Disclaimer: I own nothing; Stephenie Meyer takes the credit…this time. (;
A/N: Just a little one-shot. It's really sentimental. I hope you like it. Review and tell me what you think!
I tightened my grip on the pencil I was holding, doodling steadily on the side of my notebook. Our substitute for today was a bitter old thing. She was fragile; slightly limping, and had one peculiar mole right on the side of her nose. Her eyes seemed to bore endlessly to the chatty kids in the back row. Those beady eyes held something though; hazel and wide. Although old, she kept something there that no one would ever know.
"Class," She directed to the twenty or so of us, her hands shaking, and voice raspy. She plopped down in the leather black chair and faced us with a serious expression. She wore it well. It made me think she never smiled.
"Today you will have free-write. But there's a catch," Her eyes pulled up, as if almost on the verge of flashing a grin—but not. Of course, of course; there was always a catch.
"This free write must come from you. It could be a fantasy—if that's what you truly desire to conjure up. It could be the first time you ever tasted chocolate. Your first kiss, a dramatic or threatening experience. Death, love, passion. You have to sell it."
Her eyes twinkled in the dim school lighting. Passion, huh? She wanted passion? I'd give her passion.
I was already snatching my notebook and pen, turning the spiral around to a blank sheet. The substitute caught my eye for just a second—it's like she knew something about me that called to her, the same assertion I felt when I first glanced at her brittle state. When she called: "Go!", I dated the paper in the top left corner and scrawled my name.
Then I began.
The minutes ticked away; I gazed over at the clock in mid-sentence. There was only fifteen minutes left of class, and I knew there was going to be a moment or two to share the little stories with the class. It was what subs always did. They loved embarrassing students; maybe for self satisfaction since they were once in the same situation.
"Pens down, everyone. Good work!"
A couple of students shook their hands; numb and sore from writing as much as possible in that thirty minute period. The old lady sauntered through the rows, peering at everyone's papers, making sure everyone had atleast written something.
"Newton, Mike!" She called from over the podium, pointing to a random name from the attendance roll. Yes, pick at random! I mentally thanked the heavens. The odds seemed unbeatable; I wouldn't have to share.
Mike stood from his desk and cleared his throat. His heavy cologne and aftershave caused quite a few girls to giggle. I felt a little sorry for him, but at the same time it was better him than me.
"Well, my story is a little short. It's about my Dad." He explained to the rest of us; most of the students were occupied with other desk objects or passing notes to one another. I, along with a few others and of course the elderly teacher, watched him struggle. "That's perfectly alright, just as long as you put a little oomph into it!" I had to smile; was this lady crazy or what?
He coughed roughly and began; rolling his eyes in my direction. "My father and I were always the same. My mother would tell me were a lot alike; we would go fishing together, take hikes, go camping, all of the regular father and son annual outings." He sniffed, inhaling for a second. "One day, though, it seemed different. He was changing; and I was changing. I had this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was not for the better."
I leaned in my chair, somewhat intrigued and unaware of where the story was headed. Mike sounded a bit on edge. "One night…he left. He said he was going out for groceries; I waited impatiently, he told me that he was going to buy me my favorite candy and that I should take care of my mom while he was away. At the time, I just nodded, eagerly awaiting his return. What I didn't realize was his tone. The sound of torture and stress. I didn't take those words seriously…until he never came back."
I gasped. Mike…poor Mike… His voice seemed anguished, and there I thought Mike had the happiest parents in the world. I thought he had a very loving family who owned a family business and took yearly outings to the beach. I guess that proved how well I knew my normal human friends.
"And I swore to myself, and to my mother, from now on that I would never ever be like my father." His last words scared me a little bit. Where was this sudden look of putrid coming from? I swear he almost spat venom. Well, that was passion for you.
"Wonderful!" The lady called, clapping her hands together. "That's what I like to hear—did everyone listen?" The others still remained detached; she ignored them. "Pure passion. It came from the heart."
"Heart…" I whispered, unaware of my strange and abrupt whisper. It was to only myself, but apparently it could be heard from across the room. Suddenly I felt the wide eyes focus on me.
"What was that, dear?" She asked, ambling forward slowly. My breathing started coming out in puffs. Dang. Please don't choose me! I thought violently.
"Would you care to share your own with the class?" She continued expectantly. I hesitated and shook my head. "No, I would rather keep it to myself if that's okay."
The old lady clucked her tongue. "Nonsense, nonsense! Does your story have passion?"
I scoffed and chuckled bitterly. "You could say that." I answered. Somehow I was strangely unafraid of this woman. Maybe it was some kind of an elderly aura, but it made me bizarrely confident.
I stood; aware of the more focused eyes from across the room. These kids probably hadn't even heard my voice in the past three months, and today it was like my heart was on display.
After seconds of brief awkward silence, I read what I had sloppily written on my bent sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper. "Mine is more of a poem; a string of words." I told her, and then glanced around the class for once. I sighed and read in the strongest voice I could manage.
"Passion would be binding together like thread and needles,
Blood stained and tinted by tears.
Promises broken; yet forever kept and stored.
The tides erasing our forbidden love that so fervently ruled us both.
It was no longer an option.
When I stared into his golden eyes there was nothing but silent despair.
His caring and gentle touch would never hold mine, and his beautiful words would never whisper my name.
He would leave for the sake of me. The soul of me, saying I wasn't good for him. He needed air. Air that could not have been possible anyway.
When whispering our goodbyes, clear beads of sorrow ate away at me; soaking my inner self with dense recollections of the past and of what never would be.
So passion, my reader, would not begin to describe what I felt. What you would feel if you were to die for your love.
And if you were to ever get your hands on this piece of loose parchment, my love, I would be forever grateful, but yet so terribly upset.
I'd be damned my sweet darling, if I would ever leave you for the sake of leaving myself."
The room was quiet. The only noise was the soft sniffles coming from the front of the room. The substitute held a Kleenex to her face, watching my shaking fingers throw down the paper and sit back down into my assigned seat.
She walked over to my desk, every eye on her and me, and she lifted my chin. She gently stroked my cheek and sniffed again. Her gravely quiet words would forever haunt my mind, leaving me with her big wide eyes smothered in ancient secrets.
"That, my dear, was true passion."