1
An icy wind struck my face as I stepped outside my apartment building. I faced the blinding white that covered the large field across from my residence. A headache from the night before still drummed against my temples, reminding me of how many times I told myself not to drink so much again. I could see the university students playing in the snow, throwing bundles of white at each other or kissing affectionately as if the end of their joyful time would soon come. It seemed like the whole town was filled with songs of laughter. I could hear them as I walked and took the clear concrete path to the café down the street.
My thoughts were jumbling as I thought of the night before. This was the same path Michael and I had walked, before I had invited him upstairs for some wine. The night had gone well until I had said something to him, something that made him leave abruptly, something I knew I'd regret, but I couldn't remember what. It was the wine. The warmth from the glass of Chardonnay had sent an irrepressible tingling within my body, the kind I used to get when my mother touched the back of my neck with her long, thin fingers. I could feel my blood burning as my head was gradually growing lighter and lighter, until finally I had been saying things just to make the feeling last longer. I didn't know what I had blurted, but I remembered his face turning red as he looked to his watch, grabbed his coat, said a quick farewell, and left. I grabbed the half-empty bottle on the table and poured myself a glass. The last thing I remembered was falling on the rough carpeting in the living room.
The sun was shining so brightly in my eyes that I couldn't see make out the face of the person walking towards me. I recognized the high-pitched voice, though: it was Jean, a classmate who always seemed more interested in making fun of other students' lives and who always seemed to think I wasted all my time studying instead of getting laid.
“Gabriel! Did you hear what happened to that new student?” he asked me. I shook my head. “He chased Allen for two floors in the library with a knife!”
“The new transfer? The one with the scholarship?”
“Yeah, him. I heard that when the security guards finally stopped him and got him to calm down,” he said, motioning to his arms, “they found all these cut marks on his arms.” I shuddered at the thought of cutting my skin. With all the blood that would drip from the arm and knife, it would take a tremendous will to inflict scars on oneself, to make the body a personal journal.
“What did Allen do?”
“Nothing. The new guy got upset and started yelling at Allen because he read his little diary. Allen said that he just read the front cover to see whose it was.”
“Where's he now?”
“Who, the freak? What do you think? He's committed.”
“Committed,” I said to myself. The word called forth alien memories. I was twelve years old when my mother first had me committed to a psychiatric ward. I had to keep a journal of my thoughts and moods on everything, from private to group sessions. My life became scratches on a page, committed to a goal I wasn't sure I wanted to fight for.
“When did this happen?” I asked him.
“Yesterday. I'm about to tell the rest of the guys now,” he said. Nodding a farewell, he briskly walked away from me down the path I had just come from. I stood still for a minute, staring at him from behind as he disappeared around the curve. I stood until the cold air strapped itself around my neck, sending shivers throughout my body. I tightened my scarf, buttoned my coat, and proceeded to the café shop.
2
“This seat taken?” I heard him ask from behind. His soft voice hid behind a confident, daring tone. He had broken me away from a deep distraction, and I scooted my chair so that he could pull out the one next to me. It was the transfer student. I heard he withdrew from the hospital and returned for the spring semester. A nervous tension trickled down my spine as he placed his books on the table, stretched his arms, and let out a yawn. After regaining posture, he straightened his shirt and extended his hand towards me. “Paul,” he said.
