Reading before class started, I was approached by a student I used to be in workshop with. I actually was in two different workshops with Lathe, and in workshop, you understand your peers very well. Lathe has long black hair which he ties into a tail, possibly a foot long. He's very skinny and pale, and has a nose like a right triangle. His mind scares me.
When you read four or five unedited stories written by one particular person, you arrive at a state where you know their hearts. Lathe's heart is dark. Please don't mistake me - I don't mean that he's possessed. I mean that out of the four stories of his that I read, two were about zombies, one was about a rape, and the last I have curtained off in my memories, so that I can never again relive what he wrote.
He's a nice fellow, though he dresses strange. Each time he handed back stories he had edited, along with his notes he would sketch scenes in the margins, either from the story or from a different story about skeletons and bloody daggers. Sometimes, he'd combine those two elements.
He saw me reading, and sought me out. We talked about our summers, and the classes we're taking now. He asked about my science fiction writing, and I asked about his inner darkness. Then there was a silence and I waited for him to say goodbye, so I could return to reading, which was necessary to accomplish before the next class. But Lathe only stood and stared out the window at the rain. I flipped through the pages of my book, which I didn't have time to read anymore, and tried to think of things to talk about. I couldn't.
And now Lathe has ruined my day, because I cannot get over how excruitatingly painful those three minutes were, before I stood up to go to class. Walking away, I felt like I was being dragged back to my cell after an intesive waterboarding session.
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