Across the hall she sat in a freshman seminar, bored and probably dreaming of the sleep missed while an old scholar in brown corduroy pants lectures a group of eighteen year olds on the requirements of undergrad.
He was a young janitor by way of the family business, who inherited its clients after the last owners were brutally taken from this world in the tornado three months prior. Not Scott’s first choice of income, but day by day seeing the lucrative benefit of this trade.
Due to a fine idea by a group of staff at the university, in an effort to encourage conversation, blank name tags were passed around. Students were asked to write their first and last names in whatever color they wished, true creative freedom. Below their names went the genre of music they most frequented in their free time.
Eagerly, students began their first assignment of college. Classic rock, Reggae, folk, and hip-hop were of the more common answers and ignited forced conversation between the mass.
Scott closely studied the room, playing it off as if he did not have his focus on her long brown hair and subtly graceful disdain for this elementary task.
As the professor carried on about who knows what, Scott stayed near. Wetting his mop and glossing over the same square foot of white tile, hoping to read her name tag to put a name to this black sheep beauty. Not surprisingly, she folded the adhesive side together and threw the tag on the floor.
What is her name?
An hour and forty minutes after the start of the class students rolled out in a wave of chatter. Feelings of comfort have begun to come over them as dialogue of music interests morphed to more personal matters and friendships were birthed.
She walked out into the hall with no peers. With no care. Scott was fascinated with her individualism and confidence. As well as her sense of style: ripped blue jeans, a green and black flannel shirt, and white crop top that barely covered the bottom of her bellybutton.
“How you doing sir?” Scott asks the professor as he exited the room and locked the door.
“The start of the new year, one could not be more thrilled to challenge a new group of hopefuls.” Said professor McCaw.
“Real quick, that girl. Woman. In the green shirt, what was her name?”
The professor furrowed his brows at the question. Debating if he had the authority to give out such personal information on a student to a person in a navy blue onesie. “Undesirable, distant, aloof. Take your pick.”
“Right.” Those weren’t the titles Scott would give his mysterious guiding light, but until he figures out her name, he will have to work every day, hoping one day he will clock out a shift with knowing the information.
Across the hall she sat in a freshman seminar, bored and probably dreaming of the sleep missed while an old scholar in brown corduroy pants lectures a group of eighteen year olds on the requirements of undergrad.
He was a young janitor by way of the family business, who inherited its clients after the last owners were brutally taken from this world in the tornado three months prior. Not Scott’s first choice of income, but day by day seeing the lucrative benefit of this trade.
Due to a fine idea by a group of staff at the university, in an effort to encourage conversation, blank name tags were passed around. Students were asked to write their first and last names in whatever color they wished, true creative freedom. Below their names went the genre of music they most frequented in their free time.
Eagerly, students began their first assignment of college. Classic rock, Reggae, folk, and hip-hop were of the more common answers and ignited forced conversation between the mass.
Scott closely studied the room, playing it off as if he did not have his focus on her long brown hair and subtly graceful disdain for this elementary task.
As the professor carried on about who knows what, Scott stayed near. Wetting his mop and glossing over the same square foot of white tile, hoping to read her name tag to put a name to this black sheep beauty. Not surprisingly, she folded the adhesive side together and threw the tag on the floor.
What is her name?
An hour and forty minutes after the start of the class students rolled out in a wave of chatter. Feelings of comfort have begun to come over them as dialogue of music interests morphed to more personal matters and friendships were birthed.
She walked out into the hall with no peers. With no care. Scott was fascinated with her individualism and confidence. As well as her sense of style: ripped blue jeans, a green and black flannel shirt, and white crop top that barely covered the bottom of her bellybutton.
“How you doing sir?” Scott asks the professor as he exited the room and locked the door.
“The start of the new year, one could not be more thrilled to challenge a new group of hopefuls.” Said professor McCaw.
“Real quick, that girl. Woman. In the green shirt, what was her name?”
The professor furrowed his brows at the question. Debating if he had the authority to give out such personal information on a student to a person in a navy blue onesie. “Undesirable, distant, aloof. Take your pick.”
“Right.” Those weren’t the titles Scott would give his mysterious guiding light, but until he figures out her name, he will have to work every day, hoping one day he will clock out a shift with knowing the information.
Witnessing the beauty, Watching every wrinkle On her pale skin Is intoxicating After a murder.
Finally a smile forms And justice is done By a swift slice to the neck Of an ignorant one.
I’ve trained her well She listens in admiration for what i have Or lack That’s why i use her for my midnight attacks.
Holding her distance at arms length Was her idea, I’d rather haunt her insides, For now this will do though Patient and lifeless I need her for my ultimate move.
Since the age of twelve You’ve accompanied me Through countless transitions Of stiff beds.
Sat patiently waiting for me to Wrap up a physical recess With a few women who Wouldn’t know me if it weren’t for the bottle.
Absorbed, at this point Gallons of self inflicted tears A quart of blood dripping sweetly from my nose And a stench of fears and confusion i passed down to you.
I thank you Rufus. The only amend i have for you, My dog pillow pet, Is that you won’t see those sides of me again.
Not as long as I have Her. And she has my Heart.
And with that Who is alone?
You trapped in a mental cage in a van full of Partygoers? Or maybe you, Stuck in a bathroom with the needle barely Keeping you company. Perhaps not.
We are all one Strung along and placed in perfect order for one goal. For one purpose.
Making it to the end, To where our souls dance on a calm white canvas In a way that is innocent and youthful. For eternity and one.
