Abigail

[Tesiqurasa]

The following is the beginning to a story I attempted to write nearly two years ago. I came across it tonight and was surprised by what I wrote. I really want to take it further, but I cannot for the life of me remember what the story was supposed to be about.
Sooo
I figured I'd post various tentative chapters and outlines on here. Even though it'll mostly be rough work, having it public will keep me on check. It's very unlikely that this story will stay completely SFW, but I can't imagine it'd go much past R-content

Spoiler!

I suppose my attraction to her was physical, although that doesn’t quite fit into my grand romantic vision of our relationship. Her eyes immediately caught my attention- deep green and steady. Unlike other girls in the class, she did not furiously dart them around the room, but instead kept them fixated on her readings. If I must admit the attraction was physical, my overzealous romanticism would still allow for such a strange fascination with her eyes.

Every day I arrived early, hoping to finally work up the courage to initiate a meaningful conversation with her. Every day she walked in, headphones on, lost in her own world. Every day I fidgeted in my seat, praying for my voice to carry itself, and every day I was disappointed. So often she’d initiate the conversation, but in my panic, I took it to the guy sitting next to me. In my grandiose scheme of the world, a conversation between two people must be deep and meaningful. Small-talk is only appropriate in a group. My overwhelming desire to connect with her held me quiet; my pathetic willpower helpless against the pull.

Thus went every morning- a fruitless internal struggle. I remained satisfied to adore her privately, and was content with my own imaginative fantasies. A presumptuous professor once said, “Who you are consists entirely of your own creations. Take away everything you did not create, and the remainder is you.” I liked this misguided summation of life; it fit with my introverted, quiet desire. Regardless of how often I repeated this, I still felt empty. There was no great love, no righteous fight, no charismatic revolution- there was just my imagination.

Today was no different; there was no reason for it to be. She entered the classroom, eyes rigid, staring straight ahead. Faded jeans hugged her slender legs and a red plaid shirt poked out underneath a warm fall peacoat. I wanted to walk next to her, arm around her waist, shoulder coddling her curly brunette hair. Her eyes met mine as she formed a perfect, closed lip smile.

“**** she saw me staring”, I silently screamed to myself. “****ing hate my life-****ing hate my life.” My eyelids twitched in time to the words as they bounced around my head. The skin on the back of my neck was burning and freezing, panic sweeping across my body in waves. I brought my right hand up to my brow to casually hide- pretending I was deep in thought. She sat down directly to my left, as usual. I tried to keep my attention on the lesson, or on my intricate doodles, but I could not hold my eyes steady. I had to sneak glances at her. She was writing- beautiful, sprawling text. Her pencil dragged across the paper slowly; with each stroke my senses heightened. The light brush of graphite overwhelmed my thoughts and I fell deep into relaxation, woken only by the slight tapping of her foot. Brush. Tap. Brush. Tap. I faded in and out of thought. She had complete control over me and she didn’t even realize it. I desperately wanted to speak, to break the warm silence and be with her.

In my head I asked, “What if I just talked to her?” I got no response. Not today.

~~~

I suppose everything started with my fascination for her, although that may be a stretch. Grand romance calls for this; there’s nothing more chivalrous than fighting in the name of love. Realistically, it started because I was bored and desperate. My first entry was casual enough. Nearly every student on campus had an obscure blog. A generation raised on reality tv craves that power- the power to be heard by an eager public. Every meaningless thought, all trivial recounts of the day: what was for lunch, why the rain sucks, what’s going down on Friday night, was fodder for the “social” net. My entries were no different, at least in my eyes.
“Sometimes things in life happen for a reason, but we can’t change them.” It was young cliché angst, unspecific and generic. I had no followers.


Making the news was the first real accomplishment in my life. I can’t remember winning anything important. The local reporter never mentioned my name; if the police knew, they weren’t telling her.
An attractive blonde stood at the scene, speaking into an oversized microphone.

“A five-car pileup occurred on South 13^th this evening, leaving two people in critical condition. Police believe an SUV swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid a pedestrian crossing at a red light. causing an armored bank car to crash into the intersection traffic lights. The cause of the accident remains under investigation, but police speculate a jaywalking pedestrian may be to blame. No one was injured, but looters made off with much of the armored car’s contents before authorities arrived on the scene. People with the stolen bills are urged to report themselves; no action will be taken against those who do so within twenty-four hours. This man, a resident student, witnessed the incident occur.”

His voice cracked, obviously eager for his own fifteen minutes, “There’s this huge crash just outside, and I see this guy turn out of nowhere…”

I can’t help but tell someone, but I post my thoughts online instead. Finally, some interesting nonsense for my site. “You are not ‘what if.’ Take away everything you didn’t do and what you’re left with is all that matters. ” A rather inelegant summation of the day’s events.

~~~

I stood at the crosswalk, hands buried in my jacket pockets. It wasn’t quite cold enough for a jacket, and my back lightly eased out sweat. The wind gave a bit of relief, and I enjoyed it blowing hair across my face. Standing alone on a street corner, stoic, facing off against the wind. I imagined myself in the center of a deeply plotted film- the lone, misunderstood hero, above the world but forced to live on it. Deeper and deeper I fell into my imagination, eyes glazed over and numb to the outside world.

A group of drunks pushed past me, waking me from my trance. I was invisible to them. They ran across the intersection, just barely beating the dwindling orange countdown.

“**** I missed the light. ****ing hate my life- ****ing hate my life…”, I silently yelled, eyes and neck twitching to the rhythm of the words. Cars sped past, sending warm gusts of air against my face. The warmth took me back to my love, her green eyes lazily glancing up at me. Even in my mind, my gaze darted away, unable to face the desire building inside.

And then I got angry. I hated the denial, the isolation, the self-pity. I hated every morning that I sat, quietly brooding and dreaming. I looked up; the light was still bright red and cars were still rolling past. Out loud I asked, “What if I just walked?” No one was around to hear. Anger continued to grow in the pit of my stomach. It swelled and pulsed; my hands clenched. The skin around my arms tightened and my muscles tensed. A crack just across the street held my stare, my hatred.

**** “what if”. I took a step onto the street, all of my anger aimed directly at that point across traffic. I took another step, and another- as if pulled by a chain. Nothing around mattered, just me and the other side. The muted smashing of metal and pavement echoed distantly, unable to disturb my path. Long after I had passed my goal, I could hear unintelligible screaming and wailing sirens. I laughed.

Spoiler!

My alarm rang late the next morning, although it didn't deserve the blame; I suppose the fault lay with me for setting the wrong time. I took several minutes standing up, first letting my bare feet hang off the bed, rest on the floor, and absorb the cold from the tiles. A cloudy day peaked in through the dorm’s closed blinds, and I wondered if it would finally be cool enough for a coat.

The lukewarm water from the public showers did little to rouse me from the comfortable numbness of sleep. Even though I was already running late I took my time, letting the coolness run down my back. Voices echoed in the bathroom, indistinguishable yet recognizable. The muted chatter of my friend, Ryan, could be heard, and I waited until it subsided before stepping out of the shower. It’s not that I didn’t like the guy, I just wasn’t in the mood for impromptu conversation. Talking never came naturally to me; during chance encounters with friends I often fell back on stale inside jokes and inane nonsense. Living in the dorms proved to be quite a challenge to my bouts of solitude, but having a room to myself helped.

I listened for the voices to subside before stepping out of the shower. Quickly I brushed my teeth, silently praying no one would show up with expectations of small talk. While creeping back to my room, I heard Ryan laughing with another boy from the floor; it sounded like my neighbor, Tim. Tim was absolutely clueless, unable to pick up even the most obvious cues of my desired solitude. Desperate to avoid the pair, I rushed through my door, loudly pulling it shut behind me just as I heard the beginning of, “Hey, ‘morning, Paul…”

Back pressed against the door, heart slightly racing, I looked up at the windows. Overcast skies suggested autumn had finally made its appearance. I dropped the towel from my waist and reached for a warm, long-sleeved shirt. I loved wearing sleeves, something about being completely covered appealed to me. As warmth crept back into my chest, I quickly finished getting dressed, finally aware of the pressing time. The day was Friday, and I had my class with Abigail.

Time somehow ended up on my side; it always did. Ten minutes before class I slipped into my seat. Abigail had not yet arrived, although Nick, who sat on the opposite side of me, was already at his desk. His greeting was cheerful, a biting to against the day’s grey skies.

“Hey there!” he said through a toothy grin, “how far did you get in the reading?”

Mouth barely moving, I murmured, “Finished it. It was okay.” That was a lie; my book remained unopened. All I knew was what I garnered from the professor’s description earlier that week.

“Some of that stuff came out of nowhere,” Nick enthusiastically continued, “I remember professor Simmons explaining how much different the writing was, but come on…”

Nick went on, pretending to be confused by the reading. I knew he was playing it up, acting humble. I think Nick could sense my anxiety. The whole classed loved him, yet he spent most of the time sitting in the back corner talking to me. Earlier in the semester, while reading Latin incantations from Dr. Faustus, the class convinced Nick to recite the ancient language, and he jumped at the chance. They laughed and shouted with him as he soaked up the attention. I even found myself cracking a smile while he enthusiastically bellowed out the Latin text.

But like I said, despite his popularity he chose to sit in the back with me and Abigail, and every morning he acted like we were all the best of friends. Maybe he just wanted Abigail…
“Anyway, have you read Chaucer before, Paul?” Nick’s cheerful voice shook me from the silent comfort of thought.

“Huh?” I stuttered, “Oh yeah, my mom had me read Canterbury Tales as a kid.” That was another lie, but it made me sound like a true prodigy. “But I had help translating, of course”, I quickly added, just in case he asked any specific questions or doubted my claim.

“Ah! Wow, that’s impressive nonetheless”, Nick said with a genuine air of admiration. I enjoyed seeing that look on his face. He couldn’t always be the smartest one in class.

“Heh, thanks,” I replied, lowering my gaze, feigning humility, “although Troilus and Criseyde was a lot harder to read.”

“I know what you mean!” Nick nodded, looking down at his book. He continued, rambling about the literature I had no intention of reading. I turned my attention toward my doodles, occasionally shaking my head in agreement.
Finally, as Professor Simmons began taking attendance, Abigail hurried through the door and slipped into her seat. A brief flash of embarrassment crossed her face as the professor thanked her for finally showing up. The light blush made her skin so soft, so beautiful.

Abigail glanced up at me, and she briefly smiled, whispering a quick “Hey, Paul!”, but a look of anxiety overtook the greeting.
“If only she had come in earlier,” I thought to myself, “I could’ve asked her what was on her mind. It would’ve been perfect. Why couldn’t she just show up on time?” My internal ranting was cut short as I noticed her reaching down into her bag. As she leaned over, the back of her shirt pulled up slightly, and as inconspicuously as possible, I glanced down, making sure to keep my head straight ahead. Her skin was pale and soft, a pearly translucent white. My eyes continued their way down the small of her back, and my heartrate quickened.

Abigail sat back up and looked over at me, giving another uneasy smile. Embarrassed, I diverted my gaze toward the scribbles in my notebook. Attempting to appear innocent, I kept my attention strictly focused down, feigning deep thought.

“Any more examples of Criseyde being portrayed as a sympathetic character? Abigail?” Dr. Simmons had an unnaturally booming voice for such a small woman. Abigail jumped, hands fumbling through the pages, eyes anxiously scanning the room.

“I, uh, sorry. I didn’t get a chance to read it.”, she murmured.

Dr. Simmons folded hre arms, but concern showed on her brow. “That’s quite alright, Abbi. Did anyone else get around to the reading?” A chubby kid with slicked blonde hair raised his hand to answer, and before the professor nodded in his direction, he began rambling off quotes. My attention faded once again. I looked back at Abigail, who now had her head bowed and her bright green eyes fixed on an empty desk.
The rest of the lecture passed quietly, and Abigail rarely diverted her gaze from the desk. The shuffling of bags and paper began overtaking Dr. Simmons’s voice, and after peaking at the time on my phone, I realized dismissal was approaching.

“Now’s my chance to talk to her…” I thought, turning toward Abigail. My mouth squeaked open, barely easing out, “Hey, Abigail?” I hoped I sounded concerned.

“What’s up?” Her voice and smile carried cheer, but distraction lingered in her tired eyes.

I stood quiet for a brief second, shocked she even responded. Suddenly aware of the growing silence, I quickly asked, “Would you like to work through the reading with me later? I kinda didn’t do the entire thing.” I smiled awkwardly attempting to portray a bit of embarrassment. Nick glanced over, confused, but he remained silent.

“Oh yes, sure!” Relief took over Abigail’s face; she seemed excited, and the frustration left her eyes. “When would you want to meet up?”

“How about this afternoon? I don’t have much going on then.” Not that I ever had much planned.

“That sounds perfect! Want to meet at Everything Espresso? I could really use some coffee; I’ve been tired all ****ing day.” Anxiety crept back into her face, and she briefly paused. “I hope I’m not too bad at translating –this is my first time reading Old English.”

“Well, it’s actually Middle English,” I said, excited to correct her, “but you’re pretty smart; I’m sure you’ll read through it no problem!”

Abigail blushed and let out a short laugh. “Thanks! I’ll see you around 2?”

“Sounds good!” I was suddenly aware that we were the last two ones left in the room. Professor Simmons had just left and was standing in the hallway, patiently answering that chubby kid’s questions. Embarrassment burned in my cheeks, and I quickly turned away, pulling headphones over my ears, disappearing into the distraction of music. Waving a brief good-bye to Abigail, I headed out of room. Anxiety pulled at my throat as I walked back to my dorm.