The Blank Page

Wilson stared sullenly at the blank word document. He promised himself that this would be the year he would write his story. The first steps in writing were always the most difficult. His mind wandered over the canvas, as if exploring the hidden textures of the digital sheet. The blank canvas was beautiful. It represented an entire universe yet to be seen. It held the untold story of people not listened too. His eyes stopped one inch from the edge of the left side of the page. This blank canvas, where the marginalized merged in with everything else, represented himself. It was his story.

Two years ago, Wilson had to pay a visit to Professor Andrew for his Shakespeare class. Wilson was curious what the professor thought about an aristotelian tragedy interpretation of King Richard III. As chairmen of the English department, Professor Andrew enjoyed these sessions with English majors. After settling Wilson’s question, which trailed into general definitions of tragedy, the man asked, “Wilson! Tell me your story.” The young student was caught off guard. Nobody had ever asked him this particular question before. Maybe a ‘where are you from’ or ‘where did you go to school.’ But never what his story was.

“Um… it’s not that interesting…”

“NONSENSE!” the professor interrupted, “I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me what your story is.” A well of emotion swirled behind Wilson’s eyes, threatening to spill out. What was he supposed to say? A series of events flashed in his mind’s eye, tragic memories filled with pain and remorse. He tried to focus, searching for the most normal memory he could share that would satisfy the professor. He looked into the professor’s eyes, warm and understanding. Wilson slowly inhaled, then let it out. He told his professor the beginning.

Wilson looked into his girlfriend’s hazel eyes. The contrast between her pupils and iris were stark, like a solar eclipse. They’ve been dating for a few months, and the time was ripe to share some familial history. Wilson slowly inhaled and exhaled, a habitual practice before sharing something personal. And he shared his tragedy. The soft glow of her apartment made the night even more magical. Her string lights around the door reflected off the smooth surface of the desk lamp. The lights weaved up and down, over the chalkboard, under the television screen, over the bedroom door, and down the house plant. Wilson’s voice quacked, following the lights. Megan saw his distress in revisiting the past. Thank you for sharing. Wilson couldn’t look back at the eclipse, lest his eyes go blind with tears.

Wilson couldn’t stop looking at Megan. All of his senses focused on the precious creature in front of him. He could barely hear the man next to them mumble something about reasons to stay together. His eyes followed down from her eyes, to her collar, and then to the following white ribbons. Her white dress was filled with so much texture He carefully studied the studded beads forming a rippling pattern from the torso, down to the dress. He explored the texture of the dress so intently, he nearly missed the man’s instruction to repeat after him.

The blank page has a story written on it. It appears to be white, but at closer inspection, bumps start to appear. No, the bumps were always there, camouflaged like polar bears in snow. The subtle texture led WIlson’s eyes down a long trail. His eyes left a trail of black. Tears as dark as shame formed in his eyes. He stopped. Wilson inhaled and exhaled slowly.