Sad words from a sad face - Leon DRAGON

The last golden threads of sunlight crept through the classroom windows,

Sickly and pale like tired fingers caressing the drowsy faces of children.

Its rays drew illuminated squares on the cracks of the worn floor, resembling wounds of light.

Dust particles danced in them like small lost stars in the space of silence, as if they were just a dead galaxy.

The air was heavy in this classroom, saturated with the smell of chalk, old wood, and the deadly boredom that comes in the afternoon period, wrapping the entire third grade (B) with chains of lazy lethargy.

Making matters worse was the news of the language teacher's absence, so the wooden seats sank into a sea of restlessness and suppressed tedium.

Perhaps you think that a teacher's absence is a wonderful thing.

Well, of course it is, but that teacher whose name was Forbido... that forty-year-old man.

What distinguishes him from other teachers is his kind nature, cheerful and fun face, as if he came out of an oil painting.

In addition to his extreme proficiency in dealing with children our age, not to mention his patience while teaching lessons.

That's why everyone loves him here to the extent that they forget to bully me during his class, which makes me love his class too because it's like a precious opportunity to breathe after a long dive under the water of torment.

From which I rarely escape without drowning.

His class was one of those rare blessings I have,

Along with the school restaurant, which is one of the few arteries of my life.... This is just what I have, at least.

In the end,

The classroom turned into a small chaos.

Children leaving their seats and beginning to form small groups exchanging stories, jokes, and laughter, and some left the classroom and began running between the corridors.

Others were trying rhythmic sounds with their nails on the tables, making those famous tunes they began to call the melody of boredom. And one of them was singing with amusing hysteria.

That was the noise of life... and I was the last seat attached to the wall.

I was relatively far from the nearest gathering of children,

In a place... where the sunlight from the window doesn't reach me as it reaches those laughing, smiling faces, forming a shadow on me in a scene that, if photographed, would be the embodiment of the lone shadow and the group of light.

I had no place among these small stories.

No one sits with me.

No one asks for my opinion.

And yet... I never wished for anything as much as I wished that one of them would turn to me and say: "Do you want to sit with us?"

Even if it was a joke... even if it was a trick... I would look into his eyes and thank him from all my heart.

I started scribbling something on my paper – meaningless letters – just to look busy... just to avoid their eyes...

But in the end, I couldn't close my sense of hearing and prevent my ears from picking up some of those words.

Some of them whispers,

Some like needle pricks, those cruel murmurs.

Light on the tongue but heavy on the heart and destroy you from within.

It's ironic how a word can easily destroy a person, but what's really ironic is that I didn't die of suffocation from their whispers.

Sometimes I hear some bad words said about my birthmark, but this time there are new words to me, like those many whispers.

"Did you see when his mother came to take him? She seemed wealthy."

"He's from the Martinez, you smart one."

"What!"

"Yes, I'm like you, I couldn't believe that a monster like him is from the Martinez."

"The Martinez? Is that autistic really from the Martinez!"

"Yes, the birthmark boy is one of them, but he hardly seems from a middle-class family."

I felt a contraction in my stomach at that word...

Autistic.

Monster.

Birthmark boy.

I no longer hate them as much as I've become used to hearing them, but the way they say them and the sticky sarcastic tone that permeates them was what hurts more than the word itself.

And suddenly I began to feel pressure from the weight of their gazes and the rise of their whispers.

But I content myself with scribbling on the paper so that my eyes don't meet theirs.

I began to contemplate how I'm gradually losing their negative interest, and after a few minutes, each child returned to something they're talking about.

Everyone is talking.

Everyone is laughing.

But inside me, I was... wishing intensely if I could talk to someone.

It doesn't matter who, what matters is that... I don't remain alone.

It's harsh... not fair... I'm human too...

Despite the fact that I've begun to believe them inside.

Kiara... with her long black hair and those pink eyes, looked beautiful like an angel, but she's a devilish child.

I often saw her reading books whose cover names I couldn't read.

But inside me,

I haven't forgotten what she did to me that time.

I was looking at her from time to time. She was surrounded by a number of girls. Then I averted my gaze from her to notice the source of the applause sound.

Teacher "Lamis Cross" stood up. She's a woman in her early thirties with her rectangular glasses and relatively kind nature with everyone except me.

She was standing in front of the faded green blackboard like a wax statue that had lost its luster. She was staring at her coffee cup, which had begun to cool with light steam rising from it like the breaths of a dead ghost.

She blew into it impatiently after taking a small sip from it and placed it on the surface of her desk.

She turned toward the students, trying to draw a smile on her tired face. She cleared her throat, and her voice came out artificially cheerful as she clapped again to draw their attention.

"Well, heroes... since the Japanese language class is empty today... what do you think about using the time for something fun and useful? Maybe... reading or short stories or some beautiful poems and poetry?"

The children fidgeted in their seats, and incomprehensible murmurs rose, similar to the buzzing of bees. Faye's eyes gleamed, and he shouted in a loud voice that pierced the silence: "Poetry? You mean... we play?"

Scattered laughter erupted, faint, like the popping of small balloons. Itchinos, a girl with pink hair in a ponytail, raised her small hand hesitantly: "I... I know a poem my father taught me... but... oh... I forgot it."

Another laugh broke out among them, louder than the previous time. The atmosphere was pleasantly festive. It seemed like a light at the end of the tunnel, and I was on the other dark side.

Some children began to scribble on the surfaces of their wooden tables with their nails and make rhythms by tapping with their slender fingers.

While others surrendered to a long yawn revealing their small milk teeth. The moments were stretching,

Heavy and boring.

Teacher Cross tried again and raised her voice a little while smiling as an invitation to encourage.

"Okay... is there anyone among you who writes poetry? Or even... likes to try? Who has the courage?"

A sudden silence prevailed as if someone had pressed the noise stop button, and in this silence,

I don't know, but I raised my hand. I wanted to try since everyone was silent, and the teacher here wouldn't overpower me as every time.

There was something in my mind I wanted to say, and the teacher's invitation and the students' silence were like an opportunity permeated by a strange coincidence, which encouraged me more.

But for a reason known only to God, that teacher didn't see me despite me being the only one raising my hand. I no longer understand whether she's ignoring me or just her mind avoids picking me up.

I was talking to myself and entertaining myself with hopes so as not to collapse from within from the intensity of the shame of this situation, and I plant illusions in it and tell it all kinds of reasons (I'm in the last row, no doubt she doesn't see me with those looks... it must be that).

Until one hand rose slowly and confidently, Kirian's hand. The murmurs froze. All eyes turned toward Kirian. That boy was known for his sense of humor, which I personally see as very bad, but everyone loves him... here we realize that appearance almost forgives and covers everything, including triviality.

His popularity is also because of his appearance. I heard he's from a wealthy family, so he's arrogant, very confident in himself.

But appearance... appearance is always what attracts those things we talked about before, in addition to the smell of his perfume that always precedes him.

He wasn't known for his interest in literature or poetry, but in football, games, and silly jokes only.

He said in a clear voice with a tone of confidence mixed with some artificial hesitation:

"I... I wrote something last night. Can... can I read it?"

Teacher Cross's smile widened, and her eyebrows rose in genuine surprise this time. Her eyes gleamed with a faint sparkle of interest.

"How wonderful! Of course, Kirian! Come here... let us hear what your talent has produced."

My hand came down at that moment like a withered flower. I could no longer lie to myself now. I felt at that moment that I was an invisible creature.

Kirian... his seat wasn't far from my seat. Why did she see him and not me?

Was my hand transparent or what?

I began to doubt my existence... really, why?

Kirian advanced toward the blackboard with measured steps as if walking on a stage. He stood upright on that wooden platform and cleared his throat with a theatrical movement.

The actions of a foolish child from my point of view, but none of these people care. They just see an 8-year-old child trying to build and hone himself and his personality, right?

In the end, we were all strange in this age, living in imagination until the years passed, and reality began to slap us.

Those ten seconds passed, and I put my hand on my cheek and sighed while looking out the window.

I saw two birds on the branch of that big tree, but near them was a black crow standing silently on a nearby branch.

They flew away from it the moment they discovered its presence... but it didn't care and stayed in its place.

Are you and I similar?

The answer is... definitely no.

You are strong, unlike me. You bear your loneliness, but you find crows that resemble you, while I

Don't bear loneliness and don't find anyone who resembles me. I'm always on the margin of the notebook, something worthless.

The teacher sat on her desk and crossed one leg over the other and gave him a signal to start.

Kirian looked at his colleagues with a look carrying a mixture of pride and challenge. He said in a clear, resonant voice that fills the void:

"The title of the poem... Demon of the Basement."

A complete silence prevailed, tinged with anticipation and curiosity, and something strange appeared in the title. My heartbeats began to change when I heard "Demon of the Basement." Is this a coincidence?

It seemed as if someone was calling me from my depths without the need to say my name, which made me return with attention to that blond child.

Then he began to recite in a voice that suddenly acquired a depth disproportionate to his age:

It is said that in one of the forests

There was a deer... everyone feared and called it the deer of hell

But in the end

It loved a poor child

Whose refuge was a dark pit

They were friends

So the deer named him the demon of the basement

He used to utter several words

That comfort him in his loneliness since the deer's absence from him for many days

Like:

I am the one forgotten by paper... yet insomnia yearns for me

I have no shadow when dawn breaks... and no light when dusk falls

I am the one born in pain... as if time choked with me

The moon sleeps on my wound...

If I cry and ink flows on my face

It erases all that was written and aligned

I am the one with no breath to drown... and no heart to burn with hope

A heavy silence fell, heavier than the silence before a storm, as if the air itself had frozen and time had stopped spinning.

The children were fixed in their places, their eyes wide, their mouths half-open, and some of them trying to squeeze their brains to understand what was said a little while ago.

Even Teacher Cross put her hand over her open mouth, and her eyes gleamed with a mixture of shock and extreme admiration. "My... my God..." she whispered in a faint voice barely audible.

"This... this is amazing! Deep... incredibly deep for a child your age!"

The silence was broken by a child in the back row whispering to his friend, "What does... deer of hell mean? Is it the villain of the story?"

His friend nearby replied, "Isn't the demon of the basement the villain in the story?"

The other replied in a low voice: "I don't know... but the words... sad. Very sad but beautiful! Despite the fact that I didn't understand."

And suddenly a small palm began to applaud.

The sound echoed alone for a moment, then was followed by another palm.

Then a third.

And within seconds, the entire class exploded in a wave of warm and loud applause that the place had never known before.

The small faces of the children were radiating with amazement and admiration and some questioning, and some began to imitate Kirian's serious tone as he recited the last verses, creating an amusing whisper.

The teacher approached Kirian, who stood receiving the applause with a haughty smile while pretending to be shy by playing with his hair, and the teacher patted his shoulder affectionately and with a smile: "This is more than wonderful, my son... truly wonderful. I never imagined that you would have this sense and this depth... well done! Very well done! We should nominate you for the school competition!"

But in the dark corner of the classroom near the window that draws long shadows, there was one child who didn't applaud, one child who didn't participate in this wave of admiration.

That was me... looking at Kirian, and I was sitting stiffly in my seat, my eyes wide with pure terror as if they were staring at a ghost that had just emerged from the classroom wall.

My left hand placed on the scratched wooden table was visibly trembling like the wing of a wounded bird.

My breaths accelerated,

Short... panting... as if I had run a long distance.

I felt that the classroom walls were approaching me and crushing me,

As if the only curtain that was covering between me and reality and imagination had been torn.

And the golden light of the setting sun began to fade and sink into a cold darkness, and my heartbeats were violently pounding in my chest like drums in a war beating the omen of defeat.

Violent beats... painful... echoing in my ears while drops of sweat fell from my forehead. (No... impossible... these aren't his words...)

These are my words... my expressions that bled from my soul in the darkness of the damp basement as I write them.

Under the dim light of a lamp on the pages of a tattered notebook.

Even that paper Kirian is holding, that old paper with a grayish color, no doubt it belongs to me.

How!

My words that were born from my loneliness and pain, and I cried while writing them under a worn-out blanket, written with tears and blood.

Now... now they come out of the mouth of another person, and he is that child... attributing them to himself with all confidence, and everyone... everyone is applauding him!

(I... I wrote this... this... this is me! This is my pain! T-this is not... fair... these were mine.)

A burning tear slid down my cheek...

Alone,

Silent,

Shy,

As if afraid someone would see it. I suddenly felt more wronged than ever before.

And as if Kirian didn't just steal my words, but stole my skin and soul and everything I thought was associated with my existence, which is... pain.

I felt suffocated and tried to swallow, but my throat was dry like sandpaper.

I thought about trying to move and stand up and scream... but my body betrayed me amid all this applause and laughter and amid all these smiles and happy atmospheres at my expense.

I froze in place and felt lost.

Their laughter and voices intertwine as they talk enthusiastically about

"The new class poet"

"Talented Kirian"

Teacher Cross's voice was still echoing in the air, high and enthusiastic:

"We must tell the principal! We need to nominate him for the literature competition immediately... this is truly a rare talent!"

But Leon wasn't hearing anything of all this noise. He was only hearing the echo of his poem, repeating in his head endlessly in Kirian's voice.

He felt that his words were fading from him, being torn away, stolen... and lost forever. He remained motionless in his place for seconds that seemed like an eternity while the classroom emptied around him.

Deep down, he realized that if he had read it, these people wouldn't have had the same reaction, from the teacher to the children. He wouldn't have received all this appreciation.

He said to himself in a voice full of sorrow as he buried his face between his arms and rested his head on the table, "Who am I kidding... if I had been the one who said it now, everyone would have laughed at me and thrown things at me, but when Kirian said it, they celebrated him and applauded him.... They are..."

This was gnawing at his nerves like gangrene in a rotten wound.

The class bell rang, and everyone was leaving with vitality, and Leon was the last to stand from his seat, gathering his things.

But more importantly than that is that paper. When Leon was about to leave the classroom, he found that paper with the poem written on it, crumpled and thrown in the trash can.

The situation wasn't small for him; it was killing him from the inside.

He bit his lips trying to suppress another wave of tears, and slowly extended his hands and began to smooth out the wrinkles of this paper to read it, and it was really the same.

The same paper and the same Leon's handwriting. The only thing different... completely different is that introduction.

"How can this be possible? This is my paper itself and my handwriting itself. How did it reach him???"

Then, as if an invisible fire ignited inside him, he suddenly stood up, panting, his eyes frantically searching for a single target. He left the classroom and walked stumbling in the long empty corridor, his steps unbalanced as if walking on broken glass.

He headed toward the school's backyard, that place where outcasts usually resort to, and saw him there. Kirian standing like a victorious leader surrounded by his two close friends.

They were laughing loudly. "K... Kirian!"

The sound came out of Leon's throat choked and hoarse, but it was loud enough to penetrate their laughter. Kirian turned around,

And a look that was a mixture of surprise and contempt was drawn on his face. "What do you want?" Leon approached more, his steps heavy and his heart almost jumping from his chest to break his ribs.

He stood directly in front of him, and the trembling of his body was not hidden from anyone. "That... that poem... where... where did you get it from?"

Kirian stared at Leon's face, stained with tears and sweat, for seconds. He didn't seem to understand, then tilted his neck in surprise. "And what business is it of yours, you dirty dog?"

Kirian didn't need to say anything; his looks alone were enough to make the air freeze in Leon's chest.

The features of contempt and that superior stare and that slanted smile at the corner of his mouth like someone seeing a living mockery in front of him.

But Leon, with his stiff body and trembling hands,

Advanced.

His steps were strange, unbalanced, more like the steps of a patient who just came out of a coma. He approached until he stood a few steps away from his opponent.

From his thief... from his undeclared killer.

He said in a voice that broke in the middle as he repeated the question again:

"That... that poem... where did you get it from?"

A short silence prevailed, then Kirian chuckled, laughing a loud laugh that doesn't carry any kind of surprise... just pure sarcasm resembling a bullet penetrating the throat or a slap that drops dignity to the ground.

"Oh, don't tell me that you... wrote it?"

His eyes widened sarcastically as he turned to his two friends who responded with laughter, a rough laugh like feet kicking something worthless.

"You? No, no, impossible!" Kirian said as he put his hand on his chest as if feigning astonishment. "Leon? The birthmark monster? The stupid creature who doesn't know how many letters are in his name?! You wrote it?!"

Then he exploded into another laugh followed by his two friends this time with whistling and sarcastic applause.

They didn't give Leon time to think.

Suddenly, a hand rose and pushed him forcefully backward.

His thin body hit the stone wall,

then fell.

His skull shook for a moment, followed by a quick kick to his flank, then another to his leg.

He didn't know from which direction the blows were coming,

Nor how many feet were trampling on him.

He only saw the black shoes moving as if dancing over his body.

A kick to the chest.

A slap on his cheek.

A punch to his stomach that expelled all the air from his lungs.

Dirt in his mouth with the taste of blood, and his eyes began to lose focus.

Everything is spinning.

Everything hurts.

But he didn't scream. He didn't cry.

Instead, he remained huddled on the ground, moaning in a faint voice, like a wounded animal breathing its last breaths.

Then he stopped moving completely.

Then... suddenly... the blows stopped.

The noise calmed down.

And a heavy and strange silence prevailed as if the air itself stopped breathing.

And the three began to fear and get nervous. One of them said, "K-Kirian, what's wrong with him?"

Kirian kept staring at him, then stepped on his face with some force, but Leon was rigid, and the pupil of his eye went up to make his eye all white.

Kirian backed away with severe tension and said as he swallowed, "Oh damn! Let's get out of here before someone comes."

And they fled with the dust of their feet preceding them.

After they moved away, Leon tried to get up with great difficulty, but he fell.

Their blows were burning in his body.

As if he was completely destroyed this time.

His body was completely broken, and he said to himself as he leaned on his elbow, "Pretending to be dead... the same trick... worked with demons like my siblings, so of course it will work with them... damn."

Leon felt something approaching, the impact of light footsteps behind him... elegant. They weren't Kirian's footsteps nor his friends'.

Their impact was balanced, quiet.

Similar to the impact of a soft heel on a marble floor.

Then, a voice.

Soft... cold...

"Wow... I didn't imagine that the poem would hurt you this much."

Leon raised his head with difficulty to see "Kiara" standing in front of him, placing her hands behind her back, and that poisonous innocent expression adorning her face.

It's amazing that she's a hypocrite at the age of innocent flowers.

She was tilting her head slightly as she contemplated him like someone examining a faded painting.

She was wearing a white sweater, and her hair was tightly tied with a red ribbon, and her pink eyes narrowed with something that doesn't resemble pity... but resembles pleasure.

She approached him more until her foot almost stepped on him.

"You... really wrote that nonsense, didn't you?" she asked him in a melodious voice as if blowing poison into a victim's ear.

He didn't answer.

He just tried to retreat with his trembling body, but he couldn't.

Kiara bent down until she was at his eye level, and her face was a breath away from him, then whispered in a voice closer to a sigh: "Do you really live in a basement?"

Leon was more silent and swallowed, which made Kiara know the answer from his reaction and the stupidity of his emotion. She said in a cheerful and kind voice as she stands near him in a squatting position, "You know? It's ridiculous to believe this. People like you are supposed to be born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but..."

Then she smiled maliciously on a wider scale.

"Even your family name won't intercede for you in the eyes of society."

Her words were like a cold and deadly bullet impossible to return. It's extraordinary that these words come from a child, although it's not impossible to this extent, but...

The situation... painfully appropriate for this phrase.

She sighed when she saw Leon getting up and trying to move away and leave with those zigzag steps.

"Wait... don't you want to know who gave Kirian that precious paper?"

Leon became more nervous because he was afraid of hearing the answer. He turned half a turn, and with one eye barely open and in a voice that for the first time seems more curious than afraid, "Who is it?"

Kiara smiled as she shook her index finger in denial. "No, your question is wrong. You should use the feminine pronoun 'she' because she was a beautiful girl exactly our age and seems to be from the upper class and wears a black mask and has golden hair like threads of sunset and her eyes... green and soft like cold algae."

Then she advanced and extended her finger and touched him on his cheek stained with dirt.

"She is one of your relatives without a doubt since you claim that the paper is your paper and the poem is your poem... right?"

Kiara didn't laugh.

She just straightened up and looked at him for a moment, then turned her back and left without looking behind her.

And Leon remained there alone... in the abandoned backyard while staring at the ground and said, "It's Sarah..."

Leon began to think about everything that happened, and there was something strange that came to his mind: "It is said that in one of the forests