Smile
Smile. Copious secrets and emotions locked away in the depths of my soul. Happiness is my mask. No one has seen me wear anything else, only joy, excitement, and their shimmering reflections. To them, I am cheerful, naïve, untouched by darkness. But I would like to object. I bestowed upon myself a title and a palace, bound by a duty I cannot abandon until I am someone else. Someone that no one recognizes, but everybody knows.
They call me a freak. Hyperthymesia grants me the curse of memory; every moment, every detail, etched into my mind with relentless precision. But that is not all. I master the arts, speak in tongues, and bring my school honor in archery. My talents stretch beyond their comprehension, and that is what unsettles them. But should I care? I don't. Smiling is my only obligation. No one knows I was born a stone. An unyielding, impenetrable one at that.
In two years, I perfected the art of changing faces (??). A straight-A student respected yet feared. The whispers follow me through the halls, wondering and questioning my skills. But none would have sacrificed what I had to attain it. . .I wouldn't have either.
Today, my teachers introduced me to two other students. "Talented and exceptional individuals who will complement you well," they said. Do they really believe I need companionship? If anything, I'd only hinder their current success.
The group chat the teachers forced upon us flooded with messages after school. I scrolled through the upbeat greetings and cliché introduction questions. As I read my own responses, something foreign washed over me. Cold and unsettling. I stared down at my phone, catching my own reflection on the screen. Something was wrong. I felt warmth. From their words. So warm, its embrace lingered even after the screen went dark.
Hare. Elk. Fox. Wolf's prey. But we are wolves. Aren't we?
Once, my hands were empty. I wandered blindly through the dark, my fingers closing around emptiness. But now, they clutch two rods of light, guiding my way. My smile remains as fixed as ever as I press on with my studies. Yet when school ends, I step into another world, a place where I am not merely tolerated but understood. Among them, I find solace. We speak, we laugh, and with each word, the weight on my shoulders eases. It is a rare, exhilarating sensation, a true reprieve from the endless cycle of daytime masks and midnight tears.
My soul had fractured long ago, though it still carries a thousand pounds. Preyed upon by misfortune and reality, I learned to be sharp and wary. I was once cast aside, forced to carve my own path back into society, back into existence. I had to forge my own armor, lest I came undone. But that is changing. They welcomed me back with open arms.
My psychosis relapsed. My parents were already in bed, unaware of my unraveling. I don't know how or why I lost control; I just did. The mask I so carefully placed upon myself shatters. Hot tears streak down my face. Images of my brother flickered before me. His body sprawled on the asphalt, rain pounding mercilessly on his already cold body. His eyes were wide, brimming with dread as his arms remained outstretched, meant to protect. All my fault. My fault. If I hadn't begged him to take me with him, he would still be alive. I would still be able to admire his spotless uniform and feel proud when he brought glory to the country. I looked down at my hands. Blood. So much blood. Stifling a sob that twisted into a scream, I stumbled to the bathroom sink. My knees buckled halfway there, so I crawled the rest. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. As cool water rushed over my skin, I scrubbed furiously as if I could erase the past, but those stains were burned into my flesh. I clawed at my arms, red streaks blooming like warnings. Such beautiful marks.
The sink gurgled as if it, too, were choking on grief. I leaned my forehead against the mirror, but I couldn't bear to raise my eyes. I wasn't sure who I would see. I was scared of who I might see. I gripped the edges of the sink, my knuckles white, the pressure grounding me-but just barely. I could see his smile. That damned smile. The one he wore even when he was in pain. My chest heaved. I couldn't breathe. I could hear the sirens. I sank to the floor, curling into myself, nails digging into my scalp as if I could claw the memories out of my mind. The weight of my guilt. . .would never be heavy enough to make up for what I did.
Eventually, I crawled back into bed, shivering under the heavy blankets that smelled faintly of lavender and something else. Sorrow, maybe. I assumed a fetal position, hoping if I became small enough, the pain might just pass over me. If sleep were to come, I hoped it would take me back to my childhood.
Unless the nightmare followed.
Short golden-brown hair and wide, curious eyes. Grinning, Zanilia clasps my hand in hers, shaking it with overwhelming enthusiasm.
Tall and quiet, with hair the color of hickory wood. Jackson gave me a slight nod, pushing his silver glasses slightly up his nose bridge.
Ebony hair and a quiet stature. That how I heard others describe me.
We had arranged to meet purely out of courtesy. As we settled at a table in the café, an uncomfortable silence enveloped us, each of us unsure of where to begin. In the end, it was Zanilia who spoke up.
"Well. . .why don't we introduce ourselves? I'll go first."
By the end of our conversation, there were tears in my eyes.
No one knows my story. Not my true story. . .
But I think two people know now.
My brother worked for some sort of agency. I never learned of his exact profession since, as his work required a shroud of confidentiality. Though my brother didn't attend college, I have always admired him. If his work allowed, I would follow him around like a shadow. Every moment we spent together outside of his duties was precious to me. On the day of the accident, he had been taking me to the movies. But midway there, his superior called with urgent details about a case. There wasn't time for him to drop me off, so I went with him instead. As we drove in silence, the sky darkened, and rain began to lash against the car. Then came the screeching of tires and the blinding flash of headlights. Without hesitation, my brother threw himself over me, shielding me from the impact. With all his remaining strength, he wrenched open the car door, and we tumbled out together. Out in the open, we gasped for fresh air, the scent of petrichor filling our lungs. As my mind began to settle, I felt my brother's grip on my wrist slacken. My heart clenched as I turned to look at him. Blood trickled from his forehead, cascading down his face. His skin had turned ashen, already losing the color of life. I gripped my brother's shoulders frantically, desperate for a response. He remained motionless. At last, all my energy spent, I lost consciousness and entered a deep, death-like sleep. When I woke, I was in a medical ward. But my brother never woke up.
It took me a while to realize he had left, never to return to the world of the living.
They offered no sympathy. Zanilia simply patted my back while Jackson ruffled my hair. They then diverted my attention from the painful memories toward the latte art in front of me. I smiled at the delicate fox created from microfoam. I peeked over at Zanilia's, finding a bunny rabbit with a carrot. When I looked at Jackson's, my face involuntarily fell, disappointed to see only plain black coffee. At that moment, I had forgotten the identity that was plagued by guilt. I was simply enjoying life.
In the midst of our studying, I caught Zanilia staring intently at her phone.
"Everything okay?"
She offered a taut smile before turning the screen toward me. A cascade of messages from her mother lit up the display.
"She still thinks I'm on med track at school." She murmured. "Can't tell her I dropped out to do art, can I. I'm scared it'll break her."
I didn't respond. There was nothing I could say that silence wouldn't say better. So, I stayed beside her, letting the quiet hold what we both felt. After a beat, she tucked the phone away and cleared her throat.
"We're all carrying something, huh?"
Jackson appeared just then, balancing three pastries with the graceless flair of an untrained waiter.
"Don't look at me like that," he whined, feigning offense. "My trauma is pastry related. My dad owns a bakery, and I still can't frost a cupcake to save my life."
Zanilia and I shared a quiet laugh before thanking him for the labor.
Soon enough, the three of us became inseparable. Whether I welcomed it or not, my mask began to slip away. At school, we were always together. When one of us found trouble, the other two were likely to be involved. After school, we would walk to the café across the street, where we would often argue over...
