A little character thing I wrote a while ago. Maybe not the most scintillating thing I've ever written...but hey, it's got it's brevity going for it.

The Monster of Eastyn College


Though the mailroom at Eastyn College was a far cry from the cold ethereal towers of Notre Dame, it nevertheless harbored its own self-proclaimed deformity of nature: Milton the Box Cutter. For three years, the sad young man worked alone in the shadows, in an alcove outside the office by the truck deck, a room that only experienced sunlight at 9 AM each day during the morning delivery.

Every morning, hundreds of boxes filled with packages addressed to eager students needed to be unloaded, emptied, and crushed. Milton did his job diligently, thankful that the old ladies who did the sorting in the adjacent office didn’t bother him about his life or his abnormality. It didn’t pay much, but that was fine with Milton. After all, it was still respectable for a 21 year old man to live at home. He would worry about the future in the future.

He had been rather smart in high school, and with his B+ grade average, he could’ve gotten into a good college, perhaps even the one that he worked at now. But he would not bear the torment and the taunting any longer. People seemed to think that the outer deformation of his body reflected some inner distortion of his mind. To top it off, he wasn’t even particularly attractive, and he was rather short. No matter how intelligently he tried to present himself, people always seemed to identify him as mentally challenged. Being around others would just remind him of this, provoking ideas that would make him feel somehow less than human. Better to lurk in the darkness alone, where imperfections can be forgotten.

Occasionally, a student would pass by on his way to the mailroom. He would see Milton, and begin to smile in greeting. Perhaps he would even utter, “Good Morning.” And then it would happen. The student’s eye would slip ever so casually to the end of Milton’s right arm, where a minuscule, curled up hand protruded from a tapered wrist. Sometimes the intruder would momentarily recoil and then glance back up at Milton’s face, trying to pretend as though he hadn’t seen it. Milton referred to this as the “just smile and walk away” response. Others would just stare at the abnormality as though it were a particularly bizarre exhibit at a specialty museum. This was the “side-show” response. And sometimes—the worse times—an intruder showed no outward signs of being startled, but Milton could see the change in his eyes, as though the object of sight had transformed from human to beast. Milton didn’t have a name for this response, primarily because it hurt him too much to think about it.

Virtually everyone besides family who had ever interacted with Milton responded in one these three ways. Except for one: a tall, average looking girl with pale skin and midnight black hair who frequented the mailroom office about once or twice a month, possibly to make a complaint; possibly to make a request. Milton didn’t know; he couldn’t hear what went on behind the office door once it was closed.

He didn’t always know her name, but she knew his from the beginning. The very first time he saw her, she was exiting the office with a package that some mailroom employee had evidently failed to put in her student mailbox upstairs. She looked tired, as though she had been up all night working on some grand project, and her hair was haphazardly working its way out of a pony tail that had once been tight. Despite the fact that she was wearing sweat pants and an Eastyn College t-shirt, Milton thought she looked like a queen.

When the queen saw Milton for the first time, she caught his eyes and said “Hi, Milton!,” noting the name tag stitched across his uniform shirt, before hurrying out of the mail room to make it on time for her afternoon class. He had been cutting a box with his box cutter, his abhorrent little hand out in the open for anyone to see. And she had just spoken to him as though he were a completely normal human being. The way his own mother spoke to him. With no judgment in her eyes. Had there been some sort of mistake? Had she somehow not seen the deformity?

No, time would testify that it hadn’t been a mistake. In the numerous times she passed by the alcove on the way to the office, she would have had to see the hand. He had even scratched his face with it while she was speaking to him, just to see how she would respond. And yet every time she saw him, she would say “Hi Milton! How are you?” or “Hey there Milton! It’s cold today isn’t it?” or “See you later Milton. Have a nice weekend,” without so much at flinching at him. Despite the fact that he saw her relatively infrequently, he did not interact with many people his age, and he was developing some feelings of affection for her.

On her seventh visit Milton mustered up the courage to introduce himself formally. He said, “I’m sorry. I see you down here a lot, but I don’t know your name.”

And without missing a beat, she offered her left hand, which he shook with his left hand, and said, “I’m Kara. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sometimes Milton imagined what it might be like to take Kara out. He wondered what it would be like to hold her on the dance floor, her demure shoulders safe between two strong, normal hands. He pictured being able to walk along the broadwalk, holding her hand in his right hand, and carrying her bags with his left. But this would not happen. His right hand was far too weak to hold anything. He could only support things against his chest with his forearm. Like boxes that needed to be cut.

But maybe Kara would be able to overlook his deformity. After all, she had spoken him several times without gratuitously staring at it. He would do it. He would do something he’d never done before: He would ask Kara if she wanted to go out sometime.

It was a Friday in February when he decided to do this. Kara hadn’t been to the mailroom in about a month, but as she exited the office, Milton could tell that she had had a particularly stressful argument with the old ladies. Still, she as she began to walk by, she smiled and said, “Have a good weekend Milton!”

It was now or never, “Wait!” Milton cried.

Somewhat startled, Kara stopped walking and turned around. “Yes?”

Milton’s heart pounded in anticipation of the situation. It had never before been offered to fellow human being, “I was wondering…Kara – and when he said her name out loud his heart skipped a beat – “if you might be interested in hanging out sometime? Maybe this weekend? We could go to dinner.”

And then the thing that Milton hated the most happened. Reponse three. A shift in Kara’s eyes. Suddenly Milton was no longer a young man courting a crush, but a lustful, deformed beast pining after its prey. Ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, Kara back away.

“I’m sorry Milton – I can’t this weekend. Loads of homework you know. Big exam next Tuesday to study for. Perhaps some other time?” Her eyes darted quickly from Milton’s right hand to his face, stealing a glance as though she were stealing makeup in a drug store in plain view of the cashier.

Milton looked away, picked up another box and uttered, “Yes, some other time.”

“See you, then!” Kara said awkwardly as she hastened through the door.

She never returned to the alcove. Perhaps she never had trouble with her mail again. Or maybe she had found the alternative entrance to the mailroom. Milton cried a little at first, embarrassed that he even imagined that someone he barely knew would want to go out with him; wondering if she would have said yes if it hadn’t been for his deformity. One thing was for certain – he would not be offering his heart to anyone anytime soon. Who was he suppose that someone would love him back?

Milton sighed as he cut another box. His soul had taken another hit, but he could not murder the hope that nagged at him constantly: The idea that maybe somehow, someday, he would no longer be a monster lurking in the shadows.

A thought provoking read Lauren.
Kathleen

I feel so bad for poor Milton. Imagine being treated like that over a little thing like a deformed hand. People are so cruel. This was very well written by the way and very absorbing to read.


Babs

Lauren -- another good piece!

As a character study, I think this is extremely successful. Your description of Milton and his predicament is very vivid and unusually engaging.

As a short story, however, I'd say the storyline doesn't really go anywhere.
But of course, you never called it a short story in the first place, so who am I to make a fuss?

Any road, I am seriously impressed by your writing style. Keep at it, by all means.

Jane

This is very well written and reader-friendly, with excellent flow, quickly involving us in sympathy with Milton and setting the scene. The ending comes full circle back to the beginning and causes us to hope that one day somebody will break into that self-destructive circle
around the sad young man. Almost everyone has some flaw to be over-sensitive about, so it's easy to relate to this subject-matter. Good one.

Lauren...simply put, I loved it!

This is so true to life...not all stories have a happy ending and this one sure makes one think about how we consider those who are different.

“ Lionheart
~

Lauren, I was truly hoping Kara would have said yes to Milton's date request, but I guess that would have read more like a fairy tale. In reality, I can't see why anyone would NOT want to date Milton...he was intelligent, kind, and did not have some horrifically disfigured face that would have been difficult for one to look at...it was merely his hand. Yet, I suppose that would put some people off...it's too bad people don't take a chance at finding a real jewel, albeit a tiny bit scratched. Another "fragile flower"* amidst us.

Well done, Lauren

*Fragile Flowers by flutterbug

Fragile flowers in the field,
Heads bowed down, hearts saddened...
Bruised petals, shattered stalks.

Bless the caretaker who so tenderly
Caresses the leaves, supports the bent stems...
Nourishing them with a gentle sprinkling of tears...

Softly tamping the soil beneath them,
That they might flourish and raise
Their heads to be kissed by the sun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~flutter~~

this was well worth the read Lauren,
Kathleen

Lauren ~ My apologies for this delayed response. I've been on a sabbatical of sorts. Well, actually I've just been lazy and no-count but the first way sounds better.

Excellent story, Lauren. It was very good read indeed. Too bad things didn't work out for Milton. Life is life.

It is great to have another fine talent such as you in the fiction department of WD. I look forward to reading more or your fine stories.

Ken