PROSE
MY NAME IS
SCHADENFREUDE by green My name is Schadenfreude. I take pleasure in the misfortune of others. Whether I’m the snake in the back of the classroom or the over-achiever who silently scoffs the woes of those below my intellect, I do not care so long as I am satisfied. My friend Epicaricacy and I are standing by the statue of a dead woman. She has her arms wrapped around two bawling children, tears streaming down her own cheeks as she cries with them. Her name was Sympathy. That’s why she died. If it was me up there, I would have been pointing my finger at the two kids and laughing with my mouth wide open—the greatest kind of laugh. If it was me up there, the plaque would have read: F*ck you, move on. If it was me up there, Sympathy would still be alive. But it isn’t me up there. I am here, staring at this statue of a dead woman who passed away because there is too much sorrow in the world for her to sympathize with. Too bad, so sad. “She had it coming to her,” giggles Epicaricacy. “Honestly, I don’t understand why she’d willingly relate to people’s suffering.” I nod. That natural, snide smile returns to my face. “These people never learn,” I say, turning away from the statue, “that it’s so much easier to laugh than cry.”
5|The penchant||DEC 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “BUZZY.” 2020
We walk down the small dirt path along the park, heading back towards College Campus. “It’s ironic though,” Epicaricacy says. “She was named Best Emotion of the Year. Guess that backfired on the Dean;, he must be mulling in his office and regretting his nomination!” We both laugh. The image of the frustrated Dean brings joy to our hearts. ~ Epicaricacy has a Stocks Club meeting during lunch. Normally, I’d go with him just to see people lose large sums of money (the best part is when they crash completely), but I’m bored of that kind of amusement for today. Instead, I peek at the New Clubs Board in the campus quad and notice a certain Gardening Club looking for members. They are hosting a meeting today, on the west side of campus grounds. And so, as I make my way over there, I watch the passing people’s faces closely. I grin whenever I see stressed shoulders, hunched backs, runny mascara from a breakup, and—of course—the miserable loners with no friends. Imagine relating to all these people, I wonder. Sympathy must have been so busy over the most useless things—that in itself is funny, now that I think about it. The Gardening Club is predictably located behind the
Agricultural Sciences building, where there is a large penned- up area reserved for the students already gathered there. I get some surprised looks when I come closer. A short girl in gardening overalls approaches me. “Hello! Welcome to the Gardening Club!” she says cheerfully. “My name is Flower. What’s yours?”
I despise her happiness. “Schadenfreude,” I say, keeping a tight-lipped smile. “Although why a girl like you would want to get dirt all over herself just to plant some rotten vegetables is beyond me.” Now, she is supposed to burst into tears. Then I can make it a big scene that will attract the attention of the Dean or some other teacher, who I can piss off further and laugh about later. Instead, Flower beams brighter at me and says, “I’m glad you asked! That’s exactly what the Gardening Club is for: to teach you to not be afraid of dirt!” I am not afraid of— My indignant thoughts are broken off when she grabs my arm and drags me over to the other students. Some of them shy away from me because they know who I
