[wd#2delia]

[Monday, September 9th, 11.32 am]

Late morning sun streaked its blinding ray through the half-open window, bathing half of Delia’s attentive face. She sat upright, alert, almost too alert, as if the class were a savanna thronged with unaware elks and she were an apex predator. But of course the attention she was paying was non-existent. She was withdrawn completely into herself. A girl lost behind the facade she herself constructed.

Delia was not a run-of-the-mill girl you find in stories like this. She looked normal, but there was something brewing right under her very skin. One can somehow feel a crawling sense of curiosity to pry what she hid beneath those layers.

This was the thing that had been bothering Clay a lot. It had been a week since their first awkward encounter in front of the class but since that day she never struck another conversation with him and when he attempted to do so, she brushed him off with curt answers along the lines of ‘whatever’, ‘uh-uh’ and ‘fuck you’.

Clay turned his head a little towards his left shoulder, looking at her from the corner of his eye, his fingers fiddling with his pencil.

Delia.

He had always been interested to introverts for he was one, but this girl was different. She was attractive in a Kafkaesque way, if you will. He felt something was intrinsically wrong with her, but that ‘fault’ made her right. Perfect. Flawless.

Flawed perfection.

He wondered if she already made friends here. He knew he hadn’t.

Delia stared ahead at the equations scribbled on the board. She hated Physics. In fact, she hated life. If suicide were acceptable, she would’ve done it without thinking twice. What else could she expect from a grey world like this?

Delia knew she had a different way of looking at life, but she couldn’t accept the fact that people misunderstood her and instead thought that she was deep in depression. Bullshit. She wasn’t sick. It’s the world that is sick, she thought.

Before I go further, let me warn you that from this point onward things are going to get very disturbing. Extremely disturbing. Like I have told you before, this story is not about names. It’s not about identities or relationships. It’s not about love. It’s about evil, confused by its own visage. It’s a story born out of a malignant dynamics. So if you were expecting a happily-ever-after love story, I advise you to chuck that idea away before continuing.

Ready?

Clay’s phone buzzed. He peered at the screen. A notification came in, indicating to him that he just received a text.

[Jim: hey man come meet me at the lobby during lunch hour. I got something to tell ya. Dude something weird just happened. And I got this news fresh from Mrs Morea the janitor herself! Bring no one.]

“Jimbo and his never-ending rumours. He called himself ‘The Messenger’. What a dork. And what’s with the ‘bring no one’? He of all people should know that apart from us both, nobody really is our friends. At least not close friends, that’s for sure.” Clay contemplated, with a face feigning concentration to the lecturer.

The class lengthened to a duration akin to eternity, shadows in the sun crept up across the wall. Absolutely uninterested with the class, Clay started doodling lines and geometrical shapes, forming the name Delia.

Delia.

At the back of the class, Delia was mechanically jotting down notes, but with a glint of boredom in her iris.