Reedsy writing prompt:
You pass by a person sitting with their face to the sun, the most content smile
you've ever seen on their face.
The Duck Pond
My favorite place on campus is the Duck Pond.
It's really just a smelly, man-made hole infilled with greenish water, but
living in the desert, where there are few ponds and even fewer ducks, you take
what you can get. I wasn't the only one who loved the Duck Pond. Some days it
was near impossible to find a square foot to sit down, but even on the days
when there was plenty of room, it was rarely a secluded or quiet place. The
only times I've ever seen the pond quiet was Christmas Day and New Year's Day.
I guess because everyone is busy with their families on Christmas and they're
too busy nursing hangovers on New Year's to care about throwing bread crusts to
the scraggly ducks.
I like to go there, original English major that
I am, with a book and my journal. It's a great spot to just sit and observe. It
fills this need I have to be part of a group without actually having to
participate. With my back resting against a tall pine and my leather journal
balanced in my lap, I can sit and watch the couples lying side by side,
sometimes kissing, sometimes dozing, always content. I can watch the mothers
who bring their toddlers to campus to feed the ducks. The kids have no concept
of how big a duck's mouth is, so they often throw whole slices of bread into
the water where they get soggy and float around like mushy, white lily pads
until the stinking koi tear them apart. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit I
like looking at the other introverts with sketchpads or journals. I like to
study their faces like tea leaves, trying to divine what they're writing. That
guy over there, with the greasy ponytail and tattered Dave Matthews shirt, is
writing a fantasy novel. I'm willing to bet it has both dragons and
Xena-inspired warrior women with tits the size of literal melons. That mousy
girl over there? She looks like she'd be writing a romance. You know,
wish-fulfillment and all that, but she's not. Not in my mind, anyway. She's
writing a horror novel. She might look sweet and innocent, but I bet she could
dream up at least one hundred and fifty ways to kill you in thirty seconds. I
recognize some of these people, others, I've never seen before.
Like the girl sitting on the rock across the
pond. I walked past her as I made my way around the water, looking for a good
spot. She was different from all the others. She didn't have a backpack or a
book or journal. No sketch pad, no pencil, no food, or cup of coffee. She was
just sitting there, hugging her knees to her chest, her face raised to the sun.
Her eyes were closed, and her face was completely relaxed. She gave no
impression that she was aware anyone else existed, even when a Frisbee whizzed
dangerously close to her head. She had the most beatific smile on her face that
I've ever seen. It was weird, and borderline creepy. She didn't have that look
people get when they're meditating. That look is almost a strained kind of
peaceful, as if it takes a ton of effort to look so relaxed. And it wasn't a
happy kind of look; the kind when you're remembering something warm and good.
It was an expression I've never seen before. If I were an artist instead of a
writer, I would have plopped down across from her and started sketching her
right then and there.
I sort of felt bad for staring at her. She
seemed so completely unaware of her surroundings that shame burned my cheeks.
As if I were some creeper peeking in through her bedroom window instead of just
another person enjoying the crappy little pond. But the shame wasn't enough to
keep me from staring and wondering. I tried to journal, but I kept glancing up
to see if she was still there, if she'd shifted at all, if she'd opened her
eyes. I wanted to wait and see if her expression would change. If someone would
join her, or if maybe she'd get bored and wander away. Every couple of minutes,
no matter how hard I tried to ignore her, I found myself searching her face for
some clue about who she was and what was going on in her life.
My mind created and discarded theory after
theory about the girl: She was a music major trying to hear the song in her
head to the end. Her slob roommate moved out. She finally found the strength to
tell her asshole boyfriend of two years to fuck off. She got news that her
rapist was shot and killed in a hunting accident. She's an orphan and just found
out a long-lost relative died and left her enough money to keep her flush for
the rest of her life.
Somehow, though, none of the random theories I
came up with seemed right. None of them hit the core of that expression. That
look on her face was more than financial or emotional relief. It was more than
being one hundred seventy-five pounds and an asshole lighter. Clean dishes and
a vacuumed floor didn't account for her look of pure, uncomplicated peace.
I'm not an angry kind of person. I don't usually
feel jealousy or irritation. Human experience is rich and diverse, and there's
no point in being jealous or angry most of the time, because things always
circle around. Life might be going along perfectly for a time, but eventually,
there will be heartache, pain, and trouble. I figure everyone deserves to feel
whatever happiness and peace they can while they can. So, it surprised me that
the more I tried to figure out the reason for her contentedness, the angrier I
got at her. Anger that stabbed like an icicle through my heart, freezing my
blood and stealing my breath. Anger that gripped my stomach and clenched my
fists.
Who the hell did this girl think she was,
sitting there on her rock like the queen of the universe? Like some
transcendent Buddha come to life. Sitting there with her eyes closed, silently
judging everyone around her. Feeling superior and smug because she's clearly
more evolved and elevated than the rest of us plebeians.
The urge to run over to her and shove her into
the water forced a shocked, chittery laugh out of me. I had to fight hard not
to follow through with that completely mean and out-of-character impulse. This
sudden hostility toward a stranger scared me. I closed my journal and
shoved it and my pen into my backpack. Whatever was going on with me had
nothing to do with her, and I damn well knew it. The best course of action was
to walk away and leave her to her serenity. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't
bring myself to stand. I couldn't bring myself to turn my back and make my way
to Astronomy.
Without realizing what I was doing, I opened my
mouth and screamed. I screamed louder and longer than I've ever screamed
before. I screamed until my throat was hot and raw. Until I ran out of breath
and tears streamed down my face. All around me, people stopped what they were
doing and stared at the crazy girl screaming under the pine tree at the edge of
the duck pond, and I didn't care. All I cared about was bursting the bubble of
calm that surrounded the girl.
Another deep breath and another piercing scream.
The dude-bro with the Frisbee ran toward me, concern and fear crisscrossing his
face like river lines on a map. The napping couple got up and walked away,
throwing dirty looks at me for disturbing their afternoon in the sun. A mother
picked up her little boy and hurried away. All around me, people reacted to my
screams. Except the girl. She just sat there, that same damned look on her
face, as if she were alone in the world. My vision blacked out everything but
the girl on the rock. We were the only people in the world, and I was
going to scream until she opened her eyes and assured me I wasn't alone.