A Whorl Wind Romance
I've never been the kind of person to believe in love. Born to a family that didn't want me, casted me off at the young age of 3 and left me on the streets, hungry and lonely. I had never been read the fairy tales that other kids had, never heard their mother's voice whisper, "I love you" and put bandages on the cuts when they were bleeding. I had never felt the touch, firm pat of a fathers palm as I arrived home with a report card spelling above average, if that would actually be me, I have to wonder.
Sometimes, when I was alone, sitting in the quiet room of the foster home I had resided in, I would pretend that I was talking to my real family, not the one that abandoned me, but the proud mom with the pink frilly apron, high heeled red pumps, and bright blonde curls. She would tell me to be a gentleman, to always wash my hands and to never leave the toilet seat up, because that's what good boys do. She would give me a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her scarlet lipstick, and then she'd wave goodbye as I headed off to school.
I'd talk to my father, the practical yet caring doctor with his slightly balding head and smile lines framing his kind blue eyes. He'd tell me to always eat my vegetables, to stand up to the bullies who made fun of me, and that one day when I was a famous baseball player he'd catch my first foul ball and have it framed.
I'd hold my baby sister in my arms, rocking her back and forth as she cooed softly, and kiss her tiny pink forehead as her finger wrapped around mine. I'd play ball with my little brother, and always let him win by stumbling before I caught the ball or throwing it straight over his little brown haired head. I'd let my big sister put makeup on me in front of her friends, so they could giggle and pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was, and how lucky my sister was to have such a sweet family. And sometimes when my college aged brother dropped by from school, he'd bring me a gift, one Christmas a skateboard with a flame design and the next my first Gameboy.
Then the reality would set in as the door slammed shut and my foster father would briskly call me into the kitchen, as he taught me my school work and made sure I had behaved while he was out.
My foster father was a rather strict man by the name of Noah; he had wrinkles in the wrong places, frown lines which marred his once handsome face. He never showed affection, even to me, which I had been with him since the tender age of 7 and until my official mature age of 18. He was a qualified teacher, paid by the county to raise us foster kids with special needs, and he made sure I knew it. I was homeschooled since I stepped foot in his good-sized Victorian house, and taught to forget my time spent alone on the streets and stuck in a barely surviving orphanage.
Every day I would wake up, free to read (as long as I never marred any books from his astonishing collection) and to dream (as I did when I was younger). I remained in the library, or in my room, all alone in the large house, until noon when he would get back from his short teaching job at a nearby college. Then would come the schooling, and that it was, both standard and his own. After I had finished, he would usually discuss the current events with me, debate over my future, and inform me how to be a gentleman (a lesson which made me the uncanny way I am now).
In college, my first real experience with people, being literally shut in that house for my life made things quite uncomfortable, I was named a genius, with the mind of an old man and the personality of a sarcastic brick.
I opened the door for women, gave my seat on the subway and busses to the elderly and pregnant, I always selected the cans on the top shelves for the shorter people in the stores, and whenever I saw a confrontation I was the first to impose.
But that was about it. I didn't know what to do with myself when college came around. Living in that house had made me a creature of habit, relying on the family which was the only one I knew, a grumpy old man in a four bedroom house.
This is my story, and this is how I became Allen Walker.
….
….
From the Journal of Allen M. Walker-
Today it is August 26th, 2013. The first day of attendance at Harvard College, located in Boston, Massachusetts.
I feel an odd feeling in my chest, one to be described with the word "excitement". To put it rather simply, I cannot wait.
How odd it will be, to experience people for the first time. And not just a small amount, but an abundance I am told. I have no fears of my studies, as the acceptance was easy enough, though the creation of a name was odd.
I had always been referred to as boy through my education under Noah Earl, and to find I did not possess a name was astonishing to say the least. I had always inferred I had one, but to think back on it, lacking a social security number and certificate of birth may be the culprit. We selected the name Allen Walker from Mr. Earl's past, but he neglected to impart the name's importance. He wished me a fine education and best of luck, and I can say that perhaps he was sad to see me go. I know I will miss him dearly.
On the way to the current hotel I am staying at, until a "dorm" will be assigned to me, I experience something very strange. It seems that my suit and tie apparel are not appropriate for the daily activities of the populace here in Boston. I received some looks from other beings which could be interpreted as "odd" or even "staring".
I hadn't expected life outside of the manor to be as it is, never mind how irrational I may appear due to this conclusion.
I will now depart, suitcase packed and waiting here in the hotel, for my first day.
The subway was a loud and very humid environment, hundreds of people moving quickly as they navigated the maze of bodies and subway cars. It was all confusing, but according to the large map on one of the white brick walls, his train was the red line, arriving right near Harvard itself.
He counted the stops carefully, getting off at the exact right time and heading up to the surface, cool air rushing to greet him as the trees and sunshine appeared in his vision.
Allen M. Walker moved quickly down the sidewalks, skillfully avoiding the people harazardly rushing back and forth, his destination imprinted in his mind from the map he had memorized of the Boston area.
Arriving in the front of the school, he wiped is slightly moist palms on his black dress pants and calmed the fast beating of his heart which pounded in his chest. Why, he had no idea, though it was not helping with his arrival.
The people were abundant, was his first note, as student after student, each from obvious different ethnicities and stature rushed around him. It was like a slightly unpleasant tide of faces and frames, and he set off at a brisk walk towards the location of the main building, near one of the three libraries.
He arrived just in time, a small boy who looked to be in school standing in front of a large crowd of students.
"Welcome to Harvard!" he called and the group of future students cheered, Allen winced from the loud noise. "Please get you're schedules at the tables on the left and your dorm room numbers."
I followed the strange boy's instructions and made my way to the location where my "schedule" was located. I navigated through the crowds which surrounded the alphabetically organized tables, each with a woman sitting behind it.
The paper he was handed had seven classes total on it, each class about twice a week, and his dorm room was printed in the left corner. 203.
I made my way to the assigned room, carefully avoiding the utterly loud bunch of other students my age. The door was a wooden one, a light chestnut in color with the black door numbers below the small peep hole.
He knocked gently against the door, and a gruff "come in" replied back. Allen calmly opened the wooden door and walked in. A long haired girl sat on the left bed, a glare directed at him.
The room itself was very nice, not what I had expected from the lectures of Mr. Earl. But that wasn't what caught my attention. It was the presence of another person.
A deep voice came from her tall and slender frame. "Kanda Yuu. First Year. I call this bed." Allen stepped back and it all clicked.
Something changed inside me as those words came from her thin lipped mouth. And I realized then that this girl was indeed a man. The odd feeling intensified at this realization, and I felt something never felt before. My palms were shaky, my heart beat faster in my chest, a fluttering presence was present in my abdomen.
I think it was fear. But yet, what was there to be afraid of?
It must have been something else.
"You're not a female?" Allen asked curiously, and a glint shone in the man's eyes.
"What." He spat and Allen tilted his head to one side.
It was like admiration, of sorts, a different kind than what I felt for my mentor.
What is this feeling?
Sincerely,
Allen M. Walker
….
That was when I met Kanda Yuu, and through the years, me and the long haired, grumpy Japanese man would fight, hate, love and even discover what love really is.
Looking back at me, I was a piece of work. Could I have survived the truth of life without a guide such as Kanda?
Even today as I write this, I know my death grows nearer. I will finally join him in whatever comes after death.
Kanda Yuu passed away two years ago exactly, and soon I will do the same.
It is my time, my old age was took a toll on me. All I can say is, I am glad my path led me to him.
For the last time,
Allen M. Walker, Age 87.
Check my profile for stories that are to be continued.
Those are all. The rest I am done with.
Thanks for reading this one shot :)