Coming Through the Rye
By Shannon the Twisted Link Worshiper
The Man Who Sold the World
Wednesday's Literature class was turned into a free-writing period by the teacher, feeling that writing was one of the best ways to get to know her students, a way for her to separate the mindless drones who memorized and reproduced for tests from the truly intellectual. She had originally intended for them to write something on 'The Catcher in the Rye' but later decided to make the guidelines looser, and instructed the class to write about innocence, be it an essay or poem or whatever. After the recent death of D.B., she knew that even the most sheltered of children had lost at least a small shred of innocence from the whole ordeal. And so soon after the war, she did not like having to see this poor generation suffer anymore. If anything, she hoped that their hearts could be stirred by such dark times.
Settling down behind her desk, she watched as her students began to file into the room for the morning class. She was watching for one student in particular, growing quite excited to read whatever he would produce during the next hour and a half. Behind a group of giggling preps came the student in question, dragging his feet lethargically, obviously thrust in deep thought. She watched the small boy silently move to the back of the classroom, taking the seat by the window that he had occupied the entire year. It almost seemed like every other student in the school was afraid of taking that lonely desk by the window and it had become an almost sacred spot for him. He was staring blankly out the window, his chin balanced upon his dainty yet rough knuckles as he mused over his pondering. The teacher found herself sorely fascinated by the mysterious Heero Yuy, and wondered what could possibly be running through his head. For a moment, she wondered if he was staring out at the landscape outside the window or the image of his face reflected in the smooth glass panes.
A few moments later, another student of equal intrigue waltzed into the room with her usual flourish. Her uniform tights were ripped with slashes that ran from thigh to shin and her skirt was held up with a few large safety pins, so technically she was not out of uniform, but still disarrayed enough to bother some of the administration. But ever the believer in self-expression, the teacher brushed it off and watched as Hoshi slid into the chair next to Heero. She found that whole relationship very interesting. There was something about the way that they starred at each other when they were sure the other was not looking that enthralled the teacher, eliciting her most curious spirits. She would always glance at him sadly, like she understood something the rest of the world was missing about the peculiar Japanese boy and he would stare like she was a ghost from his cloudy past. The teacher wondered whether or not some of that past would come out on paper.
The morning bell tolled loudly and she stood up at the front of the room to call the class to order. Albeit a low grouse of muttering running underneath the general silence, the room came to attention and she explained her expectations for the period. With a nod of her head, she set them to work and returned to her desk. The sound of binders and papers rustling filled the room. Pens clicked and pencils fell dully onto the desktops as they hustled to begin their work, inspiration seeming to stem from nothing as they set to scribbling down ideas.
The teacher's eyes roved the room and settled upon Heero again a good half-hour into the period. A frown crossed her features at the sight of him, still staring forlornly out the window. He had not even bothered to pull out a piece of paper and a pen, and she wondered if he had even heard her directions at all. Maybe he's just gathering himself, she thought determinedly. There must be a lot of… something… in there for him to sort out….
About fifteen minutes later, Heero finally stirred, his fingers falling away from his chin and his head turning from the window. He slowly bent down and rooted through his bag, removing a simple green spiral notebook and a blue ballpoint pen. She watched him flip past a few pages that seemed to be full of lettering and words to a blank crisp page. He put the pen into his mouth and yanked it out of its cap, the writing utensil falling to the page and flying over the paper as fast as the boy could wield it. His teeth were clamped upon the pen cap as he wrote, his concentration evident with the focus he poured upon the words coming to life beneath his pen. As suddenly as he had begun, he was finished, dropping the pen and flexing his sore digits from writer's cramp. Then he leaned back and folded his arms behind his head, seeming to drop off into a deep sleep.
As the period began to dwindle away, the teacher rose and began to survey her student's work. She walked down the center aisle, reading over shoulders, giving comments and suggestions to some and sizing up the talents of her class. When she reached the back of the room, she had to fight to keep herself from squealing like an excited schoolgirl. She walked over to Hoshi and picked up the page she had been bent over for most the class. Her eyes scanned the page, reading what seemed to be a journal entry of some kind. It spoke of her feelings on her most erratic life and, she noted with interest, her opinions on the stone-faced boy beside her. She wished that the strange girl had written more, for she wanted nothing more than to delve into the psyche of the beautiful oriental boy with the piercing blue eyes. It seemed like Hoshi understood more about Heero than she could ever hope to, like she had known him all her life.
"Is this all true, Hoshi?" she asked the girl, who was sitting in a most unladylike manner, her knees hanging apart, ankles somewhat crossed beneath the table. She was supporting most her weight upon her palm, crooked elbow resting on the desktop as she stared up at the teacher. "Or are you trying to weave your feelings on innocence into a fictional narrative?"
"What, you don't think that someone could have a life like that?" she asked sardonically. The teacher noticed that Heero was watching the exchange, his body still in that lax sluggish position. She could have sworn he was dead to the world, but it seemed he had only been feigning sleep all that time. But upon looking into that one open deep cobalt eye of his, she could see there was more swimming there than what was skin-deep. "I'm gonna cram that thing in my journal when I get back to my room."
"Well it just seems a little farfetched, that's all," the teacher amended, seeing that there was a deep sincerity in Hoshi's eyes. "I mean," she said, gesturing to the page, "an orphan, then a mechanic during the war and now a student. You even mention Preventers here and there…."
"Yeah, yeah," Hoshi waved it off, as if she was trying to stop the teacher before she said something she did not want anyone else to hear, "I know what it says. I wrote it after all. And if you don't mind, it's sort of personal, so if you could not announce it to the class, that'd be great."
"I'm sorry dear. Fine work though," the teacher apologized, quickly replacing the paper on the desk. Hoshi grabbed it, folded it into quarters and quickly tucked it into her breast pocket. She gave Heero a quick stare, her eyes stuck on his outstretched hand that had been reaching for her essay. He dropped it into his lap and quickly turned his gaze back out the window.
The teacher crept up behind him, not daring to actually pick up his work and contented herself to read over his shoulder. The top of the page had the same phrase repeated over and over a couple times, like he had been using it to kind of get into the mood before spinning out the poem scrawled beneath in a hastened print. "Could you believe in heaven, if heaven was all you had?" That statement alone seemed to hold a certain power, but when she read the actual poem, the teacher lost her breath. She had no idea that this silent boy was so eloquent.
"That is beautiful, Heero," was all the teacher could muster after reading the poem twice over. He did not turn to look at her and continued to stare out the window. A quick glance at him proved her theory that he was actually staring at his reflection and not the vast countryside beyond the glass. "What inspired this?"
"My crappy life and the one bright light I ever found in it," he answered monotonously, not even turning around to meet her eyes.
"Would you read it for the class?" she asked hopefully, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"No," was his grouchy one-worded answer. He shrugged her off irately, silently telling her that he did not like to be touched. After a pause he clarified himself, "They would not understand."
"Please, Heero," the teacher implored desperately. "I've never seen a student with such prose before. I watched you write that. It took you less than five minutes to do such a deep and meaningful piece. There are kids in this class who have worked all period on total junk. I want them to hear and appreciate real talent. I think it would be good for not only them, but you as well."
"I am not a writer," Heero stated resolutely.
"I think you are very wrong about that," the teacher argued back. "It is not an everyday gift that a person can put such emotion into words. You obviously have a lot of… pain… Heero. I'll not even try to understand it. I don't think I ever will. But grace us with your story. Sometimes it helps to share your sadness."
"They will still never understand."
"It's alright, Heero," a new voice stated. The teacher and Heero turned to see Hoshi sitting with her chair turned to face them. Her one arm was splayed across her lap, the other bent up to support her chin, her hand covering half her face, bright eye twinkling from between her fingers. "They don't have to understand."
Heero looked from Hoshi to the teacher and then back down at his poem. He opened his mouth as if he were going to protest one more time and then gave it up, silently standing up with the page and following the teacher as she led him to the head of the classroom. He stood somewhat off to the side, staring down at the paper in his hand and wondering what had possessed him to write it in the first place as the teacher gathered the class's attention. "Before you go today, I want you to hear this one poem that Heero wrote today." She turned and beckoned Heero with her hand. He walked to her side, refusing to look out over the class as she went on about his work. At last she finished and gave Heero a pat on the back before returning to her desk. Nervously, he cleared his throat, closing his eyes tightly for a moment, seeing Duo dancing around his memories and giving him courage before he was able to begin.
We spoke of 'was' and 'when.'
Although I wasn't there,
He said I was his friend,
Which came as a surprise.
I spoke into his eyes,
"I thought you died alone
A long, long time ago."
"Oh no. Not me.
We never lost control.
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world."
I laughed and shook his hand
And made my way back home.
I searched for farm and land.
For years and years I roamed.
I gazed at gazely stars,
At all the millions here.
I must have died alone
A long, long time ago.
Who knows? Not me.
I never lost control.
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world.
There was dead silence when he was finished. His Prussian eyes flicked up over the top of the page to survey the dumbfounded class. A few of them were blatantly staring at him with slack jaws and wide eyes and some others were whispering amongst themselves. Hoshi was sitting in the back row with a very solemn meditative look on her features, as if she rolling the words around in her head over and over, trying to interpret them.
The silence was cracked with the ignorant wisecrack of some jock on the football team. "Faggot!" he shouted to the class and they all erupted into laughter.
The teacher tried in vain to reprimand them and shot an apologetic glance at Heero. She had not thought much of the boy mentioned in the poem, but after hearing the way Heero read about him, she knew he was someone special. Apparently, so had the rest of the class, and now Heero was suffering because he had shared his deepest emotions. He'll never want to speak his heart to anyone ever again, she mentally berated herself. Why should he be mocked for writing his heart?
But he was too hurt to notice her efforts. He did not even notice the brooding Hoshi gathering storm clouds and thunderbolts in the back of the room. All he knew was that mocking laughter, condoning everything that he and Duo had shared and disregarding the only thing that had ever made him happy. Two large tears splotched the page rattling in his tight grip, making the ink run a little and smearing some of the words. Another pair of lonely tears rolled down his cheeks and fell upon the white leaf. With a hitched breath, he crumpled the paper and hurled it to the floor, unable to look upon those words anymore. And unwilling to break down in front of the room of his scornful peers, he flew from the room, slamming the door behind him and running to find escape from that hell.
The teacher did not even try to stop him. She could not even begin to feel the suffering Heero was experiencing. A pang of guilt throbbed in her chest for making him read his poem. But how was she to know that the class would react like that? She slowly rose from her desk and picked up the wrinkly paper and tried her best to smooth it out. She could feel the wetness of his tears soaking the page. She had not even been aware that he had been crying. That hurt even more.
She walked to the back of the room, staring at the page forlornly. The class seemed to notice her despondent focus upon the page, the more compassionate ones hushing down a bit and leaving only the truly thoughtless and boorish ones to their ill-spirited mirth. Without a word, she laid the sheet of paper before Hoshi, knowing she was probably the only person in the entire school that Heero would allow near him anymore. She looked up at her instructor with a pair of large eyes that warbled with the dampness of oncoming tears. Heero's pain had also been her pain.
And Heero had been right. They did not understand.
{A/N} Heero's poem is actually a song by David Bowie, if you didn't catch it. Nirvana does a very excellent cover of that song, I might add. Ah, Kurt, we love you! *waves flags* He's got such a wonderfully complex mind. You know, listening closer to his music, you sometimes wonder how nobody noticed how sad he was until it was too late. I guess no one really understood the way his mind worked. I sympathize with being misunderstood by the world though, 'cause I find I'm wired in a very similar way. I guess the pressure of fame really got to him. He never expected for Nirvana to go so far and change music the way they did. Aw, but I'll be damned if I give that slut Courtney Love any money, no matter how badly I want to read his journals! Okay, promise I'm finished with dear old Kurt... says the kid who baked a cake for his birthday on Febuary 20 last year (then it friggin' snowed so I had no one to share it with!)
Sorry this chapter is so short, but it didn't seem to flow right if I kept going. I sort of like the way this one ends. Since I'm just so nice, I might give you another chapter later this week that's loads longer. Sorry dudes! Have fun and please review!
Oh, and just for those of you who were annoyed that I forgot to give Hikaru Utada credit for the couple of lyrics I stole from her in the last chapter, it would make me feel so much better to know that you peeped back to that chapter to read the note I tacked on there. Sorry about all that again; I feel really bad! I guess that's just what happens when you're the ruler of the ADHD kids, hehe. ^__^