Campus was clearing out for the holidays. However, a few stragglers remained and could be seen braving the freezing temperatures, running last minute errands for professors that evidently did not have any willingness to comply with the university’s schedules.
Rose stuffed her frigid hands into the pocket of her cream, puff coat, stomping her dark boots across the courtyard. The bitter wind whipped her raven hair back, and she slowed down to tie her on her Eskimo hood. Her brief pause allowed just enough time for her to be spotted by Charlie from her creative writing class.
She waved to him as he neared, his langly form contrasting sharply with her petite structure.
“Hey Rose,” he replied, “I was just about to leave. Do you think you can hand this in for me?” He gently waved a manila folder in the air, which contained his manuscript, which would count as the final grade for the class.
“Of course,” Rose outwardly beamed at him, re-adjusting a grey back-pack littered with extra-curricular club pins and stickers. “Have a good winter,” she said politely, holding in her breath.
Rose trudged down the street to Professor Fen’s office located on the third floor of the Everest Hall, slightly perturbed that Charlie, one of the cutest boys she had seen on campus, had not spoken more than a few lines to her all semester, and then had the nerve to ask her to do his dirty work. She felt a sharp aching pang of loneliness, only slightly ameliorated by the manuscript, which she clutched in her frostbitten right hand.
Fen was rather occupied, nose buried deep in his own creative work, when Rose peered anxiously into his office.
“Rose!” he exclaimed, “Come in.”
She explained to Fen that one of the folders belonged to Charlie and Fen merely nodded in acknowledgement.
“Sit!” he urged, smiling. Rose had a strong feeling she was one of Professor Fen’s favorites, but did not mind the special treatment, not one bit. Fen was by far Rose’s favorite professor. He was enigmatic, witty, and really knew his stuff, and besides, she was his star pupil. He congratulated on her outstanding performance and even encouraged her to submit her work to several literary magazines. Working with Fen on research this semester had been Rose’s highlight of the semester. During the research sessions, Fen had let her in on his big secret, the historical fiction novel that he was working on with another colleague, Professor Green, a slimy looking middle-aged man with greased back hair and a moustache which curled ever so slightly. Rose didn’t particularly care for Professor Green, not the way she admired Fen, anyways.
“I hope to continue researching with you next semester,” she added merrily, just before closing the door behind her. He only replied with a smile of affirmation.
But she left him in his office on Everest Hall that day and never saw him again.
Rasheed Mohummad Fen was late again. He stumbled into the elevator, embarrassed by the gawking look his older colleagues gave him. Hands shaking, clutching his sixth draft of an touching story about one man’s struggle with autism, and the master-piece the man had just sold to a well-visited museum. It wasn’t ground-breaking news, but it was Rasheed’s opportunity to prove to Mr. Kelly that he was competent.
“Here it is,” he shoved the article towards Macy, the editor-in-chief.
“Sure hope it’s good,” she could not help but smile kindly at the new boy, “You’re two hours past the deadline.” Macy along with practically everybody else in at the Daily Gazette, excluding one bitter sniveling Eric Langhorn- Macy’s ex-boyfriend, had taken a liking to the new recruit, a soft-spoken, good-natured ethnically mixed boy.
Rasheed bantered with Macy for a while and then returned to his cubicle to edit some colleagues’ articles. He stared at the article, wondering if Eric Langhorn had gotten the point across clearly enough in his first paragraph of this pathetic half-assed attempt at a story. Bored, he glanced up at a picture of Moroum, his mother, and her second husband, Mustafa. He had taken the picture two Christmas’s ago and their faces were cheery, and grinned back at him. A more serious picture showed Benjamin Fen, his mother’s first husband, his birth father, with his arms around him during his college graduation. The old professor stood, skin white and withered as stone, grey-speckled hair and all, clad in a tweed suit. He was not unattractive, despite his age, and wore the same intense hazel eyes of his son. The sincere expression on Ben’s face was captured through the lens of the camera.
Later that night, after Moroum had returned from the hospital where she worked as a nurse, and put together a small dinner for herself and her son, she received a message from an unlikely stranger.
“Hello,” Moroum said, suspiciously, to the women who stood in the doorway in a blood-red peacoat.
“Hi, my name is Lisa Sparkwaters. I work at the University of Rutgers in New Jersey. I am sorry to have to break the news.” Her voice was loud and sad as if she was a robot actress, speaking on auto-pilot. “Sorry to inform you, but Benjamin Fen has just been found dead. He committed suicide at 12 am this morning.”
Moroum gasped, horror registering across her tiny face. But Rasheed wanted to know more, and asked to see an ID. Lisa complied, offering evidence which proved that she was a co-worker of Benjamin’s. “I’m not lying, and have no reason to, sir. Just reporting the facts. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Lisa said, the sorrow in her eyes reflecting Moroum’s defeatedness. Long after Lisa had left, Moroum stood in the entrance of her house, sobbing, comforted, only, by her son, Rasheed, who wondered why his birth-father, a seemingly happy man, had so suddenly, and unexpectedly committed suicide in the wee hours of the morning, in those minutes when night conspicuously turns to day.
Gender:
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