ForLorne

There are few things I care less about than myself and the annoying frills of formal education. Studying at Morosa made me think about both a lot more than I’d have liked. Amid the downward spiral it plunged me into, it stirred a whole mess of other things up to the surface too. But I won’t get into that just yet.

My first year at the university was actually pretty quiet. The whole place was quintessentially New England, with all the trappings of a colonial armory that someone on TV might have sworn was haunted. I spent a lot of quiet time absorbed in that old dusty environment studying, keeping my head down. I had no friends left from high school, and like hell was I going to make any new ones here. Every night after acing whatever test or quiz I took that day, I went back into hiding with video games and a good album. Must have listened to Floodland at least fifty times.

Not to go off about music, even if it was my whole life for years. I’d been sneaking into goth night since I was fifteen. That ended abruptly—and I won’t be getting into that one at all.

My second year started a little differently. That semester, I finally couldn’t dodge the useless prerequisite algebra class anymore. My fault for sleeping through pre-calculus in high school, I guess. On the first day, I showed up late as usual. I locked eyes with the only other alternative person in the room; it’s a phenomenon that’s almost telepathic, I think. Maybe even metaphysical in other ways, too. Whatever it was, the seat beside her was the only one open.

I don’t engage a lot with other alt people these days. Oftentimes talking to them is its own brand of awkward disappointment. In a way, it's worse than the disappointment I get when talking to normal people. Maybe because, even after all these years, it still takes me aback. Whether it’s someone hiding their painfully basic personality with dark clothing, or wearing labels like a badge and yapping to me for an hour about nu-metal or pop punk, I’m usually squirming to get to the end of the encounter. Some might call me a gatekeeping asshole, I guess. But to a degree, I like to think of it as self-preservation.

I sat down. The girl waved at me. To be polite, I waved back before starting to dig into my bag for my stuff.

“I like your shirt,” she whispered, a couple of necklaces jingling as she tugged at the chest of her tank top. I couldn’t even remember what shirt I was wearing, so I looked down—Bauhaus. The single tee for Bela Lugosi’s Dead with the bat on it.

Interesting.

“Thanks.” I slapped a notebook down on my desk. Despite being a tech student, I liked doing things the old-fashioned way; pen to paper just made things stick a lot better.

Liking my shirt wasn’t any indicator that she was the real deal, I had to remind myself. A little self-resentment crept in, and I forced myself to pedal back. No way was I going to be that hopeful right off the bat.

I unfastened the safety pin holding shut the pocket of my leather jacket and grabbed a pen. Then I engaged autopilot for a bit, steadily taking notes as I settled into the lecture. Nice to do that sometimes—to press the “off” switch on my brain. Still, to this day, I’m not sure if that’s more of a maladaptive response than a healthy coping mechanism.

Two hours went by. I could tell by the rustling of people packing up their bags that class was over. I must have zoned out for a while. A murmur of voices swallowed the space, and I caught myself mid-doodle. Whatever I was drawing, it looked like a frog getting shot by a beam of magic from a wizard’s wand. I never was an outstanding artist.

“Hey,” the girl’s voice flowed down my shoulder. She was standing right next to me. I closed the notebook over my ugly drawing and looked up beside me. She introduced herself. “I’m Sam.”

I’d missed the attendance call, so at least that wasn’t redundant information.

“Tim,” I said, nodding to her as I packed away my stuff.

“Nice to meet ya.” By her tone, I could tell she was going to press on. I was sort of wanting to get out of there and find a place to study alone, but unfortunately, I read somewhere that it’s rude to brush people off. “Have you checked out the new Twin Tribes album, or are you a stickler for the oldies?”

I almost tripped on my own boots standing up.

“A good sound is a good sound, old or new,” I said, recovering before it was too obvious I’d stumbled. “Some good stuff cropping up as of late. Twin Tribes is solid; I liked Pendulum.”

A smile brightened her green eyes. The points of her black eyeliner framed them in a way that made it impossible not to notice. “And here I thought you'd be the sort who looks down their nose at me. You've got that air about you.”

Usually, I was. Probably was somewhat too early to joke with her too heavy-handedly about that, though.

“Hard to look down on someone who’s got decent taste,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Then something weird happened; I realized I was curious. It had been such a long time since I could just talk about music with someone. The initial bout of name-dropping always felt a bit robotic, but necessary all the same. “About those oldies, though… What else strikes you?”

“Not The Cure.” She laughed. I couldn’t really stomach them either. “Sisters of Mercy, London After Midnight… Joy Division, I guess.”

“Skinny Puppy?”

“Y’know, I’ve been meaning to give them a listen.”

“You should. Give a listen to VIVIsectVI. If you like that, try Too Dark Park afterwards.”

“Sounds good, but you can’t be the only one handing out homework on day one,” she insisted, a mischievous smirk wrinkling her septum-pierced nose. “You have a look about you that tells me you haven’t tried listening to Lebanon Hanover. Since you felt so emboldened to assign me two entire albums, yours are Let Them Be Alien and Tomb for Two.”

She wasn’t wrong; I hadn’t listened to them beyond one song. But there was a deep reason I hadn’t, memories that cut right through the thick layers of my calm and collected persona. Hearing her recommend them knocked the wind out of me like a punch to the gut.

I swallowed the feeling. It didn’t hurt too much anymore, but did throw me into a spiral of disorientation. I needed to get away and breathe.

“Deal,” I said, but her lips twisted with confusion. My reaction must have shown more than I intended.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Two for two.” I mustered up a flimsy smile that twitched in protest of my effort. “I’ll report back next week.”

“Likewise,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d find anyone here who’s got similar tastes—but I’m glad our stars aligned today, Tim. See ya later.”

Her dark purple hair swished over a raven tattoo on her shoulder blade as she turned to walk away. My mind went blank. I’m not sure how long I stood there or how long I watched her before she disappeared into the crowd funneling through the door. When the fog cleared from my senses, and the closing door shut out the hum of the crowd, I realized I was the last one there, save for the dust motes floating in streams of sunlight from the window.

Lebanon Hanover. Very unassuming. If anything, it felt stupid that I was hung up on any kind of emotion toward them. Still, I almost wished I hadn’t accepted her challenge. My feet were suddenly heavy, like they were stuck to the ground, but I forced myself to move on; if I stood there any longer, my pride would just keep warring with my regret. Or worse, another class might come in and I’d look like some sort of psychopath. I stepped out into the hallway, weaved my way through the masses of bodies, and pushed through the door leading to the campus courtyard.

It wasn’t often anymore that I tuned into the little things—the breeze on my face, the earthy smell of fallen leaves. All that poetic sort of stuff that I’d mentally outsourced to the lyricists. As much as I tried to avoid the past, I was never present either. Just wedged in a dark corner somewhere, senses dulled to everything. That day, I found relief in the crisp fall air, and a vacant bench under a shady red maple.

I spread out my notes and papers, weighing them down with rocks so no one would try to claim the space next to me. As much as I tried to look a certain way that would encourage people to avoid me, there were enough times that they didn’t. I’d often considered ramping things up with white makeup and some more piercings, but I didn’t really want to become an inconvenience to myself for the sake of it. I was pale enough already, and I liked the humbleness of my labret stud, boot chains and smudged eyeliner.

Before getting to work on my assignments, I popped in my earbuds. I unlocked my phone and opened my music app, thumb hovering over the search bar as I tried to gather up as much courage as possible.

I caved. My thumb took over and put on Cocteau Twins. Heaven or Las Vegas—another song I’m sometimes embarrassed to admit that I get lost in. The words weren’t anything; no better way to become nothing myself. I fell under the waves of reverb, letting Liz Fraser’s ethereal voice lead me back to my dark corner.

Fuck it, was the last thing I remember thinking. I had the entire week ahead of me. Didn’t get any homework done that day, on paper or in my head.