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Newman Witte

“Look at that gorgeous man,” the old ladies crooned. They admired his dark face, honey-like voice, and chiseled man-features. Everything about him suggested he was a superstar, which he just happened to be. He seemed invincible—he thought he might be. His golden tan could not be penetrated by evil. No one could match his intelligence. Old women, young women, all women begged for permission to hold him. All men found themselves in awe of the man, trying to contain their raging jealousy. His auburn hair went perfectly with his eyes. Actually, no one knew what color his eyes were because they were always hidden by large sunglasses. These glasses, though, were as beautiful as their owner. A golden rim surrounded the darkest lens a lens maker could ever have created. No one was allowed to see his eyes; besides a special few, but they were only doctors.

The man of this supernatural magnificence was called Newman Witte. Newman Witte was a clever man, with exceptionally good hearing. He gave the old women a smile as he crossed the busy streets of San Diego. He needed to get some place, but where he was not sure. Newman Witte knew it had something to do with Lily. Who Lily was, he was also unsure of. Cars stopped in the streets when they saw him running past. He watched as phones flew out of windows, their owners too excited to hold onto their electronics. Newman Witte could not help feeling ashamed of these people. He did not understand why they would risk anything to say they saw him. He did not understand his own excellence. Newman Witte continued through the streets; he decided to take back alleys for he did not want to start any more traffic jams. His hair blew lazily in front of his face—there was no breeze to blow.

Dirt stained the bottoms of his worn out Gucci shoes. The strange woman, Lily, gave him these shoes after the accident. No one would explain to him what the accident was. He was positive it was terrible, though, or else he would know what had happened before he woke up three nights before. Newman Witte only new three things about himself: his name was Newman Witte, his teeth were unusually white, and many people would kill to touch his muscles. He accepted the first one, and the latter one, but the middle bothered him. He touched them as he walked. It had become a habit of his over the past few days to make sure his teeth were still intact. His memories consisted of being hit extremely hard in the teeth by something large and dark. He figured this memory was the accident. He figured that since he didn’t remember, his mind was saving him a lot of grief.

He reached the correct home and was hesitant. He wanted to go in desperately. He felt as if the girl—Lily—would comfort him. She meant something to him, but what, he didn’t know. His brain got fuzzy when he thought of anything besides her. He knocked slowly on the wooden door. Noises from the street were most likely muting his soft knocking. However, the door creaked open. A little face peered through the crack. He knew the face well, but could not remember why. The little girl was very plain. He got down on one knee so he could be face to face with the girl. “Hi there,” he whispered. “What is your name?” The girl whimpered. He realized he might be scaring her, so he stood up. The girl suddenly seemed to see something in him. She reached for his hand, thought differently, and called out for her mother.

As soon as Lily reached the door, disappointment swelled in Newman Witte’s gut. Lily’s eyes dimmed when she saw him. He was ecstatic that they did because it meant his beauty did not blind her. “Thank you for the shoes,” he murmured. His teeth did not feel right in his mouth, especially standing in front of her.

“How did you know I gave them to you?” She inquired coldly.

He felt as if he should talk carefully around her. He answered, “I have no idea… I just knew.” The answer seemed to please her, for she reluctantly invited him in. He looked around, feeling as if he had been there before. There were many pictures lining the walls. Most were of Lily, the little girl, or both females together. He saw one picture that stood out to him above the rest. It depicted a family portrait. In it was a man he did not recognize, his arms around Lily and the little girl. He studied the picture, scrunching his perfect nose. The man was not attractive at all. A large nose filled up his face and a thin, tight mouth was attempting to smile for the camera. His eyes were squinted like the sun was too much for them. His skin was freckled and his hair shockingly red, matching the little girl’s. Long arms were draped around Lily, who was gazing up at the man with a strange look. A gaze full of such intense desire that Newman Witte had to look away. “You have a beautiful family,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” Lily said softly, picking up the girl. She brushed her muddy, brown hair out of her face and walked into another room. Newman Witte followed, curious. He wandered into Lily’s kitchen. Lily was placing the girl on the counter, still moving hair from her eyes. Newman Witte decided Lily was attractive. Not as attractive as him, of course, but much more attractive than her husband. Her eyes were wide and blue. When he caught her glance he felt a calm rush over him. Her cheeks were large, and nose slightly smaller than a usual person’s. Her hands were dainty and fingers short. They fumbled with the girl’s food.

“What is your girl’s name?” He asked.

“Victoria,” she answered. “Her father named her after his mother.” Newman Witte’s memories began to swarm into his unwilling mind. He stared at Lily uncertainly, and rushed back into the hallway. He went straight to the picture of the ugly man with his beautiful family. He pulled down the picture, scraping the wall. He suddenly knew where to go, pushing past Lily to get to the bathroom. He stared at the man, and then looked into the mirror hanging above the sink. No resemblance at all—none except for the eyes. Newman Witte stared at the picture of the ugly man with the dark gray eyes. Newman Witte glanced into the mirror at his wider eyes. They were obviously dark gray, with little golden streaks around the outer edge of the iris—also like the little girl’s.

Lily walked into the bathroom. She watched him as he turned his eyes from the family portrait to her. “What is your husband’s name?” He asked, though he already knew the answer. Lily crinkled her brow, and stared at the Gucci shoes holding Newman Witte’s perfect, size eleven feet. She bit her lower lip, trying to resist crying. Newman Witte opened his muscled arms out to her, in which she collapsed.

“His name was Newman Witte,” she whispered into his strong chest. He could barely hear her, and his stomach felt sick. “He was the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.”





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