Contest Entry: Matthew Foley

         I wrap my scarf tightly around my neck in futile hopes of combating winter's cold. I and a thousand peers gaze up at Vidal High with exasperated sighs and melancholy gazes. An institutional edifice stretched before us, and we dreaded its sight. We loathed the eight buildings built of brick and extending towards gray skies. With repulsion we stood gathered around the entrance of Vidal high--reacquainted with friends but the dreams of the break fresh in our thoughts. Only two weeks ago we were snuggling up to our sweethearts in cashmere sweaters at movie theaters, loitering malls as adults envied our youth-- but monotony had returned.
          The bell rang over the intercoms that dispersed the crowd into various parts of the school. Weaving through overcrowded corridors, I made my way across linoleum floors decorated with various footprints. Honestly, I have my own form of gracelessness and peculiarity that is borderline acceptable. One needed acrobatic skill just to move through cliques huddled in the innumerable hallways, and tote bag slung across my shoulder, I managed with minor difficulty to enter my first period art class. The more studious of my peers already sat at their desk rummaging through supplies as I entered. The room is lively, eclectic, vibrant. I love my art class and teacher even though I wasn't a bohemian or renaissance spirit with the talent of muses. My skills hadn't improved since I was introduced to crayons, yet I loved and appreciated the beauty of art. I could find depth and beauty in all creations which stemmed into my empathetic nature. Due to this, I decide to go out on a limb and sit beside Matthew Foley.
          The strangest guy I'd ever seen was he that sat in the corner of my first row, and his silence made him invisible to his peers. Matthew Foley was a curious and eerily quiet soul with a strange appearance. He had a round and long face with a pointy nose that protruded at a slightly crooked angle, and his body was a stubby mass. He dressed with the unkempt air associated to lower classes, and he spoke with a voice afraid of condemnation. The most troubling feature that repelled was his appearance. His eyes were light blue orbs of shining glass, large and piercing. The shine seemed to be synonymous to a hidden madness deep within, or maybe he was just an awkward character that entered the class with an equally strange gait. He certainly had the qualities of a loner, and I could envision him several years later on a criminal television show as a serial killer. Underneath it all, he wasn’t intentionally solitary. Everyday he entered with a large Eastport backpack and a pencil in his front pants pocket. He had been in my class since the beginning yet he still held the awkward airs of a "new kid".He talked as if he were accustomed to ridicule, and each word he spoke fell like uncertainty. He tried to associate whenever someone asked a small question. Each sentence he stumbled upon was friendly and invited a brief chat. Most of the time he was turned away with answers that echoed a mild reproach or indifference. He was target for mockery and sly remarks, paper balls, and cruel jests.
          Pity draws me towards Matthew, and I decide to sit in a chair next to him. I don't know why I was choosing to be amiable. Perhaps I was trying to discover the same beauty I could find in portraits or paintings.He meets my gaze perplexed as if he were going to question my motives, and I give him the glimmer of a faint smile. He isn't as strange and awkward as I fathomed. However, there is still the coldness in his eyes, and as the clock ticks onward they grow seemingly cooler. I tell him a joke I can't quite recall and we share a laugh. His laugh is odd causing the the room to reverberate and disapproving eyes to shift in his direction. He stops and looks visibly embarrassed, ashamed, weak. An offhand comment is said aloud and the class erupts into guffaws and taunting laughter.
          "Don't pay attention to em'," I say non-chalantly and wave my hand as if I could dispel of all high school cruelty--sometimes I wished I could. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. He shrugs his shoulders and tries to force a smile that doesn't come easily, and then he stares off as if in a remote dream--a somber expression on his face. He turns his back and digs into his bulky Eastport furiously. I hear the rummaging of papers and books.
          "Matthew?" I ask and the concern turns into a tinge of fear as his eyes meet mine. His eyes are lifeless now. His pupils are translucent ice, glazed and impenetrable. If I weren't afraid of what laid beneath his glare, I'd tell him that eyes were a magnificent hue of sky blue. The glaze hadn't left his eyes and underneath I wanted to question all of his rumination. However, I hadn't the heart and I didn't dare.
          "Look, things are gonna get ugly, and you're a really nice girl..."
         "Matthew!?" I exclaim more alarmed. I feel the fear creeping up my spine, my hairs raising, my breathing becoming shallow. Why am I afraid? I know something terrible is happening, but I'm clueless as to what. My instincts were aware of a truth my mind couldn't fathom. I didn't understand, and I'm not sure if I wanted to know.

          "Look, I want you to get out of here..."

          He gives me a faint smile, a forced smile that have the edges of a grimace. Suddenly he turns toward the snickering classmates behind us and fires a shot--a forty-five caliber handgun. The cries were as deafening as the echo of the bullet. Shocked, the enormity of his actions didn't register until I heard a slur of ungodly epithets amongst screams. Fear paralyzes me as he rises from his seat and fires innumerable rounds. I hear the scuffling of sneakers, shrieks, tears, moaning. I have no heart to look behind me. Helpless, I close my eyes as I shudder. I sit in my desk as tears fall profusely. POW! More blood curdling cries erupt in the midst of unanswered pleas. I cover my ears and hear my own wails join with desperate howls.Still someone begs for their life as my breathing becomes more shallow. My body convulses with every shot. I wonder if I am next... POW! My eyes are tightly sealed as I imagine sanguinary bodies gasping in the midst of the cacophony, and I imagine my own frame sprawled across the linoleum..my mouth agape, my limbs contorted at curious angles. Animals have probably had better fates than those dying now, and yet I can't turn around. If I live, they would find me like this in the first row. Just as I think that I am to be the next one to painted crimson, the footsteps retreat. I hear the doorknob turn and the sounds of heavy steps fading.When I finally open my eyes, it is to a horror beyond words, beyond rhetoric, beyond me.