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Cindy and Lucy

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Five minutes before nine she strolls into class and sits in the front row. Every Tuesday and every Thursday. That is Cindy. Cindy with blonde, wavy hair that falls down her back as a stream of luscious locks. She sits, sits, and sits in class but does not listen to the professor. Test after test she finishes first. She receives an A. But today, Cindy did not finish first. Today Cindy did not show up at all. Today as I look at the door waiting for her to pass through and I see emptiness and I think something is wrong but I am not sure. I am unsure.

Rocks fall down my throat and land hard in my stomach. Our professor shuts the door and begins the lesson saying, “The test grades were horrendous. Horrendous. More time with calculus is what all of you seem to need.” I look to the seat in front of me. It is empty. I see emptiness. And I am still looking as my professor calls my name to answer. And I notice a single strand of blonde, wavy hair lying motionless from Tuesday. I did not hear him.

I do hear the whispers Cindy told me over lunch in the mess hall. I do hear the tears she cried over an abusive boy. I do hear the silence as I am in fear. I pause. Memories flood my brain: I see cuts on her wrist, I see pills on her study desk, I see pain. Pain. I look at the door, then I look at the chair, and I see the lock of blonde, wavy hair left on the chair. Eyes the size of golf balls, I have no answer for the professor.





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