G R A S S

Instructions

As his fingertips brushed the tips of the bladed grass, it was hard for him not to become overjoyed by the prospect of being surrounded by miles and miles of lush, green grass. But still, he was unhappy. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, he couldn’t fix himself. He tried. He surrounded himself with friends who were better than he ever could’ve asked for. But even then, he was broken. Broken and smashed like a mirror, the bits of sharp glass splintering and exploding all over him, slicing through his heart and soul. ‘Break through. You shall suffer like this no longer. Help those who need it, and then, perhaps, they can help you in return. Go forth and be strong.’ Helpless. That’s how he felt. If even he couldn’t help himself, then who would? No one, he thought. No one would help him. From that day forth, Nicholas pasted on a smile. It took me awhile to notice the walls that had been set up in front of my eyes. The smile he always wore. I slowly started to realize, as he used that same trademark smile more and more often, how forced it truly was. Outside, he smiled. Inside was the inner torment he’d always wanted to release. I noticed this a long time ago. Yet I still haven’t found the courage to acknowledge it. It’s going to be bad, no matter how I word it. I looked at him with caution, allowing myself to fully see him in a different light then I always had. Tangled onyx hair, dulled and red-rimmed blue eyes with dark bags under them, ripped jeans, and he was seemingly more stressed. Usually, he was painfully laid back. But he’d changed so much over the past few years that I barely even recognized him anymore. He was now this calm, studious boy who looked pained while talking to anyone at all. This was in stark contrast to the well-kept, outgoing, lazy person I’d known for so long. Whenever I pushed him to become who he is now, he refused. Because he’s Nicholas, and Nicholas doesn’t listen to anyone but himself. Now he shuts himself in. I try to pull him out, but he screams and protests, forcing me to leave. He’s isolated himself in such a way to avoid contact and social interaction. Especially with the people close to him. Especially me. I biked to his house one day, intent on visiting him. Nobody had visited him in a while, I was told by his parents. “Even if they did, he’d scream and shove until they eventually left,” his mother adds. She looks possibly even more stressed out then Nicholas, having to deal with her rebellious, saddened son on a daily basis. “We were thinking about something the other day, my husband and I. If Nick was going to talk to anyone… it would be you.” Now equipped with the knowledge, I begin to explore the house. As I traveled around it, I found myself marveling at the one tree in this luxurious backyard garden he had. It was bright and cheerful compared to all the other plants there, flooded with budding roses and sharp thorns. I pick a rose with renewed determination. A thorn threatens to prick my hand with every passing second as my footsteps ascend the stairs with large echoing clicks. I walk into Nicholas’ room, and my heart sinks. He’s crying in the corner and shaking wildly. He’s in such a deteriorated state that I didn’t even know if it would help. But I gave him the rose anyway.