reaction; all he could fathom was that he was surprised. His doubts began to catch up to him as soon as it was too late to brush off the idea. He knew Vic loved him, but the concept of lifelong commitment—it was daunting. Intuitively, he could feel the impending rejection descending upon his conscience like a thick fog. His heartbeat quickened and he longed to rewind time to before the words could leave the mouth that he felt could, sometimes, disconnect itself from his brain whenever it chose. “Oh, God… ah, never mind, I…”
He raked an apprehensive hand through his hair, which, in an attempt at poetry, Vic described as being a dark shade of brown equivalent to the coffee Jaime drank in the mornings, free of cream and sugar because he relished the bitter taste that Vic couldn’t stand.
“Jaime,” he said gently, moving his hand to caress his partner’s cheek. “Let’s do it.”
~
Come the following Monday, only one other person had cognizance of the newborn engagement: none other than Chris Preciado himself, who, at two minutes before final bell, was chatting amiably with a fellow classmate, Jordan. Vic was grateful that he was so trustworthy; if he had told another student about their teacher’s relationship with his brother, no one had confronted him about it to seek its validity.
From his desk, he quickly scanned the room to ensure that none of the fifteen students in his eighth period were misbehaving, even though he knew that his AP students were more disciplined than the rest. Seeing nothing suspicious, he leaned back in his swivel chair and took a swig from his bottle of Honest Tea Earl Grey Tea, the conclusion of another dreadful Monday putting him in a relaxed state.
His eyes landed on his planner, which was open to September, with upcoming and past assignments recorded in their respective dates: a vocabulary test on Friday, a small, easy diction project due in a week, and so on. He picked up a black ink pen and—in September fifth— wrote:
“The storm clouds only hide the sun.”