Bending
by Tony Floyd
He moved through the halls like a fleeting shadow in the most crowded night, hands in the pockets of his gray jacket, eyes on the floor. No one spoke to him. No one looked at him. He was that dark outsider who polluted the casual conversations of upper-crust cheerleaders, who caused even the toughest jocks to cast their faces down in fear. He spoke in a manner of riddles and dry jokes that took you a minute or two to figure out and if spoken to he wouldn't look at you, he'd just keep on walking as if some malevolent shield separated him from the world. There were stories about him busting school dope fiends for pleasure, turning away from crying girls that had been stupid enough to take interest in him, leaving teachers open-mouthed and wide-eyed after being beaten at their own game. There were stories about how he'd escaped from a mad drug-related shooting that resulted in the deaths of multiple other teens, with only a bruise or two to show for it. There were stories about how Emily Kostich was the only girl he ever loved, of how he'd spent weeks hunting her killer and of how the killer himself had died in the shooting that night. He was a man with his back against the wall, spiting the flora and fauna that was his high school and thinking his cynical, judgmental thoughts. He was possibly the most intelligent, cool, calculating kid the school had ever known. He was infamous, and he wasn't the type to be proud of that or to he upset about it or to even care. His name was Brendan Frye.
He walked away from the hell he'd sat caged in for the past six hours with speed some couldn't have matched if they ran. His lips were in that permanent purse and his eyes were locked only on the road ahead of him. Before he got to the sidewalk, the corner of his eye told him he was passing Laura at her new corvette, and she asked the back of his head if he wanted a ride and he smiled at the pavement and shook his head in disbelief.
"Don't talk to me, Laura."
He grit his teeth as he heard high heels clacking up towards him.
"Would it mean anything if I said I was sorry?" There was a sincerity in her voice that would've made it sound honest to anyone else.
"No. Go away."
"It was a year ago, Brendan!"
Brendan clenched his fists in his pockets to keep himself from doing something regrettable and turned to face her.
"I should've known you'd slide right past the bulls. I should've known your connections and upper-crust status and rich parents would buy you out of what would've ruined any other dame but good. I guess being hopeful was the biggest mistake I ever made."
He spat on the pavement between them and turned away from her pretty face for the last time.
That night he was haunted by Em's face as he often was. But it wasn't beautiful and warm and full of life like it used to be, the face that had lifted his heavy heart each day and made him adore living if it was just for her. Her rosy cheeks were now pale, her blond hair was matted with blood and she was wet from the water that ran beneath them and her eyes were empty. And then there was Laura, who stood there laughing as she held a smoking pistol, and Tug who was covered in grotesque bullet holes which poured blood and The Pin who's head was nothing more than a bashed in, hollow, crimson half-sphere. These figures surrounded him like dark mountains casting shadows on a desolate plain, peering down upon the dead beauty queen in his arms as he wept rivers of tears and howled into the abyss. When he woke screaming from the hellish nightmare his mother came running to comfort him as she always did but he couldn't tell her what he was dreaming about or the depression he had been hiding from her lately or how he longed for death. He just told her he was alright like he always did and said he'd try to keep it down, throwing a little laugh in at the end so that she would better believe the lies that preceded it. And when she bade him goodnight and shut the door he turned over in his sleep and cupped his face in his hands and held back tears.
He tried to get to sleep for another hour or two but could not, so he pulled himself out of bed and tiptoed out of his room to the kitchen, where he lathered some leftover spaghetti in butter and Parmesan cheese beacsue there was no sauce. For a while he ate while watching television in his father's favorite chair, but the comedy and the violence and the sex were all lost on him so he turned it off and ate in silence. When he was finished he set the plate on the floor beside him and closed his eyes for only a moment but found it was hard to open them again so he let his mouth fall open and he fell asleep in that chair, the moonlight from the window in front of him casting shadows on his face.
He felt two rough hands shaking him gently and he opened his eyes to see his father regarding him with an amused expression, sunlight streaming in through the window behind him.
"You've got a bed for that, sport."
Brendan blinked and rubbed his eyes. "I guess I got confused. And you know I hate it when you call me sport."
"How's school been?"
"Fine. How's work been?"
"Fine."
"Night-shifts aren't killing you?"
"Not yet they aren't." He jerked his head toward the door. "I gotta roll. It's 7:00 and you don't need arthritis so I thought I'd wake you."
Brendan gave him a sarcastic smirk. "Yeah. Thanks for that."
"You're very welcome."
His father made for the door and gave a sincere goodbye that Brendan acknowledged with a wave, and as the door slammed shut he ran a hand through his wavy hair and rubbed his eyes again.
Two hours later Brendan sat in class among the gossiping ones and the giggling ones and let the profanity laden small talk fill his ears like a dark requiem for the immaturity and cracked hearts and bad consciences that were highschool. The redheaded girl to his left kept batting her eyelashes and glancing at him even though she was pretending to be completely taken in a conversation with her friends that he knew she wanted him to observe and see how smooth and cute she was. But he kept his eyes averted and pretended to be preoccupied himself until Mr. Phelps took the floor and demanded silence.
"Today, I'm going to let you folks have a little fun, if you're finished with your essay, that is. Give me a three page creative writing assignment on what ever you like. And when I say three pages I'm not rounding off. Dean, hand in anything too long and you lose marks."
A light curse came from the back of the room in response to this, which was met with a dull laugh from the class and provoked a grin from Phelps himself.
"Get to work, ladies and gentlemen."
But before anyone could, attention was drawn to a light rapping at the door. Mr. Phelps turned and threw it open and smiled. Brendan had to lean over his desk a bit in order to see, propelled by a sudden curiosity that surprised him.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a navy blue top and a nervous smile, was a girl. And maybe for the first time in a long while, Brendan felt something stir in his chest.