Anyone who's read an identical work on FictionPress and says that I've plagarized it, I'm Ink In My Veins. Go ahead, ask me a few questions and I'll give you some answers.Caiaphas wrote:He was always cold. He was always slightly distant. He never seemed to care about other people one way or another. He was always slightly friendless, though plenty friendly.
He, however, was warm in his shell of ice. He always had an ember, banked in sand and snow, ready to burst into flame with the slightest touch of dry fuel. He always waited, patiently, for someone just right to cross his path.
He had been hurt.
He was searching, carefully, perhaps too carefully, through fog and mist, looking, but looking too selectively. He looked for the perfect one, the perfect fit. He knew there was no such thing, but he looked vainly anyways. He scoured the sands of deserts and the stars of galaxies. He gazed so high, the heads of everyone never came into view.
He met me in a Biology Honors class, freshman year. He was friendly, with a slight smile and a friendly hello. He was sincere. He was seemingly unbothered by anything. He was… what was that word… aloof.
He may have been aloof, but he and I had several things in common. He and I were great anime lovers, talking about the stuff whenever we finished a lab and had a few minutes left in class. He and I enjoyed learning, him maybe more than me. He and I never had a bias against other people when we met them for the first time. He and I were absolute maniacs about our grades. He and I liked to help other people.
He had a couple things that separated us, though. He got angry at the slightest perceived insult, and when he became angry, he was likely to swear under his breath and make (hollow) threats against people. He could shift from anger to calm so quickly it was frightening, and, admittedly, I thought he was possibly bipolar. He was a minor philanthropist; I witnessed him drop a hundred dollar bill into a collection bucket at the slightest mention of poor, suffering children.
He had more on his mind than just Biology at times. He would often talk to me as we walked from class to class. He would let slip little bits of information about his previous life. He would refer to an old friend, or what an old friend had done. He would chuckle darkly sometimes, which, frankly, sometimes gave me the shivers. He would seem detached from the world sometimes, a little frown on his face, then snap back into smiling and talking and laughing.
He always listened. He had that trait of always wanting to help. He, of all his pros and cons, had those two characteristics that shot out at me like a ten million-lumen floodlight against a midnight sky. He would sometimes ask for clarification or for me to repeat something I had whispered to him, but he always tried his best to listen to me. He would be looking at the ceiling or at the front of the classroom, but I could tell that he was hearing almost every word I said. He volunteered to help with most of the football games, too. He was, of course, part of NJROTC, so he would get a ribbon for his work, but even after that badge of honor was proudly displayed over his left breast pocket, he would still come. He gave the feeling sometimes that he never wanted to help people, or that people were too worthless (himself included) to deserve any help, but he tried his best.
He was sympathetic to people. He would sometimes put a hand consolingly on my shoulder for all of a second before taking it off, but he got the message across. He cared for others, though he never seemed like it, and that little contact every now and then proved it.
He would share with people when the situation warranted sharing. He might have called it cheating, but if someone had failed to complete something we did in class the previous day because they were absent and he felt that they were trustworthy, he would lend an answer or two to them. He would gripe about how people kept "jacking my food," but he would share it with other people nonetheless.
He was like a scary little psychologist, Dr. Frankenstein, and Bill Gates rolled up into one. He would confide in me about how selfish some people were, but would then include himself in the description. He would arrive angrily (rarely), and flop down in his seat, then flip his scowl into a smile and lean his weight onto his elbows. He would stick his finger into the piranha tank our teacher kept in the back and toy with the poor fish for a while, then sit back down and ruminate on whether the species could be "induced to grow four-inch fangs and fur." He was so self-conflicting sometimes, it made one's head spin trying to keep track of all his various moods.
He was self-damaging as well, though. He happened to be a firm believer in the theory that pessimism made the pessimist's life miserable, so it was slightly ironic of him to be thinking of himself in such terms. He never believed that what he did was good enough. He was always criticizing his own work. He was always wearing away at his own foundations.
He always gave me this sense that he was trying to protect himself from everyone else through the way he talked, the way he acted, and that big khaki jacket he wore that always made me think if he was slightly wrong in the head for wearing that in 90o weather. He was probably trying to give people that effect, too. He made me wonder what had happened to him in the past, to make him wall himself off from the world. He never told me. He let loose hints at time, but never told anyone. He had old friends from his old school that came to ours along with him, so I suppose they knew, but he never told me who they were.
He was like a turtle entrenched within its own shell. He would never tell you anything if you attempted to pry the information out of him by force, and he would never be coaxed into telling anything. He kept his secret locked away, where I imagine it was and still is steadily burning a hole through his heart.
He began to open up from his shell a bit, later in the year. He would talk to me more, and he would tell me more about his old life. He would still never tell me of his secret, and I don't suppose he told anyone, but it was a definite improvement. He stopped making himself as lonely and started to accept other people more. He would still fly into a rage at the slightest taunt about him.
He was frightened of something inside. He never made any very good friends because of that. He had that fear, but accepted it as part of who he was. He, in that sense, was stronger than anyone I had ever met.
He was still the same, inside, outside, contradictory to everyone he met. He was still as friendly, still as manic-depressive, and still as determined. He was still cold. He was still distant. He was still that perfectionist, looking for a perfect person in an imperfect world. He still had that certain element of aloofness mixed with the knowledge of what it felt like to be down on your luck. He still seemed friendless. He still had that fear; of what, I still am not sure. He was still him.
He once said to me, "Life sure is funny sometimes." He doesn't know how true his words are.
Oh, one last note. Reviews, please!