Evans P.O.V
They say that the eyes are the door to the soul.
I've always believed it. Because if you want to know if a person is lying to you, just look at them. If you want to know if she's sad, look at her. If you want to know if she's scared, look at her.
And now that I see her, that I see her fear wanting to beat her, that I see her anguish wanting to bring her down and that I see her tears wanting to drown her. I confirm it, even more, the eyes are the door of the soul.
And his soul is breaking little by little, with each inhalation he takes, with each thought that tells him he can, but in reality, there is no change.
He trembles, he cries, but he makes no sound. He drowns in what little I know of her, her silence.
An hour and a half before.
"And Cody, one recalls, be strong, brave, compressive, and affable. For you, for both of us." He says while placing his rough and heavy hand on my shoulder.
I'm doing it for me, for you, for her, for us.
I was so immersed in my thoughts, that as soon as the teacher begins to speak, I realize that the room has been filled with students and that math class is about to begin.
She is here, sitting on the last benches of the room, and unlike the previous times in which we met this time she looks more confident; He is wearing baggy black pants, with a Beatles shirt of the same color. Her hair is the same as always, cascading down to her shoulders.
This is the first time I've seen her since our last meeting. If that one in which I close the door in my face; I remember having her in short purple shorts with pig faces, a white top, and some ridiculous pig slippers, do you like pigs so much? But yeah, I have to admit, she looked amazing. well, he did it until he slammed the door in my face, and stood me up, why did he do it? I want to know. I was going to retire, but just at that moment in front of the house a blue Honda van parked, and from there under a man of at least forty years of age, carrying many bags from the supermarket, they were so many that he could not handle all of them and he ended up dropping some things. So I set out to go in his direction and help him a poor human being. Once I finished collecting everything, the man thanked me, so far so good. I was surprised when she said:
"Were you looking for my daughter, boy?"
"Yes, I came to leave you some school work ..... "
"Ah, in that case, let's go inside. I'm sure she's in her room with music and I can't hear you, she's very clueless."
if you knew what happened, sir. - I thought and followed him to the door where his daughter had been rude.
"Sir, " I called him.
"Just call me James, and tell me boy what's up?"
"Well, James, you left the keys stuck in the door lock," I inquired and pointed to the object. Oh God, what a careless man!
"Oh, thank you very much, boy."
James was quite polite unlike his daughter, which was very remarkable; I liked him. The girl with the ebony iris contrasts a lot physically with her father, starting with the latter having green irises, not black ones. But something I did notice is that they are both very, very clueless.
And speaking of black, are there black irises? because I wonder if his irises are black or brown; maybe they are just like her that under the sunlight they hide their true color. I have to get close enough to her to find out.
Now coming back to the present, where I should be paying attention to the class and not her, I see her once again, and she's just there, sitting paying attention to the class, or maybe pretending to pay attention. Speaks? No. As always, she just tries to ignore the world around her.
I don't know why I want to help her, I don't know. I don't know why I'm still planning to help him when all he's done is be grotesque with me; But despite all that, something makes me stay and continue willing to do something for her. I have heard rumors, I have heard the unpleasant things that are done to her, and without a doubt, I do not pretend to be someone of the lot who tries to harm her for satisfaction or just because; much less do I want to be the other bunch that just stares at him and does nothing to help. I have learned that we must not be ordinary, we must be ourselves —even if we are judged for the rest—; and I'm being Evans Jones.
And yes, maybe in part I think I do; I know why I help her, I do it partly because I try to be understanding and affable, for me, for her, for everyone. I try to be myself. I try not to lose my essence.
Which therefore makes me need to help, to do something good, and although it may be seen as an act of charity, I don't feel that way. And it may also be the only good and meaningful thing that is still holding me steady in Canada. So, I already have my schedule full:
PLANS: Help the girl with the ebony irises with her internal ghosts, even if she didn't ask for it and that in the end, she doesn't have a thank you from her. (Yes, because it's easier to deal with someone else's and flee from your own for a moment!)
Old plans: find out more about her, before we meet in person.
There will be time later for the latter.
"It is, right, Jones?" Professor Harry asks aloud.
I just nod, even if I have no idea what he is talking about and that is that I have been so absorbed and absorbed in my thoughts that I pay attention to the background. Such rude.
I keep my things with all the patience in the world trying to make sure that all the people go out to go out without discomfort. Waiting for everyone to come out; I see her, or well not her, but her bright brown hair tucked into that crowd of students who do everything possible to get out of first.
"Jones, can you come over please?" Asks the professor.
I take my bag and head over to him. He's sitting in the swivel chair in front of the desk going through what I assume are jobs. His little brow is wrinkled and by all the good candy! I hope you haven't noticed that I pay more attention to her than to her class.
"Yes?" He inquired.
"You've thought about it, haven't you? What is the final answer?"
What if I thought about it? Of course, I have; I have not slept so much thinking, well, that is not entirely true.
But yes, that I have walked a lot in mind, and considering that it is bingo for me ...
"I agree. Okay, I'll help her." I recognize.
"Remember that this will benefit you too. And don't worry, I will inform you soon so that you can start now, I know what will be difficult at first, but you are good at many things, and two of them are teaching and socializing."
"Okay no problem. See you" I say goodbye and head towards the exit, which is already clear without any trace of the hominids called by the teachers "students." a complete understatement of the truth.
I think Mr. Harry thought I would say no to him. How would I say no to him, ah? If he gave his proposal like a glove. It was bingo. To unpredictable people - and who give good news, of course - as the teacher is that we need, people.
As you go out into the hall, you can hear the murmurs of the students; But what most catches my attention and what I can hear is the following.
Ah, but look who's back. "The tongueless has arrived. And tell us what does intend crash you today?"
I don't finish processing the information when I see her agitated running in my direction. trying to get out of the circle of people who had her surrounded. Is it coming towards me? Candy!
No, stop there, here I am! Why is she running there? Because she doesn't come to you - my logical part speaks - she runs to what she knows and has been her refuge, slipping through the crowd, she goes to the boys' restroom.
So I rush to follow her into the maze made by people in her path, —of course asking for permission or pushing them away— and leaving behind the unpleasant and miserable people that I'm sure did something to her.
And when I finally get to the door, my pulse racing a little and my hands sweating, I wipe my hands on my black jeans and open the door.
There is no one, or at least you cannot hear and you cannot see anyone. But she is here, I know. I walk through the cubicles wiping my hands on the jean over and over again. And there in the last cubicle, I stop because his little black boots stick out, which indicates to me that he is there, that it is obvious.
I knock on the door hoping that there will be but as is to be expected from her, she does not. So I try to open the door —and as if it were something of destiny and the blessing of the holy palettes—, it opens and that's when I see it. Sitting near the toilet with her knees bent until they touch her bust. And a stream of tears come out of his eyes and flow up to his chin to disappear on his neck.
He trembles, he cries, but he makes no sound. He drowns in what little I know of her, her silence.
And the only thing I feel right now is helplessness, the helplessness of not being able to help her, of not even knowing her well enough to comfort her, of not being able to approach and hug her so that she can know that we can all burn in the flames of feeling, of feeling fear, anguish, pain; that we can become ashes but that we can always resurface and come out much more glorious than before, just like the Phoenix bird does.