Misfits Sarah M 24

Misfits

Sarah M. ’24

Here I sat, among my brothers, in a rotting field surrounded by a vibrant burgundy and gold colored countryside, bright and alive from the falling sun. I had always known this day would come in the back of my mind; the day the farmers came along and decided it was time to put the misfits in their place. It was the day before Halloween, the day before we hapless ones became nothing but nutrients for the next generation.

But of course, I had been secretly wishing for this hour to draw near. I yearned to be able to rest peacefully like those before me, spending eternity covered by an impenetrable blanket of soil. It was for the best, I had convinced myself, that no one would have to stare at my ugly, misshapen form any longer.

Watching my brothers get picked up by happy, smiling children with their cheeks and noses dusted with red from the brisk fall weather had been grueling enough, with it knowing I would never be able to make a child happy like that. To make a child barely bigger than myself scream giddily and point at their new friend. I knew it would never be me who brought pleasure and entertainment, who was loved and accepted. However, the ironies of life can often amaze us.

Pulling me from my thoughts, a young boy, about ten or eleven by the looks of him, his hair flattened from a periwinkle wool hat, waltzed across the frosted field. He wore a wine-colored birthmark the size of a mitten across his right cheek, and he was surrounded by what appeared to be his parents. This boy nervously played with the hem of his jacket, scouring the field in search of the perfect pumpkin. The most shocking thing, of course, was that he stopped his search when his round eyes landed on me.

Wandering to my helpless form, he gingerly picked me up and cradled me in his arms, examining all my deformities. The boy explained to his parents that he had found their pumpkin, and through well-hidden expressions of shock, they left the field and placed me into the back of their silver SUV, the boy taking great caution as to where I was to go.

After what seemed like an eternity, the car jutted to a stop and I lost my balance, slamming into the back of the trunk. Grimacing, I felt a small, dime size dent form in my shell, and my worry returned to me. Surely the boy would not want me now that I was bruised. Surely, he had come to his senses. Maybe this was a cruel twist of fate. Perhaps the boy had realized what a lonely pumpkin I had been and wanted to draw out my misery. With these thoughts racing through my head, I dreaded the moment the trunk door creaked open.

However, as the boy lifted the door to the trunk, he picked me up once more, cautiously examining my orange figure for marks. When he found the dent, he looked around nervously, worried that his parents might finally yell at him for choosing such a blemished pumpkin.

Out of nowhere, three boys around the same age as the boy who had chosen me appeared across the street, their eyes daunting and promising trouble. The boy’s face went sheet white as he quickly turned, me still in his arms, and began race to the front porch of the small single-family home. Stopping in his tracks, the boy anxiously searched the premises of his house for his parents, but they had already made their way inside.

“Hey loser,” one of the boys across the street called, a smirk on his face. I figured this had to be the leader of the group of hooligans. “Did you just get back from the freak show? They must be doing well now that they have you as their main attraction.”

“Shut up,” my boy spoke timidly, his voice wavering slightly.

“What did you just say?” the leader asked, his two goonies following close behind him. Their faces grimaced as the boy made to face them, revealing his birthmark.

“I said,” he answered, enunciating each word quite clearly, “to shut up.”

Anger flared in the leader’s eyes and he rushed towards the boy, fists barred. Noticing me in the boy’s grasp, he snickered. “Seems to me you’ve found something as freakish as you are.”

The boy defensively threw me to the ground, sprinting into the house and slamming shut the front door. As I hit the cold, hard ground, I felt my left side cave in, promising the slow and painful demise to the squirrels that was sure to come. Watching from my position in the grass, I witnessed the three boys stalk away, lifting their hoods as they entered the shadowy woods in front of the boy’s house. Once again, I found myself helpless.

After the evening sky had materialized into nothing short of an empty void, the boy came out of the cottage-like house, glancing around for a sign of the three boys. He slowly trekked over to where I lay, and I noticed his tear-streaked face. There was something behind his eyes, something that had not been there at the patch earlier that evening. It was regret.

“Stupid pumpkin,” he muttered, drawing from behind him a glittering object. This object, a longhandled kitchen knife, glinted in the fading light as he lifted the blade, tears beginning once more to stream down his face.

Pain surged through my body as the point entered my tough flesh. Never would I have imagined such misery as this as the boy sliced a thin circle into my head, exposing my insides and leaving me silently crying out for mercy. Although, there was a deep dark part of me that accepted that he would never hear me.

The boy viciously gutted me like an animal of prey, throwing my insides with such a force that I gaped in horror. Was this truly what happened to pumpkins after they left the comfort of their patch? Was the cruel reality something that even the most beautiful pumpkins faced?

Suddenly, the boy stopped, his face red from rage. I sighed a sigh of relief, convinced that he was finished, and his anger subsided. However, I could not have been more wrong.

He desperately held my body between his hands, deepening the knife once more into my flesh. Except this time, the knife was hollowing my face.

The pain I had felt worsened somehow, and it drew on as the boy destroyed my face, leaving no trace of who I once was. The knife burned in my flesh as it left and reentered what felt like millions of times until finally, the boy sat back on his heels.

His face was caked his dirt and sweat, his clothes displaying signals of what he had just done. The boy’s hair was matted to his forehead, eyes dark with a sickening realization; but there was also a hint of satisfaction in his posture. Swiftly grabbing the knife, the boy picked me up, and placed me on the first step of his home.

I gazed out to the street, my skin still hot and tingling, but the pain slowly subsiding. I thought over the hideousness that my face must have exhibited once more and dreaded the moment the morning light shone through the trees and displayed my malformities, old and new alike, for all to see.

Contrary to this however, the next morning quite the opposite happened as woman with silver colored hair and a thick winter coat passed the house. The dear old woman, unexpectedly, came closer to admire my face and its new structure. She gasped in surprise, later hurrying down the street and returning with several of her girlfriends.

As the day wore on, more and more people stopped whatever they were doing to come look at me and stare. Probably disgusted by my face, I thought at first, wanting to cower someplace free from all these prying eyes. Although, the more people came to see me, the more this idea shifted to something much more surprising.

Do you see that? The people would whisper, talking to each other in muttered tones. How could someone create something so beautiful from just a vegetable? One young lady with a hot pink streak died in her hair remarked, later stalking away to run after her mother.

Even with all this excitement, I did not see the boy exit his house until late evening, dressed in what appeared to be a costume made of tin. He carried a helmet of some sorts in his hands, the same material as his costume.

I wondered skeptically what he must be dressed as, but before I knew it, he was blocked by a young girl his age, her hair in pigtails tied off with blue ribbons. She towered over the boy, her blue jumper and white blouse that made up her costume too short for her body. The girl’s sparkly red slippers gleamed as she nervously shifted from side to side, her heals clicking on the sidewalk as she did so.

“Hey Jeremiah,” the girl spoke casually, now playing with one of her honey-colored pigtails. “Your pumpkin is so pretty. Where did you learn to do that?”

The boy, Jeremiah, blushed feverishly, glancing back to my lonely form sitting on his step.

“Well,” he started before going into a full detailed explanation of carving techniques and artists. The girl listened intently, others soon surrounding her from behind to listen.

I could tell by the very tone of Jeremiah’s voice that this was not something that happened very often, or at all for that matter. Kids wanting to talk to him and get to know him; he consumed the attention up like it was a piece of homemade apple pie.

“Do you want to come trick or treating with us?” the girl asked after Jeremiah was finished. “It’s funny how you’re dressed as the Tin Man and me as Dorothy. It’s rather perfect.”

Jeremiah, nodding in agreement, smiled a toothy grin and waved to his parents, who were standing on the steps together, smiles plastered on their faces. I noticed his mother was close to tears, obviously willing herself to stay together.

It was at this moment that I caught my reflection in Jeremiah’s costume, my beautiful face staring back at me. I was carved with an intricate rose, blooming in every direction. There was almost no surface of my skin visible that had not been laden with this beautiful dancing pattern of petals and leaves, the depth and design of the picture almost unreal.

It was also at this moment that, realizing what had truly happened here despite the ups and downs of the past day, the lonely boy and I had made each other something that we truly felt that we would ever be. Sure, the boy had his parents and me my orange brothers, but that feeling I felt as he excitedly started down the street with his new friends was the same feeling I’m sure Jeremiah felt at that very same moment. Despite our flaws, despite everything, we together, had found a way to be loved.

——————————

Elisa S. ’24