[wd#1delia]

Let me recount a story. A story of evil, confused by its own visage. Bear in mind that I am only an observer and the people involved in the story I am about to impart to you have no awareness of my existence. But I am not God. No. I have sins bubbling up from the deepest of oceans, a school of fish of guilts swimming in havoc from the black trench, so I could not be God. My identity serves no function in telling you this beautiful story, so I’d go forth and might as well start.

The story began in an ordinary setting of an everyday college you could find anywhere near you. A girl was rushing down the walkway heading to her first morning class of her first semester in the college, her hair was tied in a ponytail; not neat at all, with ruffles of unruly strands of hair rebelliously stood here and there as though they were weeds. Her face was grey with self-hatred for messing up her first day of college, her skin so pasty even a bird’s white dropping would be several shades darker than it. Her eyes seemed glazed with panic, her breathing staccato, while her feet shuffled without synchrony with each other, like a pair of divorcing couple being forced to tango. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that she was obviously late to her first class. Oh young folks. We all were guilty of teasing time with disrespect at some point in our young lives, weren’t we?

Yes, her name. I forgot to tell you her name. But in afterthought, I don’t reckon her name mattered much. This story doesn’t grow out of names, but of dynamics. However, to ease your reading, let me rename her Delia, because it reminds me of dandelion, a plant’s name that comes from the French word ‘dent de lion’ meaning ‘lion’s teeth’ and she reminds me of willpower and overwhelming passion.

[Monday, September 2nd, 8.14 am]

“I’m so sorry I’m late…” muttered Delia to everyone in the small room she thought her class but her voice trailed off as she found herself talking to the vacant chairs, ticking wall clock, and a shameful wilting daisy in a vase on the front table.

“Oh shit, did I get to the wrong class?” she exclaimed in self-disgust.

“Of all day. And it gotta be today. Fuck me.”

“Nope. I won’t. Not if you look like that.” an unknown voice interrupted her with no reservations. She turned around to see a strikingly thin guy, seemed to be a student, with a sling bag across his shoulders, fiddling with his mobile phone.

“Excuse me”

“Oh don’t mind me and my scathing remarks of your appearance. I don’t really mean it, but your hair really could do some tidying up.” he interjected.

“I’m ***” (let me just rename him Clay, for it reminds me of claymore, a word from Scottish Gaelic meaning broadsword, and his tongue is a weapon in and by itself) “and no you are not mistaken. This is the class. It’s just that it only starts at 9. You must have been misreading your timetable,” he further explained, a slight smirk played on his face like a veiled insult.

Delia took out her timetable sheet and confirmed Clay’s statement. She was overwhelmed with what had transpired that she didn’t know what to think of this relatively brash man leaning casually against the corridor’s railing with his eyes constantly looking at the screen of his phone.

“Iphone. Not bad for a student. Rich? Maybe. Manners? Zilch.” Delia thought to herself, her eyes scanning ever so subtly to the way he was dressing. “Style? Freaking nerd trying to look cool. Pfft. And he had the audacity to criticise my look.” she mused, all the while taking out her own phone, not to actually use it but just so that she could peer into her own reflection. “Geez. I look like a hobo dammit!”

“Err, I’ve told you my name. The least you could do is tell me yours. Feeling too hot, aren’t ya?” he snapped out another brash remark.

“This jerk…ugh!” she whispered while flashing a composed smile back to him.

“It’s Delia. Now if you could excuse me…”

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me alone.” he suddenly retorted. For a moment he sounded like who she had guessed he was; like an introverted pathetic nerd.

“I don’t think I have to ask for a permission to go to the loo, do I? After all, no company is better than a company of you.”