Author: DivyaG

(Warning; contains descriptions of violence)

No one knew.

I told the world that I fell over the baby gate at night. That it was dark and I heard crying and I was half asleep and forgot it was there. That I crashed over it and somehow fell on my face and somehow, somehow it looked exactly as if someone had punched me in the nose. I laughed as I told the story to my co-workers, silly, clumsy me.

You see, I couldn’t miss work. That would have meant being late on the electric bill; which would mean that the car payment would get pushed back and there would be a penalty; and then the rent would be due, and it would be $80 short; and then the whole precarious, carefully balanced house of cards would come crashing down on me. You see, that’s what poverty is. You play a card, just wrong, and the whole thing collapses. Your tire catches a nail and you weep, because there goes the water bill. You miss a day of work because you’re sick, and shit, no lunch that week.

So I couldn’t miss work, not just for a swollen nose.

You see, I hadn’t wanted to have sex with him. But that’s not something you can tell polite society.

That memory, I don’t want to touch it. It’s part of a dark mass in the back of my brain. That time, those 6 years living with the sometimes-monster, they feel untouchable, dirty. My chest feels tight and my tear ducts are heavy, but dry, when I peer back into that recent past.
He had come into the room that night, pushing and pushing at me, into me, snarling. I’m not sure if it was even that night, but at some point there was a kitchen knife at my throat. The same tool that I used in the safe light of day to lovingly cut our tiny son’s avocado and strawberries into “birdie bits”.

And then he exploded my nose with his fist and there was so much blood, and a thin, high sound that I realized was me screaming and begging him to stop, please stop.

The next morning he had driven to the store to buy me spot cover make-up so I could go to work. It was $18. I found it in my car a couple years later and thought, oh yeah, the “sorry I raped you and punched you in the nose make-up”.
He had bought it with my credit card.
I had only used it once.
It was the wrong shade.

You had fought hard to stay in the car, but here you are, sitting in the waiting room. Defeated.
You don’t understand why it’s universally expected that a person must outgrow their fear of the dentist. It didn’t matter that they hid the office inside a Craftsman’s home; the well-worn, hospitable exterior couldn’t make up for the waiting room’s artificial quality. The misshapen furniture and electric fireplace desperately desired to capture modernity but fell short of achieving the style due to the layout’s lack of connectivity. Instead, the space lacked any identity and it did nothing to ease your nerves.
You’ve only been here five minutes and you’re envisioning the walk back to your apartment. Ana is probably already back there now, since Chatterbox Dentistry isn’t more than four blocks from Forster Woods. Why you needed a Prius and an escort to get you here speaks volumes about your character.
You’re currently pretending to be invested in the content on your phone while trying to decipher what the receptionist is whispering to her colleague. You remind yourself that not everything is about you, yet when the two laugh, you can’t help but think it’s at your expense.
You feel eyes on you and begin to suspect they’re coming from the person sitting in the armchair across from you. He’s probably in on the joke.
Ana would second your observation if she was here, and would also likely credit the attention you were receiving to your “frumpy” appearance. She had begged you to wear anything besides your baggy gray sweats and the shirt with the frog wearing a cowboy hat, but your argument in favor of comfort miraculously won out.
Your stomach clenches, and you remember how Ana had talked you out of eating anything this morning. Her reasoning sounded ironic now, “What if you feel sick?”
Ana always suggests water before food for an empty stomach. From her ideal bodily proportions and effortless sex appeal, she embodied what you aspired to be, so the water dispenser near reception had never looked more appealing.
Your head slightly spins as you go to stand and walk over to the counter, but you’re determined to get a drink. You grab a paper cup and fill it to the brim before returning to your seat. When you drink it in one go, regret suddenly hits as the cramps turn into ferocious waves.
Your eyes try to shut out the excruciating white lights. Was the room always this small? Was it always this hot?
Your mouth salivates, and your body instinctively stumbles back to the water counter, where you recall seeing a trash can next to it.
You tremble as the sour taste of bile finds its way to your throat and, ultimately, into the can. Tears streak your face as a hand on your shoulder leads you outside to the parking lot, where they direct you to sit on the curb.
After a few refreshing breaths, you look up at the stranger. He politely introduces himself, “I’m Xavier.”
“Leah. Hey, I’m so sorry for what just happened. That was…embarrassing, to say the least.” His round glasses remind you of Ana, but his skin is a much richer brown than hers.
“Don’t be. Happens to everyone.” Your skepticism must show because he sits beside you and asks, “Are you sure you’re alright?”
You remind yourself that he’s a stranger you just met, but you end up oversharing anyway. You explain that your best friend was trying to be helpful but only made you more nervous and self-conscious about a simple teeth cleaning.
He huffs, “It sounds like you need a new best friend.”
You gasp, “I didn’t mean to make her sound so terrible. She’s great.” Seeing his dubious expression, you go on, “I’m serious. I mean, I’ve known her forever. God, I live with her!”
“I just think if people go out of their way to make your life miserable, why wouldn’t you find friends that didn’t?
But what if no one else will be my friend? You don’t say the last part out loud.
“I guess I shouldn’t miss my appointment.” He stands, then reaches his hand down to hoist you up. Once you’re standing, you realize you’re about the same height.
You’re not sure what compels you, but you say, “If I were to leave, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”
“Here, let me see your phone,” logically, you shouldn’t hand him your phone, but against your best judgment, you do. Thankfully, he hands it back and tells you that he just added his number to your contacts.
Xavier gives you a little wave and says he hopes to hear from you soon as he walks back into the house/dentist. You decide to ditch your appointment and contemplate the conversation on the ten-minute walk back to your apartment. You conclude that Xavier is right; you need to leave your toxic friend situation, but relying on the kindness of a stranger isn’t your only option, right?
You press the code into the keypad to let yourself through the massive entrance gate, but instead of turning right and walking up the staircase to the third floor of the gray building as you usually do, you turn left. You can’t help but notice everything you love about this complex, from the mismatched gray and orange buildings to the unnaturally green grass. It’s winter in Austin and all the grass should be dead, yet life prevails here. Somehow, you find yourself outside door 202 of the orange building. You know this is a terrible idea, but that doesn’t stop you from knocking.
You hear footsteps approaching, and when she opens the door, you know there’s no going back now.
“Petra, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”
“I had a dentist appointment,” as if that’s an adequate excuse for taking the whole day off.
“Oh,” is all she says.
Her calling you Petra was not a blunder but a mantle you craved when you couldn’t tolerate Ana, or even your reality for any longer. Everything about Dizzy is ethereal. Her skin, body, and long red hair make her look more like a fictional princess than your neighbor.
“Dizzy, you know why I’m here.” The intensity in her stare makes you break her gaze and trace the snaking, black tattoos on her arms until you admit, “I don’t know what to do. I think I hate Ana.”
She steps closer to you, now standing entirely outside the door. With her this close, all you can think about is how you’ve wanted to be this close to Dizzy since she introduced herself when you moved to Forster Woods three years ago. She leans her lips toward you but veers away from your own before coming close to your ear instead, “Leave Leah at the door, dear. I much prefer Petra.”
That’s when you do it. You shed Leah like a coat as you push Dizzy back into her apartment. Your new form, Petra, grabs Dizzy’s shirt between your fists, bringing your lips together. You hope the taste of mint and strawberry lingers forever as you begrudgingly force yourself to pull away from her.
When Dizzy begins to rant about the two of you running away together to Rome, you can picture it. Why couldn’t you forget your disappointing world and join Dizzy’s? Feeling like you might bubble over, you force yourself to sit; you’re grateful her couch is much more practical than the ones at Chatterbox. Dizzy follows you, and your lips meet for the second time. This time, you sacrifice some passion to softly sink into her hair and the crevices of her body. If this is what drowning feels like, maybe it’s not such a terrible way to…
“Dizzy, why’d you leave the door open?”
Dizzy leaps from your grasp as Gus forces you to the less colorful surface.
Gus stops when he notices Dizzy isn’t alone on the couch. “Oh, what brings you here, Leah.”
Dizzy jumps up to hug her boyfriend before giving him a peck on the cheek.
Gus’s muscular stature always makes you nervous, and this time is no different. “Well, I should get going then.”
“You never said why you came over.”
Dizzy begins to speak, saving you from coming up with an answer, “Leah needed some cheering up.”
“She’s a grown woman, Dizzy. She doesn’t need to be comforted like a child,” Gus whispers, frustrated.
You recognize that the only person at fault here is you. It was ignorant to believe Petra existed or that Dizzy would ever abandon Gus for you. Wherever Dizzy goes, Gus is bound to follow, leaving you feeling like an even worse person than you did before you showed up at her door.
They continue to argue over your presence, and your self-loathing expels you from the apartment.
You don’t want to see Ana, so you walk directionless. Flowers in every shade bloom through bark mulch and concoct a sweet, woodsy scent that calms you as it drifts throughout the complex.
You finally decide to make a call after walking in a circle around the complex for nearly thirty minutes.
“Hello?” You’re surprised that he actually answers.
“This is Leah from the dentist.”
“Oh, what’s going on, Leah?”
“I’m done. I need to leave now.”
“Okay. Can I pick you up in an hour?”
Wiping away tears, you don’t hesitate to answer, “Yes, that’ll work.”
You waste no time, heading straight to your apartment. When you charge through the unlocked door, you see Ana moving around the kitchen while the TV acts as background noise instead of entertainment. A copious amount of adrenaline and purpose spur you to announce, “I’m moving out,” before she can speak.
You both stay frozen until you break the standstill by crossing through the living room to take cover in your bedroom. Not long after locking the door, Ana starts demanding an explanation from outside. You take this as an opportunity to pack.
You’re relieved when you finish loading your suitcase with essentials and don’t hear screaming or cursing anymore, only a faint murmur coming from the TV.
You risk peeking out the door to check for Ana. When the main area appears void of life, you grab your suitcase and make a last-ditch effort for the front door. You don’t make it.
Standing in the hallway is a tall and somber figure. “Devin, I didn’t know you were coming over.” Devin, Ana’s cousin, likes to overstay his welcome and sleep on the couch for a week, draining as much joy as he can from your life. While the size difference between the two cousins is colossal, they share the same tan skin and raven black hair.
“You look restless, and what’s with the suitcase?”
Unable to concoct a creative excuse for your state, you admit, “I’m moving out.”
His eyes move around the apartment as he walks past you to the main room, “This is a nice place, and with this economy, I doubt you’ll find anything better.”
He sounded like Ana, “Just need a change of scenery.”
He turns around, “I think we both know this has nothing to do with the scenery.”
His tone went from playful to severe in a heartbeat. You take a protective stance, crossing your arms, and refuse to follow him out of the hallway. “How do you know what this is about?”
“Leah Leah Leah. Don’t you ever learn,” he shakes his head. “You know how many times you’ve threatened to drop us?”
By “us,” you presume he refers to himself and Ana, but maybe Dizzy, and Gus as well.
“Why can’t you just accept that there is no you without us.”
You struggle to find words, let alone a solid argument, and yell, “Because you’re ruining my life!”
He continues, unfazed, “A little dramatic, don’t you think? You make it sound like we have you trapped here. What? You need a prince to come and rescue you?”
You notice that he’s slowly inched his way towards you. Only about two feet separates you now. “You’ve always had a choice. Admit it, as much as you hate us, you know we’re what you deserve!”
Those words hit you the hardest. It’s not sadness you feel but an emptiness. You finally comprehend that you’re stuck here as long as you’re you. Forever.
Devin sighs, “The Xaviers of the world will come and go, but your minor inconveniences are forever. If I were you, I’d learn to live with us.” He walks away, and you stand there numb.
You don’t know how he knew about Xavier, but some things aren’t worth questioning.
The sun is setting, but it’s eerily warm outside as you walk to the entrance gate. Not even Forster Woods’s peaceful, luxurious atmosphere crafted by the smell of sea salt wafting from the pool and the sound of jovial canines at the dog park could grant you respite.
Xavier can’t get in without the code, so instead, his car has pulled around the loop. He must see you approaching because he rolls down the window.
There’s a selfish part of you that wishes he could at least pretend to be a little disappointed that you don’t carry a bag or appear to have any intention of opening the gate.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter from the other side of the black, iron bars. You’ve done this part so many times, but those are the only words you can ever come up with.
His tone is earnest when he says, “I’m sorry that I can’t save you, but we both know that’s something you have to do yourself.” He rolls up the window, and you force yourself to watch the car drive away until the headlights no longer flood the street before returning home.
When you reach the front door, you hear your once quiet apartment bursting with life. Upon entering, you first see Ana’s lithe body sprawled out on the couch, her excitement at your arrival is palpable. Then your attention turns to the banner on the wall above her head, that reads, Welcome Home! The cruel joke worsens when you notice Dizzy hanging on Gus near the kitchen counter. Her lips upturn slightly in what appears to be a smile. Someone must’ve asked you to join the party, or maybe you told everyone, “I’m going to bed,” completely unprompted.
When you finally get to your bedroom, hand gripping the door knob, you catch Devin out of the corner of your eye, pouring himself a drink in the kitchen. When he looks up to meet your eyes, he winks.
You slam your door shut behind you and sink your back against it. You’ve been here too many times to count, and you know sleep won’t come when the loud conversations outside will force you to relive your miserable day until the next morning. It’s either that or fall asleep, only to have the voices follow you into your dreams.
But tonight, in the endless tunnel of noise, you can still hear something Devin said: Xaviers come and go. That thought alone gives you all the hope you need to keep hanging on because, who knows, maybe someday, you’ll finally go too.

Google docs version (italics included): https://docs.google.com/document/d/12BU4TaJYw05MvffAAgAAcbSdsa9k1dg448czxDFJx5A/edit
– False, The Prophet –
“When a bell rings, an angel gets its wings”
– It’s a Wonderful Life

Today had started out like any other. Isn’t that how tales always start? The schedule is the same. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Do it all over again. Over and over and over until I die, and that’s how I thought my life would stay. But in a twisted sense? That’s exactly what happened.
————————-
Rain fell all through the night, smearing the view of the outside world from the window. As the drops tapped away at the roof I thought back to the rainy days long since past, not unlike like this one. A long time ago I would have told you that rain was some sort of God, crying out over the unfortunate state of the world. Now, I believe in science. Science is safe, secure, and easy to understand, at least compared to the idea of faith and another plane beyond our own. The idea of God is a childish fantasy best left behind, like the dirt and leaves running to the gutter with the fallen rain.
Getting up from my spot beside the window (The rain was calming, perhaps a bit too much) I went to the kitchenette to rummage through a mini fridge full of the same microwave lasagna I had been eating for a while. Pulling out one I knew should have been thrown out weeks ago, I barely glanced at the lifeless cartoon lasagna on the package before placing it in the microwave. Some lightning flashed outside as I yawned, watching the lasagna spin on the stained and unsavory glass dish. I should clean it sometime. I should clean a lot of things sometime. The warm glow of the microwave barely started to light the room before the work was done, package steaming slightly with the plastic cheese sizzling through the sound of rain.
It’s not too bad to be alone with my thoughts. Moving out might be the best thing that has happened to me this year. Not that there’s much better to compare it to. A younger me would have told you that after college, you just… get a job, and that’s that. But now? I wish I had connections to get me anywhere.
“I can’t keep living on a salary like this.” I mutter to no one in particular. Setting up my spot at the rickety old folding table, I take a slow bite of the lasagna. It’s slightly crunchy in places it shouldn’t be, but I keep chewing.
I hear a sound. At first, I don’t recognize it, as I’ve never heard it before. But I soon come to my senses and realize it’s the doorbell. With a quick glance at my plastic watch (it chafes against my skin but I know I can’t afford better.) I mumble again. “Who comes knocking this late at night?” Another flash of lightning. “With weather like this, no less.” I shuffled to my feet to get the door.
I don’t know what to expect. A distant family member. Someone looking to sell a vacuum. A friend looking for a place to crash… though I don’t have enough friends for that to happen, I still expect it more than what occurs.
A stranger, who stands easily a head taller than the doorframe, looms above me from my porch in a white robe that easily covers their entire being, their only other color is a red satin… scarf? What did my parents call it… a stole? I look up slowly to meet this person’s eyes, a sudden weight dropping to my stomach as I realize they have none. In place of eyes they have a white mask with small holes, no bigger than jacket buttons. The button holes have purple crayon scribbled around them in an unorganized manner. To make matters worse, the “eyes” are accompanied by a wide and crooked smile, as if scratched on last-minute by a young child. In fact, the whole mask gave off the idea of childish inexperience. But the yellowing edges of the mask showed age compared to the perfect white of their robe. I looked around at the rain, then back at the tall stranger. A lightning strike flashed as if to articulate a revelation.
They’re completely dry. “Excuse me–hate to be a bother, but do you have a moment to talk?”
The man (at least, they sounded like a man) was surprisingly soft-spoken, sounding very polite despite his imposing height and… odd fashion choice. Clearing my voice, I avoided eye contact. “I, uh… what?”
The purple crayon markings on the mask seemed to shift around as he spoke. Even looking at the button eyes caused a type of vertigo I couldn’t place. The man cleared his throat. “I asked if I could have a moment of your time? Just to talk, I promise.”
Despite the relative charm in his voice, his appearance clashed so severely that it threw off any chance he had at seeming friendly. Regardless, I tried to be friendly back. “Er… sorry, sir? But uh… it’s well into the night and I’m headed off to bed. I um… maybe next time?” But as I closed my door on the stranger, a brown boot stained red and black with age and travel caught the door. Once again, the stranger spoke in a friendlier tone than I could ever imagine. “Oh please, won’t you reconsider? I know it’s late, but this’ll only take a moment, I promise.”
I had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to say, but I asked anyway. “What do you even wanna talk about?” I kept the door as closed as his foot would allow. The stranger flinched before laughing slightly, peeking through the crack in the doorway. His arms were oddly stationary at his sides, as if they were broken off at the socket, hanging uselessly. The purple crayon shifted again, now going in the opposite direction. “Oh, silly me! I didn’t even tell you what I wished to talk about, of course you’re suspicious.” That, among other things. “Do you have some time to hear about the words of our one true God?”
There was something I couldn’t quite place with how he said ‘god’ that sent a shiver down my spine. Despite the discomfort, I tried my best to keep my voice steady. “I uh… I’m an atheist. I don’t really believe in that stuff. Not… Not anymore.”
The crooked smile etched upon his mask seemed to lessen by a fraction. But as if it had never happened, the smile returned, if a little forced the second time around. (How could I tell?) “If you’ll at least hear me out, I’m sure I can change your mind. Perhaps you just had a bad experience with your first religion. Mine is… different, to say the least.”
The chipper tone his voice had contained so far was starting to slip and strain, frustration beneath the surface begining to show. I could no longer control the fear I felt on my face and in my voice. “I-I really don’t need any of that, I’m uh… good as is. Now really, I should get back to my–”
A black tear started dripping slowly down his right eyehole, staining the mask as it traveled further and further down. His voice was now painfully sweet, seething in annoyance and displeasure. “Please, will you at least try and listen? It is very important that I get this message out–”
“I said no! Go away, please!”
It seemed “no” was the stranger’s breaking point. Another tear came out of his left eye, both eyes now dripping black. It wasn’t the tears that scared me though, it was his suddenly frozen posture, straight and as still as a statue, dripping ink like some sort of corrupted fountain. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper, shaking and tense. “No…?”
The tears of tar started dripping faster, staining his white robes. “No?” he repeated, snapping one of his hands at a breakneck pace to crush the door with an elongated orange hand, texture brittle like clay, small bits breaking off and flaking to the ground. The door creaked under the pressure of his grip. “No?” he said again, as the pressure increased on the door. If even possible, he seemed to grow taller as he dug his dirty nails into the door, wood splitting from the effort. I was useless against the creature.
“No!” the creature growled out, voice becoming as distorted as his appearance, as if gargling on the very tar dripping from his eyes. As the door slammed against the wall, the hinges barely had time to groan before they snapped. (Just another thing to fix…) I get flung back with no choice but to watch as the creature hunches over to enter. Before I even know what’s happening I’m pinned against the kitchen cabinets, head pounding from the impact. My lungs try and fail to bring in air. The creature sounds like it’s struggling to maintain clear English as it speaks. “Every ti-me I try to help you-r insig-nificant ra-ce see the tru-th, you refuse! I off-er you a spo-ot among the enlight-ened, but no! You wi-sh to remain ig-norant forever!”
I’m still struggling to breathe as I choke out some final bitter words. “Maybe if you worked on your approach, it’d work bet–” The creature tightens its grip and I start seeing spots, whether from the tar dripping on my face or lack of oxygen, I can’t tell. The creature shakes its head in disappointment. “You-r peo-ple will nev-er experi-ence the true gl-ory of God.” The failing lungs were starting to reach my brain. “Fine by me…” I whisper out, as a last sort of jab of defiance before completely fading. The creature releases its grip barely, just enough for me to breathe again, the color returning to my face.
“Hu-man, expl-ain one thing t-o me, bef-ore you per-ish.” I don’t respond, but the creature asks anyway. “Why d-o you choo-se to re-main ignor-ant, wh-en the ans-wers are all s-o cle-ar in fro-nt of you?”
He’s right, in a way. This is clearly a supernatural figure, right in front of me, and yet, I still can’t take him on his word. I look out the window to the rain one last time before spitting out some of the chalky tar that had dripped on my face. “Because I don’t trust false prophets like you. Always shoving the idea of salvation in our faces like it can be bought or sold, as if simply apologizing is gonna make it all better.”
This false prophet wiped his face with his sleeve, the black tar now even more smeared than it was before, obscuring the smile and purple crayon of his face. The carved smile disappears entirely, replaced by an equally crooked frown as the small button eyes widen, the vertigo from earlier reaching a peak I didn’t know was even possible. Staring into the eyeholes, it’s impossible to look the other way. I could have sworn there were church bells among the screaming choir in my mind.
Quick, like the lightning in the storm, everything is gone. All aside from the abandoned lasagna. Cold and moldy, the only company is the bugs.

I sit here in this classroom in complete and utter disbelief. How can someone as ingenious, charismatic, and diligent as me tie with Wesley Russo, a weak, scrawny, cowardly nobody? A bottom of the barrel underdog on the decathlon team for goodness sake. He is a complete loner, but somehow his valedictorian speech is equivalent to my work. In what world is what he has to say more important than my senior year wrap-up? I lost elbow grease while writing this speech. Wesley has nothing on me. I’m popular, idolized even, but I presume that’s no longer valued in the world, or rather Kinleigh High School English Department. Apparently now is the time to take pity on losers or put more formally those who can’t evolve. Wesley has been second to me since kindergarten; he placed second in all the elementary spelling bees, weightlifting contests, and even in class debates until today when we leveled.
Miss Kwenton tells us both to rethink and polish our speeches which will be judged again on Friday, and she suggested that one of us should even think about dropping out. I sigh and run my fingers through my tousled hair with frustration. Clearly I wasn’t discreet enough “something on your mind,” Wesley asks. I contemplate being passive and responding with “no” for roughly 5 seconds, instead I go off the handle saying “How is an oration about your Grandfather worthy of discussing on one of the single most significant days of our young adult lives?” My snarky yet valid counter earns me an eye roll from Wesley who averts his coppery eyes and sways to Miss Kwenton to say “I appreciate you making me aware of my competition. Are we done here?” She nods after picking up on his uneasiness. Miss Kwenton turns her head and meets my gaze, giving me a piercing look of judgment. “What?” I mutter unremorsefully, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s not like I lied. Nobody wants to hear him ramble, and I just can’t wrap my head around being overshadowed by him.” Miss Kwenton interjects. “It’s a shame to see one of my most promising students behave like such a child.”
After she leaves the room, I realize it would be pathetic to wallow in my sorrows and decide to head over to Vince’s Diner where I happen to do my best writing. I stroll in like I own the place, which I
practically do, since I close the place every night. A worker walks toward my booth and asks “What can I get for you, son?”
“Nothing I can buy from here,” I claim.
He looks puzzled. To my surprise the restaurant is empty, so he tucks his order pad in his shirt pocket, raises his eyebrows, sits down, and replies “Hmm, humor me” I told him… well everything we discussed my Type A personality, my fears, and I somehow managed to divulge my two massive current dilemmas being my rocky relationship with my father and how I’m tied for the graduation speech. He made a cackle in his gravelly tone, “You sound just like me at your age. I was the black sheep of my family, but managed to outgrow my family’s traditions.”
“That’s easier said than done. My dad went to Harvard Law, graduated at the top of his class, and gave a graduation speech that’s still multiplying in views on YouTube after going viral decades ago. How can I top that?”
“I never tried to beat my old man at his own game; I only tried to master mine. I might’ve lost some of his respect doing so, but that’s ok because I gained my own!”
“You said earlier you want to go to Harvard too, right?”
I give a shy nod. “Does that make me a sycophant?” I probe.
“No” he affirmed, “That would make you authentic, and being genuine is a lot better than putting
up a facade so you don’t disappoint others around you.”
“I see you in here every night writing up a storm and it’s clear there’s more to you and you’re not
some cliche, so be your own person. You don’t need your peers or your daddy to tell you that you’re exceptional, especially when you’re on a distinct path. You’re stressed about your future. I get it. I have a grandson who is the same way.” Our therapy session suddenly gets cut short by his nasty cough. I lean over to my side of the booth and ask him if he needs a sip of water. He shakes his head muttering that he is “fine” and collapses on the ground. I shout for help and begin dialing 911. The paramedics arrived in 6 sluggish minutes and he was rushed to the hospital.

Two weeks after that bizarre experience at the diner, I decided to listen to the man I vented to and finally worked up the nerve to confront my father. As we ate dinner my aura shifted. “Is everything ok with you son?” It was at that moment that I came clean.
“Dad, I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Look I know you’re probably nervous to give the speech but it’s a few minutes and it will be over before you know it. Just do the thing they say, picture everyone in their underwear.”
I chuckle, “No it’s not my nerves it’s just I doubt mine will be as memorable as yours was.”
“Who says it has to be. I pushed you to try because I knew you had the potential to get the opportunity I did, not so we could compete.”
“Oh so you don’t care if mine differs from yours?” “Would it be your speech if it was a reiteration of mine?”
Confronting my dad did not go as anticipated because there was no shouting or cursing. Maybe I was wrong; it was my tendencies that drew that conclusion. I know I put in work, but most importantly I know who I am. I do not need anyone else to tell me. A day later, I am told that Wesley won the speech. I immediately feel a weight taken off my shoulders.
I can faithfully say, come graduation day, I am content. Today, in my cap, and gown I feel at peace with everything as I walk to my seat to listen to Wesley share his revised speech. Looking over, I saw the gracious man from the diner, and I was suddenly comforted. I find myself sitting in disbelief once again after hearing Wesley’s initial remarks “To my Grandfather Vince…”
The End