The Adventures of The Wild Children

“I had a friend once, his name was Etienne. One night as he lay in his bed reading, I suppose he felt inspired. He wrote on his arm in pen, " Remind her how much you love her." He had been dating a woman named Vera, she was breathtaking, and they were happy.

He wrote an entry in his journal, right before it happened. That night my friend Etienne was murdered by a man he truly had never met. He crept into the house before Etienne had gotten home. I imagine him waiting in the shadows so ready, yet so afraid, to do what he knew he must do. Dastardly in the quiet, I only wonder what his thoughts were. How he could have been so meek, yet so strong.

Three stab wounds and a hasty exit. I think about him often, my friend Etienne.
His last journal entry read:

It is an odd thing, to be truly in love. You go through such bouts of forgetfulness- such blundering disbelief. Phases of floating. Life becomes a twilight wandering to make yourself remember that you have found what you were searching for. You cannot at all times be aware of something so powerful, so beautiful, and so certain, I think. You'd lie around on persian pillows, glassy-eyed and sighing for all eternity... Though, I must say, it is heaven to remember.

Passionate, powerful, I agree. He died in heaven though, at least. He said it. But, in the end, I think he brought it on himself. Etienne was happy, very happy. People like that can't live too long.

I think.

Its not really fair for everyone else is it? I think maybe now at least, he's with his own kind, my old buddy Etienne. Yeah, I think that’s what he'd have wanted...

It’s the right thing, don't you think?”

I sat down, every moment of that monologue was to me sacred. I was apprehensive, but certain, that what I had to say was important. But, my words weren’t heard, and I was glad. I did not expect, or even want, this pack of delinquents to understand my tragedies. It was Adrian’s turn now. Sure to be savage, anarchic; I knew I must take part. He straddled his guitar and strode with whimsical fury, blowing kisses to the girls and boys along his way, to the front of our squalid classroom. He exclaimed, “The blessed vagina from which I was born, the tender cunt from which I was torn!”
It was English class and we were determined to break the tedium of our daily Highschool home. Students were asked to share their thoughts and feelings in front of the class every Friday. Our teacher was an old shaggy hipster who accepted everything and understood little. Mounting the shabby stage, Adrian yelled that he was a song and dance man and thrust his manhood rhythmically while howling once more, “The blessed vagina from which I was born, the tender cunt from which I was torn!”
The words that came belting out of his filthy mouth, accompanied by the disturbed clanging of a seasoned guitar were to me a call to action, and I rose. We danced around the aisles and alleys between our outraged classmates yelling our daily bread, our communal anthem, “The blessed vagina from which I was born, the tender cunt from which I was torn!” Over and over again we chanted as our meek professor tailed us, gently beseeching us to be calm. We would not, and our classmates laughed, cried, while the languid among them did nothing at all- under the hypnotic spell of our vulgar teeth, gums, and tongue vigorously exclaiming and exclaiming.
This mockery continued for many chaotic minutes until we were apprehended, guffed and restrained by the schools local muscle, our archenemies in black attire who dared call themselves security. We were mangled to the main office to meet with The Principal. Principally a jackass, this man was cut from the same cloth as our long-haired English teacher and asked of us only peace and consideration. He said formally with the stale smell of duty on his breath, “As you know this incident is not without precedent… we have tried to understand and nourish your energies… you leave us no choice…”
I could take his voice no longer, and yelled:
You’re right, forgive us, have mercy! We are but scoundrels tugging at your pure white hem, groveling for compassion!
Adrian and I slumped to the floor and drooled mock regret on his scuffed brown loafers. Our charade was so convincing, the show of pathetic penance so powerful, his heart melted and could find no other alternative but clemency. He harangued us about the virtues of moderation as we sat on wrinkled leather seats; of respect and our proper place. We nodded and yes’d in admiration as the youthful whites of our eyes sparkled with innocence and awe at being imparted with wisdom from a figure so venerable. We embraced him and added our sincerest apologies, “ We are sorry, I am sorry! Your forgiveness is to us a grace from the Anglo-Saxon Protestant God above!”
We gently followed him to the doorway of his office, coupled behind him, we straggled like children righted of our naughty ways. He stepped out of his office, and we, several respectful paces behind him, slammed the mahogany door shut on his ugly principal face, locked it, and began our fun.
The merrymaking that followed was stupendous, accompanied like an angelic choir by the vacant yelling and pleading of our venerable Principal Jackass. I masturbated to his family portrait, placed prominently at the prow of his desk, making sure to aim carefully so as not to waste one milky drop. Adrian twanged and thumbed a glorious ode to broken chairs and belted a requiem for the death of office plants and diplomas strewn pathetically in a poetic heap of soil and saliva. The pens and highlighters we cracked, snorted and spilled in a tie-dye office waterfall, books and manuals were torn to instructive confetti in our festive wake as furniture was tossed and turned like a small paddle boat bearing a lone maniac struggling against the divine wrath of a seaward deluge.
We soon grew tired of our game, and lay spent on the debris with a sense of satisfaction like lovers after a furious bout of smelly copulation. We read to each other our respective office records, basking in many years of collected carousing: In 5th grade the phrase ‘I am Zorro!’ scraped magnificently on the black table top of the schools' science labaratory, In 7th a rash escapade of angst that found Adrian vacuum-cleaning the paper laden desk of our chubby, pink cheeked music teacher- baffled, she chimed curses at Adrian while he whistled ancient Irish fighting songs. In 10th an incident of lust in the girls’ bathroom that was not without its rewards, in 11th, caught despicably drunk in AP Statistics; though our methods were ingenious, (injecting oranges with gin, shot for shot, slice for slice), it was Statistically inevitable we should be discovered eventually. On and on- we triumphantly held up the motley trophy of our accomplishments. A job well done, I’d say.
But, alas, it could not last. And as our tender young lips were at the climax of contented recollection, the men in black burst shamelessly into our chamber of divinest reckoning demanding blundering satisfaction from our pleased supple limbs.