Hearing Anna

i.i

IF I HAVE EVER tasted a salad so terrible as the one stuck between my teeth right now, colour me orange and call me an oompa loompa. i say this on account of how wholly organic and revolting the taste of kale remains to me.

"why such a sour face?" the boy across from me jeers. his generic styrofoam plate is piled with what could easily be considered pizza and an apple.

i sneer, which brings a strange smile to his face. "the freshman fifteen is a real thing. i would rather prevent it."

the boy, whom i know as elliot, grins again. "i need the meat on me," he says, then gestures to his bony wrist with his other hand. he laughs a hearty laugh, one which would carry if we weren't in the cafeteria.

for once, i decide to humor him, despite how truly terrible eating healthy tastes. like the taste of defeat, it is cringeworthy.

"how your en'-of-ter' 'ssay coming for literature?" he says through a mouth full of his food. i gag as a pepperoni falls from his mouth. he swallows his food soon enough, but not soon enough that my disgust can cease as soon as possible. "sorry." with a clean napkin, he wipes his mouth clear of foodstuffs.

    "it's okay. i've been having trouble with wrapping it up."

    "what topic did ya choose? of the three he offered, i mean."

    the three writing views we had been given to choose from were meant to take on the points of view of either a young man contemplating suicide, someone who had been trapped in the defunct foster care system for most of their life, or a sufferer of ptsd.

    "ptsd one."

    he seems slightly taken aback. "why? that's a plain sad topic, anna. the perspective of a soldier, i assume?"

    under the table, i tap my foot against the floor. i try not to think about the essay too much; even though i know he means well, my vision turns a bit grey.

    when my eyes open again, elliot looks unbelievably confused, but that doesn't keep his face from lighting up.

    "she lives!"

    "damn narcolepsy," i mutter. he probably couldn't make the connection between my narcs and the ptsd writing topic.

stress builds up in my stomach as he tilts his head just a bit to the right. simply confounded. "that sucks. i forgot to ask, how'd you get it?"

    "no clue," i lie, then stand from the chair. "gotta go work on that paper."

    "um..." he seems disappointed; i can see it in the caterpillar state of his eyebrows, how his deep brown eyes reflect apprehension. "okay. see you later?"

    i'm already backing away when i say "sure." it may be the second lie i have told him in thirty seconds, but i'm not sure. the innocence in his face made me think that it was truth.

    but still, i need a minute to bbe alone if i'm going to be thinking about the contents of that paper.

+

don't forget to vote if you
haven't already—
every vote means this lovely tale
is one step closer to becoming
more successful.
also, if you're rereading this story
for the second time and
have already voted,
i would love to know what you think
(hint hint, comments).
dftba.

+

instagram—trespasserby
snapchat–lilingham
twitter—trespasserby