Desiderata - A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction

Chapter Four

Friday.  The day I could relax a bit.  Last day of tutoring, as next week was the last week to buckle down for finals.  And last day of tutoring meant a party for mentors and the students, meaning pizza and group babysitting, keeping calm within the rowdy jubilation.

And these kids didn't realize how good they had it, getting pizza for free and playing on a playground.  Sure, I lived in a townhouse, but that's the thing: I lived in that townhouse.  There was no "go outside and ride your bike," no "let's take a walk around the development," no "let's go to the neighbors so you can socialize."  Because outside is where the monsters were, the sun sank while you were walking, and who says the stars give testimonies for the crimes of the dark?  Neighbors gave false smiles, and once you closed that door, they schemed against you, and apparently, I already had a sibling as well as a parent watching over me, and that was enough one person more than I needed.

A kid goes by screaming, and an image of Marisol whirls by.  My first friend, my Irish twin.  Born the same year but nine months apart, winter's alpha and omega, March and December.  Sometimes, I wonder if Mamá thought the same thing, all born from suffering into suffering.  But whatever the case, whatever stories she keeps hiding, I do know that Marisol was my confidant.  All the blood-splattered walls, deep down as I child I understood talking to Mamá was unsafe.  If memory serves me well, I think that's what Marisol did once, but never again.

I pull out my phone.  It was a long-shot, but maybe one day, she will finally respond.

I miss you.

Putting my phone back in my pocket, I take another glance at the kids.  It's amazing how the jungle gym was turned into a burning building.  There was Ryan, running through, jumping over and ducking under invisible falling walls and ceilings and wooden beams, running to Olivia, who was holding onto her doll-baby.

And it scared me, not that they were acting out a possible tragedy, but that even at a young age, Ryan had an idea of what he wanted to do.  He had something to work for, something to keep his eyes on, something he can choose to become.

"Sueña después conquistar la realidad," I can hear Mamá saying.  Dream after conquering reality.  Childhood creativity was a thing I could only read about, something frivolous and impractical.  No matter my arguments against how inventors needed to explore and take risks or how authors created the classics we know today or how painters decorated our minds, I would always get brushed off, saying how the wheel was necessary, how Gone with the Wind time-stamps an era in history using ordinary people, and how art is a gateway to and from the illiterate, deaf, and mute.  And she would always find something else to do, some other chore to get me started on before I could combat her with the unneeded light-bulb (because we had candles and oil lamps), the dragged-out Green Eggs and Ham (because you can get to the point directly and say "try new things everywhere" without the need for a book), and the millions of paintings that are literally just busts of chickens or ordinary objects you can see anywhere.

And even after four years of college, I had yet to decide what I wanted to do.  Wasn't college still part of the reality I needed to conquer?  Or did I have to choose before then, and if so, I hadn't got much time.

It hard to know exactly what to do when you're being pulled at two different ends.  Kind of like trying to figure out who you are.

At the end of the last tutoring day, the school van drives us back to the main building.  But knowing Mamá, she would want me to do a million things as soon as I got home and then still yell at me for having poor time management for studying.  So I head to Romeo's.

It wasn't ironic that the name of the local coffee shop was the name of a Shakespeare character.  After all, the university was prominent in the language arts.  But they took it over the top with dimmed lighting, as if the wall lamps were illuminated with candles.  The furniture could use a bit of a modern update, but maybe that was the reason why it felt comfortable here, as if you were back at grandma's house.  The walls were beige and cream, reflecting the sweet coffee the café served both in color and in smell.  When you walk in, you felt like you had just stepped into a fresh, brewed cup, warm to the touch and wanting more.