Secondhand Tragedy

Passerby don't stop to spare a glance-they already know, they've already seen. It's during times like this that I come to realize that all tragedy is secondhand.

I laugh when I think about it. I was just an ordinary man. A happy, ordinary man. I was just…what was I again?

(Pretend You Can't REMEMBER)

[KNOW You Can't Forget]

It had been just another ordinary day. Just another happy, ordinary day.

I'm driving my dirty old car, and I'm on my way to school. I'm a philosophy major, you know. I'm very proud of myself. I'm studying what I've always wanted to study.

I'm at an intersection now, and the cursed machine we call a stoplight is still on red. There seems to be some sort of commotion going on up there, but there are much too many cars in front of me for me to see what it is. As I look out the window and onto the sidewalk I can see busy people bustling to and fro, paying no mind to the early autumn wind.

I glance back to the stoplight, but it still hasn't changed. I'm going to be late. Late, late, late. I can't stand being late. Because time slows down for no one (and yet they say that during moments of intense, loving passion time stills in its forever perpetuating path). Why don't people see the world as I do? Can they really even see at all? Or is it all just me? Or is it all inside of me?

[Ba-Da-Bump, Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump]

[Pulsing heartbeats like beating drums]

And at that point in time on that ordinary day I had gotten very riled up. The clock on the dashboard, with its glowing, eerie numbers had told me it was 8:09-I was ten minutes late for my class.

The crush of traffic around me still hasn't let up and I wonder what possibly could have caused this. Wondering is all great and swell, but really-what's the point of wondering or pondering or thinking you know something if you'd never be able to experience?

I'm getting annoyed. Very, very annoyed. And soon, I'm restless. Much, much too restless. I can only think of memories and the car isn't moving and I feel like I'm choking and the honeysuckle in the light October air is killing me and I don't know why. And I don't know why I'm worthy and I don't know why he cries for me, and I don't know why nothingness bothers me. It bothers me, bothers me, God I can't breathe. I need a breath of fresh air, not this stagnant, dead-car filtered air embossed with the overpowering scent of honeysuckle. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. And so I don't care that I'm in the middle of traffic, that my car would be unattended-I don't care about anything, really, just fresh, fresh air. And so I open the car door and I unbuckle my seatbelt. I take a single step outside my car and I think its almost like a leap of faith. And then I move away, and laugh. Its not like I have any faith left, anyways. Some leap this is.

[I've never had any faith in the first place]

When I had taken my first step onto the street I'd expected to feel at least a dozen pairs of eyes on me-after all, it's not everyday you see a young man desert his car in the middle of a bustling street on an average Tuesday morning. But I had felt no eyes on me, and somehow I got the feeling that no one really cared. Passerby didn't stop to spare a second glance-they'd already known, they've already seen. It was on this instant that I came to realize that all tragedy is secondhand.

I make my way forward a few feet and I curiously glance up to the area directly next to the stoplight. No wonder it wasn't working-a car had run right into it. And not just any car-it appeared to be new, was a nice model, and had a shiny metallic hue. However, its previously beautiful front now had been neatly smashed into a shape slightly resembling a mould of the stoplight. There were little fragments of metal and glass around the car, but the damage seemed to not be too critical. I approached the car and stood a few feet away; the metal and glass on the floor reflected sunlight around me. The driver, who had previously not been moving, now lifted his head up and his brilliant blond hair shone in the light.

My eyes widen in shock-the driver of the car is in my psychology class. My feet carry me the last few feet until I can reach the driver's side door, and when I try to pry it open the door doesn't move. Startled, the driver looks up at me. A moment later, his crystalline blue eyes widen in recognition-he knows who I am, too.

And then its like we're sharing some sort of passionate, time-stopping moment, and then I think again, and then I realize how silly I am because I know that time never stops its on repeat and I'm repeating myself again. And that reminds me that I've repeated the same words, the same glances, the same tragedies. And just like me so has the world repeated one tragedy after another, after another, after another.

The driver tries to push the door from the inside out, and so I attempt to pull outwards on the doorhandle. With a sudden WHOOSH the door falls open and my blonde classmate stumbles forward. I give him my hand and he accepts gratefully; he manages to extract himself from his car. He drops my hand once he's up and steady outside, and for a moment I wonder why the paramedics haven't arrived yet. Then I look around and give a little 'Oh' as a white stretcher reaches the side of the man standing beside me. The paramedics are here. They'd been here for awhile. And they'd just been watching to see what would happen, to see if we could solve things ourselves. Even saviors are cruel, I notice.

We're at the hospital now. He's here to get a checkup. I think for a very brief moment how I should be getting the checkup instead. I'm sitting on the dingy little hospital room chair. He's up on the white bed, lost in thought. He seems to have sustained little injury other than a bump on the side of his head that was slightly swelling. Just watching him makes me feel comfortable and familiar in such a bleak place.

Until today I had only really paid attention to him once before-during this last semester's midterm exam. He'd been sitting in the seat directly in front of me. Right in front of me. He'd made to look at his watch.

He didn't have a watch, though. Instead of a watch he had a piece of paper taped to his wrist. The paper was covered in tiny little answers written all over it. He was cheating. The beautiful, intelligent, boy was cheating.

Back then, I hadn't thought much of it. Many more people lie, cheat, deceive than you would think. In fact, if he didn't cheat he would be almost…godly. But he can't be. Humans aren't perfect.

I look at him again.

"You're lucky," I say, "You've gotten less bruised than your car."

"I don't believe in luck," he responds, and then falls quiet.

I find myself hoping that he'll say something else so I won't have to be lost in my own little land of much too many thoughts. He shifts on the bed and runs a chalk white hand through his blond, blond tresses.

"Thank you," he says, "Thank you so much."

I get the feeling that he's talking about more than just me pulling him out of his car. I remain silent. He eventually opens his lovely mouth once more.

"You know," he comments, " I was under the impression that you hated me. I know that you know that you saw me cheating. You're such a hard worker, yet you have to watch as others skip ahead of you using knowledge that is not rightfully theirs. If I were in your position I would surely hate you now."

I examined him again. His soft blond hair that curled slightly at the tips, peaceful ocean blue eyes, and pale, pale skin. His narrow waist, his high cheekbones, his lithe frame-how could I despise anyone as beautiful as he?

"No Johan," I murmur, "I could never hate you."

He gives me a sort half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Not even for cheating?"

As the door of the little room opens and a doctor dressed in white walks in, I get up to leave. I speak as I pass through the door.

"On that midterm…I was cheating too."

Disclaimer: I do not own Monster, and some of the ideas filtering through this tale come from The Sound and the Fury, by William Faulkner.

I hope you guys all liked it, please review :)! This is an AU scenario, but its more of a general thing about how Johan manipulates people who are already weak. I get very little reviews for my stories in other fandoms, but maybe the genre and style of my writing is more likeable to Monster fans ^^. Until later,

Eden Lies