Story of a Friend

I once had a friend, who was quite an asshole, growing up. We shared the same class during our primary school years and were pretty chummy.

He was prone to hitting people, so our classmates generally stayed away from us. I admit, even I was freaked out sometimes by his weird violent outbursts.

One day, while we were in fifth grade, our Geography teacher announced that he was looking for a class representative, and invited the class to nominate a few candidates. Our class monitor was pointedly instructed to recommend someone as well, in regard to her position.

Caught in a corner, she panicked and found a perfect scapegoat in my friend. The whole class laughed.

Voting then commenced. Names of the candidates were stated, and the class was supposed to vote by raising their hands. Simple stuff for us kids then.

One by one by one. The number of raised hands were tallied with each holler of a name. People were gesturing, crowding, trying to put in an extra vote or two.

And then it was his turn.

When his name was read out, silence. It was miraculous. We weren't dubbed the noisiest class for nothing. But at that moment, I swear you could hear a flea sneeze.

So I raised my hand.

Like the mast of a desecrated ship lost in a sea of discontentment, my vote, my single vote - the only vote - was swept away by the huge tidal wave of silence that ensued.

Even the class monitor glanced at him apologetically, as if to say 'Sorry, dude. Left you hung out to dry, eventhough I knew you'd be humiliated. I guessed right. Forgive me?'. A few nervous laughs broke the fine mesh of awkwardness, accentuated by the teacher calling out the next name. The atmosphere immediately lightened up.

I looked over. He seemed fine, just smiling and being himself.

But I knew he was devastated inside.

And as accounted for, he told me, a few years later, that experience changed his life; As you will see if you continue reading.

After that day, he didn't seem the same person anymore. It was... epiphanous, if ever a word to describe it were invented. He changed. He started acting nicer, started buddying up with the 'cool' kids, generally being your all-round popular guy.

It worked. It really did work.

He was popular, and smart and was even crushed. *The last being quite an accomplishment for a primary school kid, if I may add* He was invited to parties, outings; Affable, charming, the class rebel - Honestly, it was hard not to love.

There you had it. The misfit turning over a new leaf, being somebody everyone thought he couldn't. The loser rising to pack head.

However, as the seasons change so do people. After leaving our primary school behind, things started to deteriorate.

One thing I would like to clarify - Puberty is one hell of a vengeful bitch. She'll grab your innards and practically turn you inside out, until you have no recollection whatsoever and lose your sense of direction before you can even begin to say 'hair!'

We were angsty pimply teens, mad at the world, hated our parents, bladiblada. But he... he was different. While the rest of the class were comparing porn notes and hand positions, he stopped... caring. While we swapped awful stories about our hell-sent siblings, he stopped feeling. Stopped relating. In retrospect, he stopped giving a damn. About everything.

The cool rebel was devolving into something worse than he ever was before.

He was slowly evaporating his sense of self.

During this period of time, we drifted farther and farther apart. I mean, how could you relate with someone who had forgone his capacity to connect emotionally with another?

It was in one of those days, when I asked him, what happened? and he told me how he felt about that fateful day.

How he had worked so hard to get everyone to like him.
How he had turned himself into something he could not get used to.
How it nearly destroyed him.

'I really don't care anymore, dude.'

I asked him, why?

'It's too hard to please the whole damn world.'

I pffftt him off, and dismissed his whole argument as the hormones talking in its entirety.

Little did I know, those words of his would still ring in my head, till this day.



He died a few days later.




Do I miss him? I certainly do. Suffice to say, I missed the him he used to be, or was trying (and successfully was) to be. Honestly, I still do not know, till this day, the real him. Maybe one day, I'll be epiphanous as well, finally realizing. Maybe I won't.

At times, I do catch a flicker of him. In myself, in the people I talk to, in the man on the street.

The boy who wanted to fit in, but didn't have the capacity to be like everyone else.
The boy who learned to love, but loss the will to care.
The boy who was lonely.

The boy who was special.

R.I.P, till we meet again.