Writer!GermanyxReader- Dreams Come True

was his escape. His escape from the outside world. It helped him, he said. Helped him cope. It helped him deal with the terrible words thrown at him like baseballs in a batting cage. That's how he described it. He was trapped, caged, unable to escape. His wings, clipped, and his voice, stolen. His words were beautiful. His sentences, flowing like a river out of his mouth. He's an amazing poet. Oh, I'm not, was what he always said. Yes, you are, I retorted. I don't know why he never accepted the fact his writing and poetry was something out of this world. I'm modest, he always said. Modest indeed.

People described him as a gentle giant. He was tall and handsome, well built with a strong jaw. His eyes, shaped fierce, yet always soft. They always had a look of sadness to them. His hair, blond, people called him a dumb blond. No, he's brilliant. The only senior in the whole school to receive a gold on honour roll. The highest place. I told him they were jealous. He refused to listen.

He always had his book. In class, he payed attention, but sometimes his mind would wander and he'd end up writing something. At lunch, he spent his time alone, scribbling whatever his imagination would conjure up. It was amazing how much time he spent writing. It was his escape. 

He saw me frequently to deal with his depression. He took his pills during lunch, and only took them with me around. We would sit in the small room, and had a conversation as he wrote down random things. Sometimes he'd read me his poems. Every time, I was blown away. How's school, I ask. Good, was his reply. Did anyone bully you? Ja. What did they say? He shrugs. The usual, he replies. He continues. They push me and call me names. Then, he'd look at me, a desperate look in his eyes. Don't tell anyone, he begs. I nod, but I'm disgusted with myself. It's my job to help him, not to keep his bullying a secret!

On some days he wouldn't write at all. He'd cry. Sob, his eyes, red and puffy, and his hair a mess. Tears like waterfalls, never stopping. The worst day was when he cried for a full hour and a half. On those tearful days, he'd tell me he's worthless. Useless. Nobody wants him or needs him or loves him. He'd say he wants to die. He's thinking of hanging himself or swallowing a bunch of pills. It scares me, it does. I was scared of his thoughts. Scared of losing him.

And on his best days, he'd come to me, happy, bright as the sun. A smile on his face, and a spark in his eyes. He'd tell me what he did in class, or who he tutored. I was happy, too. He wasn't crying. He wasn't sad. At least, not on the outside. He hated short sleeved shirts. It showed his scars. He'd usually wear long sleeved shirts, dark colours. Though, I can tell he's happy when he wears white. White days are happy days. He hadn't hurt himself in over a month. I was proud of him! Very proud. He was changing. Only on the outside, though. On the inside, he was screaming, shouting, pleading for help. Wondering if anyone would come to his aid. Waiting for that angel to unlock his cage so he could finally be free. 

He told me people would make fun of his name.

They said it was ugly. He was named after Beethoven. A famous composer. Ludwig was a composer, not of music, but of words. Beautiful, beautiful words.

Most didn't bother try to pronounce his last name. German, he's German. Hence his oddball name. People just didn't understand. Ignorance, pure ignorance. It wasn't fair. He has a beautiful heart and soul, and his writing, phenomenal. He didn't deserve his pain and suffering.

Shy. He's very shy. Girls, boys, children, adults. It doesn't matter. Shy, he is. Around me, he's more vocal. Around me, he's comfortable. But without me, he's completely different. Reserved and easily embarrassed. He doesn't like encountering people, he told me, because then it would force him to talk. He hated his voice. It was deep and intimidating, but at the same time, soft. And he carried his thick German accent that made him pronounce words weirdly. W's become V's. T's become Z's. He hated his voice. He despised reading in class. He told me once, he had to read two whole pages in a book his AP English class was reading. He was just about ready to burst into tears and run to me. He could sense people staring and laughing at him. He tried to ignore it, but it was difficult. He hated his accented voice. I, personally, found it adorable.

He said he liked being alone. He felt free. He didn't have anyone to tell him what to do and when to do it. He could do things at his own pace. How's your family, I asked. He stayed quiet for a long time. A long time. He wiped his tears and folded his glasses. I don't like them, he told me. Why? Because they hurt me. Of course, I should've known. Abuse. It was abuse. He has a brother, an older brother. So far away, though. In college, far away, no longer any help to him. His mother is verbal, his father is physical. Both of them are emotional and mental. I've cried myself to sleep too many times, he told me. Nobody cares.

Don't tell anyone, he pleads. He pleads. He begs. He shouldn't have to beg. 

Are you excited for graduation, I ask. He nods and smiles. Very excited, he adds, and he giggles. He rarely does any kind of laughing. Smile, yes, but I don't hear him laugh. What do you want to be for college? I'm not sure. A writer, a poet, a novelist. Yes, he should be those. I suggested it to him. He loves writing, he says. Okay. He smiles. I'll be a poet. I nod, happily. Read me your latest poem, Ludwig.

A haiku, he says. It's a haiku. Titled Pain.

Wordless suffering. The same thoughts race through my head. And soon, I will fall.

I understood. A poet is perfect for him. A poet, Ludwig. A poet.

Graduation comes, his family isn't there. I am his family. I am there for him. The principal calls up students who have done the very best throughout the whole high school level. A full scholarship. He receives a full scholarship. I'm more than proud of him. Words can't describe my happiness for him.

Ludwig did follow his dream of being a poet. He's still in college, his final year, and we keep in good contact with each other. He's amazing, brilliant, something out of this world. 

He's free.

Finally free.