My first day at West Hill University was nothing less than putrid. It had been pouring all day; the kind of rain that can’t help but invade every surface it touches. When packing for college the week before, I had neglected to bring an umbrella, so there I was, facing its wrath. The sky wailed uncontrollably, kicking and screaming, its wind pushing against me as I cut through it. I was drenched, and so was my textbook. By the time I made it to my first lecture, the paper in my bag resembled mush more than anything else; soggy, slimy, wet mush.
I sat in the back of the long rows of people, keeping my dripping head down, not wanting much attention on myself or my ruined textbook. People often say college feels a lot different than high school, but in that moment it felt nearly identical. I felt nothing but that familiar isolation — that same old loneliness I’d always felt sitting in those stiff desks. And I wanted it to end before class even began.
The professor soon trailed in — a tall, rugged man with deep, sunken eyes and an almost uncanny look to him. It was nearly impossible to put my finger on it, but something about him stirred a visceral sort of sadness in me. He looked as if he was just as unhappy to be there as I was.
“Can you imagine yourself in an empty room?” he said, as the class fell silent. His voice was deep and loud, echoing through the room slightly cracked, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. We all couldn’t help but stare at him.
“No, seriously,” he continued. “I want you to try right now try to see yourself there, right smack-dab in the center.”
His words dragged me out of my presumptuous loathing for his class and into my head. I closed my eyes. The room was cold, lifeless in every sense of the word dark. But within it was me, and nothing else, as if all the voices and faces around me had faded into nothing. It was strange almost peaceful, but at the same time absolutely suffocating.
“Most of you,” he said after a slight pause, “I imagine felt a sort of... uneasiness with that exercise. That feeling is what every author dreams of creating within their work. It’s a hard thing to accomplish, but your main takeaway from this course should be this: all real things are hard.”
That statement caught me. I couldn’t tell why, but I found it intensely compelling. I found him intensely compelling.
The class went on, lacking any of the professor’s initial intrigue — just a boring syllabus, the same as any other English class before it. Near the end, he broke away from the formalities.
“Looks like we’re almost out of time,” he said, staring down each of us. I looked away, not wanting to meet his dull eyes.
“Call it homework,” he began, picking up a stack of papers, “or call it a chance for me to get to know you.”
Staring at the assignment sheet, I felt less than motivated. "What are you afraid of? " Simple words, printed plainly. No instructions. No indication of what to do with it. In that moment, the only thing I was afraid of was that every assignment would be this vague.
After a while of staring at the paper, I thought back to what he said before. A simple answer to a simple question.
I’m afraid of being alone.
After a while of writing, I went to bed.
The next day, I turned it in, with nothing much coming from it at least, not until two days later, as I was leaving class. Before I could step out of the massive room, I was stopped.
“Nicholas,” the professor said, his rough hand gripping my arm. I turned to him, my heart beating a little quicker.
“I found your writing very... compelling,” he continued, his eyes finally meeting mine. I looked away, muttering a simple, “Thank you.”
His lips twisted up slightly into a smile. We both stood there in silence as he stared deeply at me.
“I have something for you, Nicholas,” he finally said, perhaps realizing how long he’d gone without speaking. He walked off to his desk and picked up a decently large box.
“I think this is just what you need,” he said, with an almost childlike giddiness.
The box was heavy; far heavier than I expected, that only added to the confusion brewing inside me. Before I could thank him, or even ask what it was, he left.
When I got back to the apartment, I stared at the box hesitating, almost dreading opening it. But against my better judgment, I did.
It contained a statue, the outline of a figure. It had no face, only vague, cut-out arms. It was beautiful. My eyes widened as it glowed under the dim light of my desk lamp.
For a few days, nothing came of it. It was only a decoration on my desk. I went to classes, stayed home, worked at my computer, rinse and repeat. Until I started catching myself staring at it, first in little bits, zoning out, then talking to it.
That was before I got the call. One that broke my world. My mother was dead. She'd died in her sleep about a week back; only now did my brother call me about it. He seemed angry, upset. “Didn't tell you?! Nick, I've texted you all week. I know I know you loved Mom, but I’m suffering too! I need you.” I hung up on him. Tears streamed down my face, escalating into screams, curses to the world, begging, pleading Then I became violent, throwing objects, smashing my computer, wailing.
My voice ran silent as my eyes caught the gaze of the statue. It felt almost comforting, like a warm hug, like a voice telling me everything would be alright. Each breath was heavy as I couldn’t look away.
The days that followed were a blur. Waking up late, barely getting to class on time, then spending every second at home staring at the statue.Until one day, something happened. My body ached in its absence, it was all I ever thought about. It was all I ever dreamed of. I felt an intense numbness without it, my heart dull. My professor’s crooked, horrible smile almost made me devolve into tears. I had fallen horribly ill after the first week, eventually so much I had to stay home.
I sat at my desk, the statue’s faceless gaze devouring me. The deep silence of our intimate moment was interrupted — a sound. Breathing, all around. I didn’t think much of it, until another noise: a low beat, like a clock suffocating under cotton. “What is…” I muttered, frantically looking around. A brittle, mocking, sharp laugh followed. Close. Too close. Had I laughed? I couldn’t remember.
Then came the sobbing of a woman, the screaming of a man, arguing, berating. Voices unrecognizable through the laughter. Until it clicked. “He's a burden, Steve! I don’t think I can take it anymore!” My mother’s voice.
I stumbled backwards, fear turning to anguish, tears streaming. I fell into my desk with a loud crash. Looking down, I saw the statue in pieces.
“All real things are hard.” The professor’s voice echoed. I couldn’t help but laugh.
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