Tilikum

The fall of a scholar student at Michigan’s Maywatch High School Institute, told through the eyes of an Ohio-born photography teacher, who favored the student the most.

The forest was dead silent. It had been a more peaceful morning for Maywatch, one with less frollicking of the locals, and one with less noises from the modern world. Most of the time during this time of year, it was peaceful. No one but I expected peace such as this, however. No noise. No movement. Not even the swift glide of the wind down from the overhead mountains, brushing against each green leaf, touching it and cradling it as a mother holds their child. There was none of that. Instead, Maywatch stood at the northern peak of Michigan, completely silent and still, like a monument to a great empire that once ravaged with angry fire and tyranny.

But one noise started no other. My footsteps were independent. Not an ear peering from a window or a screen doorway to hear myself taking small and concentrated steps towards the woodsy Maywatch Bay that laid before me that very day. Just then was a brustle from a tree, and a squeak from a branch. The nature tweaked to its surroundings, but wondered at the other nature it was surrounded by. Therefore, it had become silent once again.

The sun barely peaked over the horizon, creating a red crescent that was cut off by hundreds of slender and tall trees, the leaves shaped as if they were marking the sun in the sky. It was a nature point like no other, and an opportunity for photography I didn’t want to miss. I would bring back this sight to the homefront, and I would be reminded of the Maywatch Bay like the hundreds of days that laid beforehand.

The house I approached from the bay was shuddered and old. It reminded me of my grandmother’s piano, the one my father gave to me once we moved to a new area of residence in Ohio. But the house reminded me of her piano in the sense of the ancient aura that surrounded bearing the sight of it on the block. I wonder what it would be like to live in one of these other houses, I thought.

But when I stepped inside, the rest of the noise had started outside. The trees now crackled with wind from the upper mountains, snow drifting to the backwoods like a snow globe, covering those inhabiting there. One shake from Maywatch’s eerie crowd of individuals, and it all tumbles. One by one. Like the keys on my grandmother’s piano. Like an avalanche from the heights of the peak.

Those who walked into the forest I had just been in ravaged it, spitting gum in the crooks and corners of the trees, stomping on leaves and running all over the daffodils and tulips planted there. They were once natural flowers, but also destroyed by tourists, and by the people who had moved there. It was once a peaceful place, I then thought. I sheltered myself, the inner confines of my house better-looking than the old and rotten outside.

A cup of coffee was nice to drink as I watched my world be torn apart. It was something that seemed special to me, and it was something I hated to see other people be in, as long as they were ruining it. Alas, however, it was always another day. It was always another chance to make something right.

My job had me like to think I was doing something for the better, but it was still a far cry from becoming the doctor my parents had wanted me to be. Being a teacher, however, required a different and more personal talent. I felt like I was connected to a better reality. But there was also something more personal cutting the innards of someone else, and replacing what was inside of them. However, I knew myself, and I knew dealing with teaching a new generation was more important than being a surgeon and implanting someone’s breasts or pumping up someone’s cheeks to restore a younger and lost look.

When I walked in, everyday, I knew the experience would be less plastic. I wasn’t deterred and I knew it was what I wanted to do in the end.

“Good morning, Mr. Clark,” someone said to me on the way to the art department later in the morning. I spun around after stopping in the main hallway on the A side of the building to see that it was the super attendant, Mr. Davidson, charming and all, with his olive jet black hair and dashing smile, pearly whites from the right crease of his mouth to his left. His suit was dark blue, matching his tie, with a white undershirt, sporting some shiny, patent leather tuxedo shoes. He stood with his right hand extended for a shake, the left one in his pocket. I gladly shook his hand and smiled back at him, with my slightly grizzled hair, drawn face, simple dress slacks with burgundy slip-ons, my blue undershirt tucked in with a simple black tie almost choking my neck. I had thought, until meeting my superior, that I always tried my best to dress professionally. However, I gave myself the benefit of the doubt and figured he didn’t mind, nearly every teacher underdressed half the time anyway, especially in the art and photography departments.

“Why, good morning Mr. Davidson, how was your summer?” I chirped back.

“Oh, it was just fine, just fine. I just wanted to welcome one of my favorite teachers back to the photo class this year. These freshmen seem a little, you know, off.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just be prepared. I know you’re good at holding your temper. Just, after that fiasco last year…”

“You don’t need to worry,” I said, “I can handle it.”

“I know. Just, making sure. You have a good day, Mr. Clark, welcome back.”

“Thank you, you as well sir.”

He flashed a warm smile one last time and turned to tell some other teacher the same spiel. He’d do that every year, and the freshmen were always “off”. It was something I prepared myself for, and it reminded me of the people destroying my favorite forest every single day. I always watched them early on to prepare me for the same slight horrors I’d see here, in an institution where every child is formed to test their behaviors in rebellion until they either tire themselves out completely and give up by their fourth year, or get themselves in such a situation where they’re expelled, or worse.

Either way, the art of photography was still meant to be taught, either to pass it off to the few odd sheep that paid attention and took it for what it was worth, or to just feel satisfaction from doing the job right. The odd sheep in teaching should have never been the kids wanting to learn, the ones who had thrived. The equation should have been reversed, I often thought. However, as much as we believed, there was no reversing it back.

My coffee had been in a large thermos by that time in the morning, and my first period was dedicated to freshman photography, or as we had the pleasure of calling it, “Photo 1”. Once the bell rang, that sip of coffee was the last of my day, before the next erupted.

I handed out the Canons, I gave them the main textbook and the pamphlets, arranged the seats, making some feel far and distant from their closest friends. As usual, there was one that sat alone, as the others migrated to begin their drawings and concepts. Most of the time, I never paid attention to that one, only the students that were rowdy. I figured the whole point of the “quiet kid” was to distract the teacher from those kinds of troublemakers. But the more I looked up at him from my computer, the more I saw the purity inside of him. He was a freshman, and I figured that phase of being rebellious would come eventually, but it was a nice moment, a moment of clarity, that those odd ones out were still out there, not as scarce as the faculty had thought.

One day, two weeks later, he approached me whilst everyone gallivanted about the school, taking photos that had little to no composition, and no photo centricity.

“Hey, Mr. Clark?” he asked, “Do you have a minute?” He stood in front of me with a warm presence, smiling at me as if I were his father. His hair was light brown, barely matching his dark hazel eyes, but going along perfectly with his shiny white teeth. His clothing, on the contrary to me and Mr. Davidson, was less professional, but still elegant in which he stood out often from other students, sporting a polo shirt most of the time, dress slacks or jeans, and shoes that matched the colour of his shirt.

“Sure I do,” I said, “What can I do for you…?” I struggled to remember his name, as I do most first students of the new year.

“It’s Mark,” he said, “And I just had a question about a photo I’ve been working on. I wanted your opinion.” He placed the photo he was holding in front of him onto my desk and slid it closer to me. I took it and slid my glasses down the crook of my nose to get a better look at it up close. Being near-sighted, I often used it to my advantage to view and refine almost every detail of photography.

This picture, however, did not need refining.

“This…” I stammered looking for the right words.

“Please,” he said, smiling embarrassingly, “Don’t patronize me.” I stammered once again, not even knowing that a freshman was capable of holding the knowledge of such a word.

“No,” I said, laughing nervously, “this is some of the best work I’ve ever seen from a freshman in this class.”

“Well, thank you.”

“I’m serious, a very good job indeed Mark. Can you perhaps make a copy of it for me? I’d love to post this.”

“Sure thing, no problem. Thank you again, I really hoped it would turn out good.”

“It did. Good on you.” Mark then walked over to the photocopier and stood there for a moment, learning how to control it for the first time. It was a breeze for him, and he came back to my desk quicker than any other freshman. I smiled, looking at him hurry back and drop off the photo, then returning back to his seat, sketching more concepts for future photos. I then looked down at the photo he just handed me, and it had been nothing short of remarkable.

It was a close up shot of a silk leaf, with three raindrops aligned in a perfect triangle on top of it, other trees with spots of light behind it. The filter he used in post-production made it seem vintage and older, as if from a distant memory and time. I thought, perhaps it was, and just looking at it made me feel as if I were somewhere else, as if in a capsule of time far, far away.

Further on in the day, I had posted the picture above my window beside my bed, right next to the picture I had taken of the blood red sunset in Maywatch Forest. It was a moment of instant cherish and a moment where I realized that the fine details of life could never be seen with the naked eye. Mark was hidden, but he came to me. I would have never saw it coming, that talent, from that man, unless it happened.

In the following weeks, I learned to favorite the student, shining him on, even having him teach some of the more advanced principles of photography to those willing to learn it. He’d often egg me on to follow him into parts of the school for photography trips. His eyes were almost magnetic to the lens of the camera as soon as a beautiful image was brought up, as if he were painting with his pupils, dodging them across a silky and white canvas, making it his own.

I could’ve made a documentary about nature with what he produced. I was ever so proud of him, as if he were my son. I finished up class test scores for the middle of October, some of the more wild students having the highest marks in the class. I smiled as I sifted through them, looking up to see the super attendant with his arms crossed, and his look menacing and evil, not the fresh and sharp man I remembered him to be.

“Oh, hello Mr. Davidson,” I greeted him kindly, wiping the smile from my face. “What can I do for you?”

“You gave it to him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He leaned forward and placed his hands wherever on my desk, either crushing the tests or imprinting fresh sweat marks.

“Why does Marcus Avanly have so much power in this classroom? He’s a freshman! I saw him go back and actually change grades for classmates!”

“Mr. Davidson--”

“This is unacceptable! Unless he is issued as a student-aide for you, you cannot authorize these permissions, who knows what he’ll do! He might have already completely rigged it for his favor, he has the highest mark in the class!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he is phenomenal.”

“I don’t care if he’s Bill Gates, unless he is a Senior or issued as a student-aide, he cannot have access to the gradebook, make the change now!”

Mr. Davidson then marched out of my room, but closed the door lightly. I thought a man like that could never raise his voice to a teacher, but I thought wrong. He was a man of high stature, but he was also a human tempted with money and plagued with anger who could do wrong just as anyone else could. However in the nine years that I knew him I had never seen him as angry as he was that evening.

I decided I paid too much attention towards Mark, and that I should have focused on the entire class as a whole. Most of them had been doing good in the class, as Mark went on to head a small group of his own, occasionally running around to teach more of the class as a whole. However, I had a job to do, it was my job. Perhaps his great work had made me lose focus of that ideal. I just wanted something special, something pure, a pet project of mine. It was a struggle, but I made the decision.

The next day, his work was commented on by me as “exceptional” instead of me asking for a copy of it. The whole class stayed in their seats and listened to lectures on powerpoints and watched YouTube tutorials instead. There were four people that failed the test that followed, twelve people that received a “D” grade, and then thirteen that passed with higher.

Mark was the only one to break an “A” grade.

After school, the classroom was empty, and I was alone. Mark knocked on the door at 3:40, almost an hour after school had ended, much to my surprise. I put my glasses back on and faced him, motioning for him to come in. He walked slowly forward, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I reviewed the summatively-graded photos.

“Hello, Mr. Clark,” he said.

“Hi there Mark. How are you?”

“Fine, how are you?”

“I’m good. Shouldn’t you be getting home?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He then grabbed a seat and dragged it in front of my desk, sitting down and leaning in front of me. I placed my pen down and looked up at him, taking off my glasses.

“Mark, I’m busy--”

“Why was I taken off the edit list for the grades?”

“Because you’re not an aide, Mark. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Your superiors said so, didn’t they?”

“It’s not any business of yours.”

“Mr. Clark, I thought that you and I had become something beyond the student and teacher thing. You know, like we’ve become pretty good friends.”

He looked at me with such innocence, and I sighed deeply. I had thought he was trying to pull something. If I’d given him the benefit of the doubt and commend him on his intelligence, maybe it would’ve been different.

“No,” I said, “I have a job to do, Mark.”

He nodded solemnly and looked down, disappointed.

“Okay,” he let out weakly.

“Mark, don’t be like that, it’s just--”

Before I knew it, he looked down and sobbed silently. I looked at him with saddened eyes, his emotion affecting me deeply, as if he were a hurt and damaged child. I had no control over it, it was just the way it had to be, I told myself.

“I’m here, because I have nowhere else to go,” he told me, regaining control of his emotion, sniffling. I grabbed a tissue box from behind me and placed it in front of him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m not getting home, because that place is no home to me.”

“Why?”

He grabbed a tissue violently and blew his nose, disposing of it shortly thereafter.

“My mother is a drunk, my father hates what I want to do, and my siblings are gone.”

“Gone where?”

“They’re gone, college, jobs. I’m still here, and I have to deal with their wrath.”

“Do they do anything to you? Y--You don’t have to talk about it either, Mark--”

“My mother and father fight, a lot. Last week she almost punched me.”

“Have you ever called the police?”

“No. I’m afraid.”

“You should. You might be afraid, but it’s better than the alternative. Once you do, it’ll make you feel much better, more complete. Hey, look at me.”

I placed my hand under his chin and tilted his head to look at me.

“There’s no point in waiting. It’s gonna get worse. I know, Mark. I know.”

He nodded his head lightly.

“Alright,” he said quietly, “I will. Thank you.”

I sighed and internalized a move that I knew I would never regret.

“Now here,” I said, “That’s my cell line. You call me on there when you can’t visit me.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Clark, I--”

“Nevermind that. You’re a good kid, and I don’t want to see you fail. I can’t see you fail. I’ve been here many years, and a lot of the kids here, they never do good, especially in this class. The ones that do, they’ve never applied more than what they needed to. They did the bare minimum. You care. Don’t fail me now, son.”

“Okay, I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. Now, get outta here before someone walks in.”

“Okay.”

He stood up and walked to the door, opening it and standing in the doorway, looking back at me.

“Mr. Clark?” he said, as I looked back up to him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you, again.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After he closed the door, I exhaled sharply and placed my hands on my eyes, rubbing them aggressively. Over that weekend, I paid another visit to the Maywatch Forest. It was something I needed, especially in a time such as that. My thermos was now water instead of coffee, and the lights all around the edge of the forest indicated the first light of day. Sipping water was nice as I walked back into my world, no longer crumbling around me, and no one to crumble it for me.

No wind carried over from the mountains, once again. I faced the eerie silence, taking a walk into the forest. The air had been still and cold, stinging my toes, which were not covered warmly by my worn boots. However, the peacefulness was too much to take in to focus on the weather. It was still my place and it was still somewhere I went to escape.

I figured Mark needed an escape too, somewhere he could go. I wondered if he took that same picture in the place he escaped. He makes it so special, the art of photography. I remember commending him as parallel to a great artist, someone who sculpted or made paintings. Except he did it in an instant, with the click, the close and open of a camera shutter.

It was the same reason I took up photography, to capture that essence. I saw a bird perched in front of me, on the railing of an upcoming bridge. It was a pileated woodpecker, one I had not seen on the trail often. However, it pecked on the wood, stopping for just a moment, perhaps to take a breather, just as I was, walking among the forest.

I knelt down near the beginning of the bridge and zoomed, focused, disabled flash, and snapped a photo. I looked at it, and it didn’t turn out nearly as how I wanted it to. So, I tried playing with the focus some more, enabling the HDR options and changing the speed of the camera shutter and took another photo. Then another one, and another, and one more photo.

Then, I got it perfect. The woodpecker, a photo I’d cherish next to Mark’s leaf, and the early morning sunset in my small and hobbled home of estranged visits and oldened, yet fond memories. I felt as if the woodpecker needed a name, something bold and strong, something Mark would name it, had he taken the photo. I ultimately decided on Tilikum, to signify power and strength, a willing desire of some sort. One that couldn’t exactly be defined, but one that was significant and unique, just as the large orca of the same name was.

I knew Mark had to see it, and I knew he’d spark his same beginning interest for my class again. The day I brought it in my folder, he was gone, and I was to teach the whole of the class, without his charisma, and without the examples of his work. This time, Mr. Davidson was in the back, his arms crossed and looking towards the front in a menacing manner, as if he knew some of my secrets. Or perhaps the only one me and Mark shared.

The relationship we had seemed to be closer than any other student and teacher. Coming from Ohio, the land was much more subtly put than the great Maywatch Forest I loved. At least the forest had substance and life, the people there were savages, but still people nonetheless. I loved every one of them, even if they represented what me and everyone else hated.

Composition in Picasso terms was the theme of the day. They all went on their computers in the adjacent room to scribble on art programs and ruin their pretty photos. They were good to start, but wouldn’t turn out like Mark’s. I wondered where he was, regularly checking my phone to see if he had taken up my offer. Alas, no avail.

I remembered Picasso for a moment, how my teachers had taught me.

“His hand had been swift as a gust of wind, dragging across an empty canvas of white, but in his eyes, it was a sea of opportunity,” my teacher once told the entirety of the class, standing tall and proud on a stepstool in front of a chalkboard. He taught well, but much thought of it to be boring. I was amazed. I knew Mark would be, had I taught him the same speech that day.

I didn’t see him before the break for Halloween. I didn’t know where he was. I’d turn on my phone and just see the time and date, never his call. My heart raced this time as I sipped my coffee in my humble and quiet abode. I leaned over the windowsill to look out at the giant mountains overhead. It was a sight like Tilikum. For some reason, I’d never seen such strength, other than in Mark’s talent, his ability to paint as he did. A white canvas of opportunity.

I passed his photo as I walked to the other side of my bedroom. I remember the details of the leaf, how it had been taken just after a summer rainstorm. I saw Tilikum, and how it wasn’t raining at all. The bird looked totally innocent, and so divine there. I knew when I’d see Mark again, I’d think of the same thing.

So, when going back there, I prepared myself utterly, just in case he would show up. I had hoped I wasn’t making myself too forward when asking for his photo or giving him my personal line. That would explain the lack of grades, as well as no calls received from him. That day, however, as I stepped in, all the students were there, including Mark, who’s hair was much longer, facial hair spotted around his mouth and on his cheekbones, with a dark hoodie and pants on, sulking in the back of the class.

I put my things down on the desk, and instructed the class to have a photo day, to walk around, and see what they could find. It was the normal routine after breaks, or when a new unit had begun. As the rest of the students fled to fool around in the halls and smart-talk the teachers and staff, Mark sulked in his seat, his breathing raspy, and his eyes tired with dark circles around them.

I walked to him and held his chin up to me, seeing his eyes. They were completely bloodshot. His eyes were like blood moons, and it made me utterly disappointed in his lack of character.

“What did you do?” I asked him.

He shook his head, looking down as a tear drifted from the corner of his right eye.

“I--I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Mark. I am so disappointed.” I let him go, turning around, and walked away. I decided it was time to avoid Mark for a little while. I would have never expected him to be the one to turn to drugs, but it was certain that he was headed down a very dangerous path. One that was not divine, but one that was wrong, unlike Tilikum.

Two days later, I was to attend a faculty meeting. Apparently, Mark’s sorrows and grievances were shared with mine, as I was sulking the day I walked into the room. Mr. Davidson was there, along with other, under-dressed, teachers.

“Shall we get started? Now that everyone’s had their coffee?” Mr. Davidson introduced, much to the faculty’s appeal.

“I think it should be illegal to have students leave their trays in the classrooms, it’s unsanitary,” a social studies teacher, Ms. Marrow, complained.

“Hear, hear,” Mr. Morrison, science, said from the other side of the room.

“Well, Ms. Marrow, who allowed the students use of the lunchroom trays elsewhere?” Mr. Davidson inquired. She looked down and pursed her lips. Mr. Davidson scoffed at her.

“Is this seriously what you people brought here? This is a district building for education, not some sort of sandwich shop, where you can bitch and moan to your friends at work--”

“I have a suggestion,” I said, raising my right middle and index fingers together high in the air. Mr. Davidson looked up at me, nodding as he put his hands in his pockets.

“I think we should have assistants for the art department. Student assistants, to avoid the incident with Mr. Yukley last year, in which, I take responsibility for. It’s just--there’s a student in my classroom, his name is Marcus Avanly--”

“Right, Mark, I have him too,” a teacher from the social studies department blurted out.

“Very good. Well, he’s a bit troubled, and we need some more reinforcement. I think it’s right to make him one of those assistants.”

“Mr. Clark--”

“No!” I exclaimed at him, shocking the entirety of the room. “I will not sit here and watch us belittle that man again! He’s a kid, a good kid! He’s slipped out of my hands, it’s time to let him take some control, and rise to the occasion. I don’t want to see him become a failure, Mr. Davidson!”

“That’s not the way it works, Mr. Clark. While I understand how you feel, I am sorry, but he is still a freshman, there’s just nothing we can do--”

“Bullshit! Mr. Meyer, you have him too, you said, right?” He nodded his head. “He’s a good kid, isn’t he? In my class, he had the highest mark out of anyone in the last five years, that has to say something, freshman or no!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” Mr. Davidson mumbled, shaking his head and pursing his lips in disappointment, “I can’t do it, despite the opinions of him made in the classroom.”

I sighed deeply and sat down from my seat. I hadn’t realized I was even standing as I was yelling to the faculty. Then, I felt there was no hope for Mark anymore. He was going to be gone, lost.

At the end of the day, rain had fallen, and thunder shook the school to its core as I sat at my desk, the light on beside me, with the rest of the room dark and weary. I heard the rain pour from the gutters above, shielding the window from any further particle. It was enough to also muffle the sound of Mark, knocking lightly at my door. I turned over and shot a look at him.

“Mark,” I said weakly, “Please, come in.” I motioned for him to come closer, as he walked in and shut the door behind him.

“Hi, Mr. Clark. How are you?” he said in a very low voice, his eyes hung with bags under them.

“How are you is more the point.”

“Me? I’m fine.” He proceeded to sit down and cross his legs, fixing his hands in front of me. “I assume, however, that you’re still upset with me.”

“Mark--”

“I’m not gonna cover up anything. I’m addicted to drugs and alcohol.”

“Did you call the police like I instructed?” He shook his head lightly, then completely, looking down.

“My mother and father are separated. They can’t provide alone, and I need something for money.”

“What did you do?” I asked, my voice shaking heavily.

“I--I--” I stood up from my desk and grabbed his shirt, pulling his face closer.

“What did you do?” I exclaimed loudly, letting my voice echo in the room. I then let him back down, sighing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, gulping, “I’m sorry. I--I sell them too. Drugs. Worse, sometimes.”

“Jesus Christ, Mark.” I took off my glasses and laid them in front of my, rubbing my eyes roughly.

“I’m in some trouble. Deep.”

“Mark, listen to me--you stop. Now. Today. No more of that. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, you gotta stand up for yourself man, I can help, but you gotta do it yourself. You’re a man now, and I mean that. You gotta do something.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be a great photographer someday, I just know it. You’re like Picasso with that camera, painting in your mind. I see it.” He nodded his head solemnly.

“In case of the inevitable,” he said, “You’ve always been a fine teacher. I thank you.” Mark stood up from his chair and nodded at me, smiling warmly. He then walked away, as I was left in a haze of confusion and guilt.

“Mark. Mark!” I called after him, as he ignored my cries, “Mark, what does that mean? Mark!” I knew it was futile, so I leaned back in my chair, feeling totally useless. I couldn’t do anything for him. Call the police? I thought. Call his parents? Let the faculty know?

My hands felt tied, and my mouth duct-taped. What was I to do? Mark meant something by that. I laid in my house, completely terrified and vulnerable. I saw Tilikum, and thought of him. I knew he was stronger than that. Whatever happened would fade away, I knew it. Mark was too good to let all of it go.

Two days later, my alarm blared me awake. It was six in the morning. Winter had already arrived before fall was settled in, an the snow came from the mountains, blazing each tree, and covering each mudpatch, as my world before me was now touched by a different kind of nature. Now they’d be building snowmen and laying out Christmas lights, instead of spitting gum and stomping out plants.

Mr. Davidson had called me seven times before I woke up. He was up all night with the faculty. I hadn’t even read the paper yet, and I knew what happened. The great inevitable. So, I called Mr. Davidson, and heard the tone of his voice. It was from that, I knew it’d been true.

“I--I don’t even know what to say,” he told me, his voice breaking.

“Say nothing,” I instructed, “Just--say nothing.”

“He was--he was a good kid--a great one. The faculty won’t forget him. And, Henry? I’m sorry.”

Mr. Davidson hung up the phone. I put it down on my bed, taking a few more days off to grieve a lost friend, one I’d consider a colleague of mine, someone who was not only great in talent, but human care. I looked outside my window, watching the snow cover up the mess, watching it shield my window from light. I looked to see the picture of Mark’s leaf become darker and darker, then Tilikum the woodpecker after that. I shed a tear or two, sitting down and looking at those photos, both of which reminded me of him. Rest his soul, I thought, please rest it dearly.

Everyone was there to present him. They all touched his hands one last time. His mother and father, the faculty. Mr. Davidson and I approached him, as the sounds of sobbing echoed the halls, and filled the room with sorrow and grief. I could barely hold his gaze, after he had been departed.

“Hey there, friend,” I whispered to him, “You know, we used to talk of you going out to do it alone, graduating early. You were gonna be something, Marcus. I just--I--” Multiple drops of liquid couldn’t hold themselves inside of my eyes. I grabbed a tissue from my suit pocket and swiftly dragged it across my eyes.

“I--I don’t want you to go,” I sobbed lightly to him. I looked at him one last time, holding his gaze, before kissing my right index and middle fingers, and placing them on his cheek, holding his hand, and shaking it. I then proceeded to walk away to see the rest of the resting ceremony.

I returned home. My bag was already halfway packed. There was two things I forgot. That was Tilikum and Mark’s silk leaf. I took them both and placed them inside my new photo folder, where countless pictures will be held. But those two, in a secret and special place later on. I didn’t want to forget them.

It was my last day, and Mr. Davidson inquired about my path near the end of it. He knocked lightly on my door before walking in. It was sad to see that similarity to Marcus.

“Come in,” I told him, smiling warmly.

“You doing okay, bud?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good.” He forced a smile at me. “I just think it’s sad to see you go too, wherever it is.”

“I think it’s for the best, Mr. Davidson. Been here a while.”

“Mark too, well…” Mr. Davidson rubbed his head and cleared his throat, biting his bottom lip and looking up at me, worried.

“I’m gonna get past it. It’s just something truly unforgettable.”

“It was a tragedy, Mr. Clark. I know. I just don’t know if leaving is the best--”

“It’s my decision. I have enough money to retire now, basically. I don’t need another experience to know I’ve seen life for it’s worth.”

“Okay, Mr. Clark, I understand. It was great knowing you. Maybe we’ll see each other again in a Sendik's or something someday.” We chuckled over that. It was the first time I’d laughed in a long time.

“Maybe, someday.”

“Well, I bid you farewell.” He nodded and looked down. His hands were in his pockets as usual. “Where are you planning on going?”

“I think I want to go back to Ohio,” I said, “I want to go back home.”

T I L I K U M