HOME | Gilbert Blythe

| 07. ORIGAMI FROGS

BY all accounts, Gilbert Blythe was known as the king of Avonlea School. It had been that way for years--he owned the school, and he never even tried. Wherever he walked, girls giggled and stared, trying to hide their blushes. The boys in the class envied him, not understanding what it was about Gilbert that made him so lovable. They tried to make an enemy of him, but it never went far--one joke from his mouth able to suck the jealousy from their bodies in an instant. He had a sort of gravitational pull to him and all the students were pulled in easily, fully reliant on his charm and not knowing what to do when he wasn't around at school. Even Mr. Phillips, atop his throne of sarcasm, had a strange soft spot for the boy. He aced assignments, test, projects. He was respectful, funny, charming, and humble.

Gilbert was the perfect boy in class, and no one could ignore it.

But the student population had always been small, and it didn't take long for his classmates to flock to Jacquelyn—but who could blame them? She was tall, fair, and walked with a sort of flair that showed exactly how little she seemed to care about the world around her. She was foreign and new, and Avonlea didn't know how to act.

She stole all of the attention, but that wasn't what made Gilbert so angry. It was the way she seemed so open to it, secretly gobbling it up despite the indifferent expression that sat on her face every day. Because although Gilbert was loved, he barely noticed. Even if he did, though, he would never bask in it the way she does.

He sighed deeply as he slowly did the buttons of his shirt, taking his time with each one, fingers maneuvering carefully. His house was filled with an eerie silence. Every once in a while, he would hear loud coughing from the other room, but he ignored it the best he could, trying not to let his stomach turn. It never worked out that way though. It seemed that he always felt sick in his own house, listening to the slow yet inevitable demise of his father. It was as though the life was being sucked out him as his father got worse, all hope leaving his body at a painfully slow rate. He was so afraid of losing him, but he felt as though he would feel even worse if he allowed himself to be hopeful just to be let down.

Anyone paying close enough attention could see his change in demeanor. He had always been somewhat pale, but it was becoming worse now. He had tired lines under his eyes from his lack of sleep-- he sat awake listening to his father cough as he did his best to push away his thoughts and tears. His level of socialization in school was decreasing drastically. After his arrival at the schoolhouse, he would sit in his seat silently, pay attention to Mr. Phillips, then pack up and go home as soon as he possibly could. He acted somewhat cold and bitter, which he hated himself for. What he was becoming... it simply wasn't Gilbert. But he didn't know how to make it better.

Once he finished with his buttons, he fixed his collar and stared at himself in the mirror. He searched for some sort of recognition in his eyes of the boy who stood in front of him, but all he could feel was the familiar feeling of emptiness. He turned away from the mirror before he became sick to his stomach and pulled a sweater vest over his head.

The hallways of his house were quiet. Pictures hung on the walls in a lonely manner, photos of him and his father and even some of his mother—whom he had already lost long ago. Gilbert made his way through with his eyes firmly ahead of him, trying to avoid looking at the photos whose colors were fading slowly, just as his father was.

"Father," He said as he rounded the stairs and turned into his father's room. "I'm off to the church picnic. I'll be home in only a few hours."

John Blythe sat in bed, managing a smile for the boy despite his obvious discomfort. "Okay, son. I wish I could go with you."

Gilbert's eyes found their way to the floor. It was so painful to see him the way he was, especially after knowing what he was truly like for so long. His father was always so lively and eager to greet the world, but his sickness had reduced him to merely a shell of who he was. It must be killing his father to be bedridden, but his paling face and fading color—it was so hard for Gilbert to bear.