The Patient Sikh: Part Eight--Slavery

This an excerpt from a novel in progress and a work of fiction.

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So here we are. Me and Sonny sitting in a tree. Actually, we are sitting in a cafe, and we are not kissing. Not yet at least. We are at Java Hutt. We are in the cool zany basement, they have weird art and cool music down here. And the lighting is better, I look better in dimmer light.

So here we are sitting under recessed lighting, I’m assuming I look fabulous. I am asking him what he wants to write his term paper about. It’s an argumentative essay and he can pick any controversial subject. But he wants me to pick.

He doesn’t want to think, he wants me to think for him. I think he’s a jerk, but I love being around him. He makes me feel alive. He makes me feel seen. He sees me, I’m not sure anyone else really does.

“Um, how about the death penatly?” I ask him as he’s sipping his cappuccino. I’m not a big fan of cappuccinos, I always need to put tons of sugar in them.

“OK, he says not really looking at me.” Did I say he sees me? Maybe I was wrong.

“Are you for it or against it?” I ask and take my blue pen and yellow notebook out.

“I don’t know what do you think?” I want to scream, that’s what I think you bastard.

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Kaitlyn Baker

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“It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s your paper. Are you for or against it?” I ask trying not to sound as annoyed as I am.

“Well, what should I think? I don’t think about the death penalty.” He says and stirs his coffee.

“Well, what topic do you have an opinion about?” I want to pull out my hair but I’m too vain.

“Uh, I don’t know...I don’t really care. What do you think I should write about?”

“Something that you care about, something you have an opinion about.”

“I don’t like English, that’s my opinion,” he says flatly. I don’t think I like you anymore.

“Alright, look I can’t help you if you don’t put in some effort. I need you to think,” I try to say nicely. I smile to reinforce the niceness.

“I thought maybe you would have some ideas,” he says and looks at me intently. I like that he’s looking but I don’t like what he’s saying.

“Alright, you are writing against the death penalty,” I say forcefully. I’m sick of this shit.

The rest of the time goes something like this and I end up writing most of his paper. All of a sudden I’m sorry I didn’t accept his money for it. I want to scream as we or I should say I, am writing his conclusion. Restate the thesis asshole. It’s like the easiest part.

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Kelly Sikkema

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I realize I hate him and kind of love him both at the same time. I realize I love and hate myself both at the same time. I try to fight his carelessness about doing this work, but in the end, I give in. I can’t fight you, Sonny.

Fine, you win. There, I wrote your paper. Asshole.

Three long hours later, we decide to grab a bite to eat at a tiny Middle Eastern place around the corner. We are sitting across from each other eating kabobs, and he finally says, “Thank you for doing this.”

“You’re welcome,” I say very emphatically. At least the bastard thanked me.

Then it occurs to me. I’m happy because he’s giving me crumbs of appreciation. Screw that. I don’t need this. I don’t need him. He’s out. I’m out.

“I have to go,” I say suddenly and look for my wallet in my maroon backpack.

“Where do you have to go?” he asks and smiles his cute smile at me.

“I forgot I have a study group to get too, it’s like two hours long and very important,” I lie and try not to look at him. I pull out some cash and set it on the table.

“Wait...I thought maybe we could…” he says still smiling. Maybe we could what, Sonny? Maybe you could make out with me and kiss me and then go back home to your girlfriend who has no idea about me. Maybe we could eventually have sex so I could lose my virginity to a monster?

“I’m sorry I have to go!” I say and walk out.

Tears are streaming down my eyes. Please god don’t let him follow me. He wasn‘t finished eating, either was I for that matter. But lucky or unlucky for me he doesn’t follow me. He knows I’m lying and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about me, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. I just plagiarized his paper. He has turned me into a bad person like himself.

I realize all of a sudden that I deserve better than this. I’m not a bad catch. I mean I have a lot of flaws but being a jerk isn’t one of them. I’m a nice person. I have a lot to give. I deserve that back.

I don’t know how or why I suddenly realize this but I finally know the truth. I deserve love.

nina

If you would like to read the beginning of this novel in progress, The Patient Sikh, visit the following links in chronological order:

The Patient Sikh: Part One

The Patient Sikh: Part Two–The Wonder Years

The Patient Sikh: Part Three–Sonny

The Patient Sikh: Part Four–Song Lyrics

The Patient Sikh: Part Five–Your Song

The Patient Sikh: Part Six–Coffee Talk

The Patient Sikh: Part Seven–Chocolate Covered Love

The Patient Sikh: Part Eight–Kiss And Tell

The Patient Sikh: Part Nine–Street Chess