Clay Emerson was born how most people are. In a hospital, at the time his mother's obstetrician had said he would, surrounded by nurses and a handful of relatives.
His mother had held him, called him her boy, and taken him home several days later, both of them healthy. His nursery was filled to the brim with toys, because he was a first and only child and meant to be spoiled. His parents loved to take him places, to show him the world and show the world him.
His mother and father hugged him plenty when he was younger, just a touch less when he got mature and embarrassed. His grandmother hugged him often, because she was old and did not care. He didn't like how her perfume smelled, how cloying and strong it was. Even when she had died, when Clay was eleven, he had disliked the overpowering dosage of the scent emanating from the casket so much that, backing away, he had nearly knocked over an arrangement of flowers, though he'd caught it before it could shatter across the floor.
They had lived in the same town his entire life. His parents had decent jobs and he doubted they would ever move from Massachusetts. Their house was a good size and condition, with three bedrooms and a ceiling that only leaked in one corner of the bathroom. He avoided the attic because they had thought there might be bats up there.
He went to the local public school, where he had plenty of friends, some of them close, some of them not. He had thought many of the girls he met were pretty, and he thought many of the boys he met were pretty, but none really peaked his interest enough for him to make the first move. He was fine with that for a while, but then all of his friends seemed to be getting into relationships and leaving him behind.
He didn't know when or even if he gave up. He spent his days as he normally did, sleeping and studying and socializing and playing online in varying amounts.
Clay often engaged in daydreams. He dreamt of a dramatic life, where the pity he often felt for himself was truly deserved, and he wasn't like everyone else. He dreamt of his story being poetic in its own right. He dreamt of not being normal.
He dreamt of being tragic.
JE LEEST
Two Lies and a Truth
OverigClay Emerson has a father, had a grandmother, lived at least at one point in Massachusetts, and uses daydreams to entertain himself. These statements are true. It's the rest of his story which is up to interpretation.
