Chapter 4 Beauty isn't Armor

Larry's heart ached.

Something inside him had shifted. The warmth he once felt for Cynthia seemed to fade like the final glow of a dying sunset. What had once been bright and certain between them was now murky and uncertain.

On the third day since her seizure, Cynthia was finally strong enough to return to school. Her parents were relieved and hopeful that resuming classes would help her feel normal again. But Cynthia's mind was elsewhere-restless and clouded with doubt. Larry hadn't called once. Not even a message. That was unlike him. They were always in touch, every single day.

As she stepped through the school gates, her eyes scanned the courtyard, hoping to catch sight of him. And there he was-Larry-surrounded by a group of girls, talking animatedly. He didn't see her. Or maybe he did. Cynthia couldn't tell.

She approached slowly, but something in her gut told her to stop. There was an awkward energy in the air. Whispers followed her like shadows as she walked by, and fingers pointed with mocking curiosity.

"Wow, such a beautiful girl has epilepsy?"

"She used to act so proud. Let's see how often she collapses-maybe every 26th to 28th!"

The words sliced through her like blades. Her legs felt heavier with every step, but she forced herself forward. She had to know-had to hear it from him.

She reached the group. Larry was still talking, still laughing-still pretending she didn't exist. When she greeted the girls, no one responded. Just silence. Cold, brutal silence.

"Larry!" she called.

He didn't turn.

She tried again. Still, nothing.

Finally, she stepped closer and gently touched his back. He turned slowly. The expression on his face made her heart sink. It was unfamiliar. Cold. Distant.

"Darling, what's wrong?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Cynthia," he said flatly, "whatever we had is now history."

She stared at him, confused. "What are you saying?"

Larry didn't answer immediately. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and thrust it into her hand.

"Read this when you're alone," he said, and then walked away-back to his audience of giggling girls.

Cynthia stood frozen. The girls broke into laughter again, louder this time, as if to ensure she felt every ounce of shame. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry-not yet.

She turned and walked away, found a quiet spot behind the classroom block, and sat down. Hands trembling, she opened the envelope.

---

Dear Cynthia,

I fully admit that you are a beautiful girl-perhaps the most beautiful I've ever met in my life. And I confess I loved you, Cynthia. I never imagined I would ever have to write what I'm about to say, but I've been forced to, though it pains me.

You did me wrong by hiding your illness from me. If you had told me from the beginning that you suffer from epilepsy, perhaps I would've made different choices. Your seizure in front of everyone during my birthday party embarrassed and humiliated me deeply. Now, wherever I go, I am mocked for dating a girl with epilepsy.

My mother doesn't even want to see you. She's threatened to end her life if I continue with you.

I honestly don't know how I can keep being with you. That's why I want to say clearly: from the moment you read this letter, I NO LONGER WANT A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU! You're free to find another guy who can endure the shame of dating a girl with epilepsy.

That's all. I wish you the best in your life.

Thank you.

Your former boyfriend,

Larry Arthur

---

The letter slipped from her fingers and floated to the ground.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't believe. She had hoped-prayed-that maybe, just maybe, the last lines would say something like "But I'll stand by you as we seek help together." But no. Nothing. Only cold rejection and finality.

Her tears came freely now, soaking through her uniform shirt. Her body trembled, weak from heartbreak. Her mind spiraled. Was this really the same boy who once told her, "Even if you had cancer, I would never leave you"? What had changed?

She looked up. There he was-Larry-laughing again like nothing had happened. Her heart shattered all over again.

"Now I understand," she whispered. "Boys say sweet things they don't mean."

She stood slowly, every bone in her body aching. There was no way she could sit in class and pretend to care about lessons. She had lost more than just a boyfriend-she had lost trust, confidence, and maybe even herself.

Why, God? she thought. Why did you let me be born like this?

Tears streamed down her face as she made her way toward the school gate. She didn't ask for permission to leave. She was done. Not just with school, but with everything.

She didn't want to live.

The pain was too much. The shame too loud.

As she stepped into the street, her mind clouded, she didn't notice the speeding bus. It came fast-too fast. The driver saw her just in time and slammed the brakes. Tires screamed. People gasped.

A man inside the bus looked at her in awe. "Wow! I thought the girls in magazines were just drawings. But this one looks like them!"

"Driver, stop at the bump," another passenger said urgently. The young man leapt out through the window as the bus slowed, and without hesitation, ran after her.

Cynthia walked on, unaware.

She reached a pharmacy and stepped inside. The young man waited outside, watching. Something about her felt off-beautiful, yes, but broken.

"I have a terrible headache," she told the pharmacist. "Please give me ten chloroquine tablets. I know it's malaria."

"That'll be 200 shillings," he said.

She handed him a crumpled 5,000-shilling note. Took the medicine. Left without waiting for her change.

"Miss! Your change!" the pharmacist called, running after her.

She took the money and kept walking. Silent. Fast.

The young man followed, worried now. He didn't just see a beautiful girl-he saw a soul in crisis.

Ahead, she entered another pharmacy. He waited again. Listening carefully.

"I'd like ten chloroquine tablets," she said inside.

This time, his heart skipped.

He knew. He understood.

She wasn't trying to cure malaria.

She was trying to end her life.

"But why would such a beautiful girl kill herself?" Richard Burton murmured to himself, still unable to understand the look of pain he'd seen moments earlier. He stood quietly outside the shop, his eyes fixed on the young woman who had just stepped out.

Cynthia paused when she saw him. Her expression changed instantly-souring into something sharp and hostile. She looked at him with utter contempt, her face twisted with open anger. There was no hiding it; her hatred burned visibly.

She had long since given up on men.

All of them.

What Larry had done to her had carved a permanent scar on her soul. Love had become meaningless. Trust, dangerous. In her eyes, men were nothing but monsters wearing polite smiles. She would never allow herself to be vulnerable again.

"Why are you following me? Are you a stalker?" she snapped, her voice like a slap in the face.

"No, miss," the young man replied calmly. "My name is Richard Burton. I just completed high school at Landmark Secondary School. May I know your name?"

"My name is none of your business," she said sharply. "Leave me alone and go live your own life. I don't want you following me!"

Richard stood still for a second, taking in the fury in her voice. "Okay... but please, don't kill yourself. I'm begging you-talk to me. Maybe I can help."

"Help me?" she scoffed, bitterness dripping from her words. "What could you possibly help me with? I don't want to see your face. Just go away!" she shouted, turning on her heel and walking off briskly.

But Richard didn't give up.

He followed her, his heart aching at the thought of someone so young, so beautiful, choosing death. Something about her pulled him in-the pain behind her eyes, the silence between her words. He didn't know what he could do, but he knew he had to try.

Cynthia, a few paces ahead, entered another shop and soon emerged with a bottle of water in her hand. She kept moving forward, never glancing back. Richard kept his distance, watching her closely, waiting for a sign, anything.

And then it happened.

Without warning, she brought her hand to her mouth and slipped in several pills. Richard froze for a moment, realizing what was happening. She unscrewed the bottle cap and began to swallow.

"No!" Richard shouted, his voice full of panic.

He rushed forward like a storm, tackled her to the ground, and grabbed her by the neck-not to harm her, but to stop her from swallowing. To an outsider, it looked like an assault.

"Thief!" someone cried out nearby.

People rushed toward them, misunderstanding the scene entirely. In the chaos, a stone flew through the air and struck Richard on the head. Blood gushed immediately from the deep wound. He was forced to let go.

Cynthia, eyes blazing, used the moment to swallow the remaining pills.

"I'm not a thief!" Richard yelled, trying to raise himself despite the searing pain. "She took chloroquine! She's trying to kill herself!"

But no one listened.

The crowd surrounded him. People shouted. Others hit him. The scene turned into a blur of fists and fear.

Cynthia watched it all, standing at a distance. She could have spoken up. She could have stopped it. But her heart, wounded and cold, refused to feel pity. All she saw was another man. Another reminder.

"Make way!" a voice shouted from behind.

A man approached, dragging a car tire in one hand and carrying a jerry can of petrol in the other. A matchstick was clenched tightly between his lips.

The crowd parted as he reached Richard.

He began pouring the fuel.

And just as he struck the match-

Cynthia collapsed.

She stumbled sideways, her body swaying like a broken branch, and fell to the ground.

"Wait... did she really take the pills?" someone asked in disbelief.

Hands reached into her pockets, pulling out two small sachets labeled Chloroquine 4/4/2. Both were empty. The realization spread quickly.

She had taken them.

Fear erupted like wildfire. No one wanted to be involved with suicide. No one wanted to be there when the police arrived.

One by one, the crowd disappeared into the shadows.

Silence returned.

Blood still streamed from Richard's head as he dragged himself toward Cynthia. His arms barely held him up, but he moved, inch by inch, until he was beside her. With the last of his strength, he laid himself gently over her body.

Cynthia felt the weight above her, soft but real. Her body trembled. The pills worked through her bloodstream like a slow, cold tide. Her vision blurred. Her head felt heavy.

But she knew he was there.

Her hand reached up weakly and touched his face.

"My name is Cynthia..." she whispered. "You should know it before I die. I'm sorry for causing your death. I was consumed by anger... The one who deserved to die was Larry... not you."

Richard coughed, his voice raw. "Don't worry... but why did you take the pills?"

"I can't tell you," she said, tears forming at the corners of her fading eyes. "But I'm sorry."

No help came.

No sirens. No running footsteps. No concerned voices.

Only the whispering wind across the field.

For Cynthia, it was peace at last-an end to the endless war inside her heart.

For Richard, it was sorrow-sharp, bitter sorrow-meeting death in a place he never expected, all because he cared too much.

They lay there in the fading light, two broken souls, the world having turned its back on them both.

And no one came.