When all else fails?
Jump.
Kori stared into the frothing mist of the waterfall, feeling the blood drain from her face. There were two choices, either let the hunters catch her, or jump down into the abyss and hope she didn't land on any rocks.
This should not have been that hard.
Kori swalowed, turning around and peering into the trees. She knew she didn't have much time. She held her backpack close to her chest, biting her lip worriedly. What was she thinking? This had obviously been a really bad plan from the beginning, and yet here she was, holding her bag and hoping she wasn't going to die one way or the other.
Heh. She sniffed at herself disdainfully, she'd accpeted that she was going to die a LONG time ago. Time to make use of it.
The huge bulldogs burst through the trees. Kori closed her eyes and jumped, throwing herself into the forthing, churning mess of the waterfall.
Look out, she thought, holding her breath as her body tumbled this way and that. She felt her skin hitting the side of the cliff, felt as some of it ripped, but it all seemed very distant. No doubt she would feel that later. But for now. . .
The water poured over her hair, drenching it. She felt shockingly freezing. The end was coming up, the poor of water was going to smash into her and envelop her, thousands of gallons of water were going to dump onto her head and she was going to die.
Well, that was the theory anyway.
Here I come.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Addiction
This is something I wrote for my creative writing class. I'm a little concerned with my mental health. . . but whatever. it's a first draft, so have patience with it. This might say something about my mental health but I kind of like it :D Careful, it's ridiculously long.
It was just after six in the evening three months after the world went to Hell. Taern ghosted through the streets without making a sound, following after a man in a long blue coat. He stopped as the man reached a blank wall, looking up at it's height. He was almost as tall as Taern, but stood hunched over which made him seem much smaller.
“I know you're there Taern,” He said, “You don't have to hide.” Taern stepped out of the shadows and faced the man, keeping his hood covered.
“You know me,” he said.
“I remember you. Years ago it seems. Back in a time when you weren't afraid to walk out into the light.” He looked up at the street lamp lighting the small patch of gravel he stood on. Taern stayed as far from the illumination as possible. The man smiled sadly, his eyes swimming in the faint light, “Come with me Taern, we have something to discuss.”
He turned and began walking down along the wall, going toward the right. Taern thought about stopping him, but then began to follow. His eyes darted along the shadows, trying to keep everything that moved within his sight. The shakes were getting worse, he needed to finish this soon.
The man led him through the alleys until they reached the main road. Once there they followed a side road that led to a neighborhood of houses. They were all lit, the windows streaming light and the faint sound of voices crying through the doorways. Mothers called for their children to come inside out of the cold and fathers demanded that they hurry because they wanted dinner. The ground was crisp and chill, a faint frost dusting the lawns and houses.
“Wait a moment, Taern,” the man turned to face him once more, his green coat hovering around him, “We don't have to continue on just yet.” Taern stopped, his black boots crunching into the cold grass and breaking their fragile stems. His breath hovered around his face like a cloud and his fingers felt numb with the cold. He was still shaking, but he could control it for a little while longer. The man had to know how much danger he was in, why wasn't he running? What did he want?
“You think you've lost everything, don't you?” the man asked, trying to peer past the cowl of Taern's cloak. Taern was determined not to reply. His green eyes glittered in the midnight light. “Answer me, Taern,”
“What right do you have to demand anything?” Taern's voice was soft, barely more than a rumble in the night.
“I know something you don't.”
“Then tell me what it is,” He was tired of the wait, he needed this to be over, then he would return to the hills to live out his miserable existence until he couldn't stand to wait any longer. The man looked toward one of the houses on the street. There were more children around that house than any other, a woman calling to them as she wiped her hands on a green towel. Taern let his hand fall to his belt, pulling out a long obsidian blade. The warped, blackened glass reflected none of the dim light around it.
“Do you remember Taern? Do you remember?” The man spoke again, jolting
Taern from his thoughts.
“Remember what?”
“Remember when.” He began to move, walking toward the house with the most children. Taern scowled, his hand trembling where he held the blade. If he didn't answer his questions soon then. . .then what? He'd commit the deed before children?
Innocents?
What if they were like him?
Taern shoved the thought away. There were no others like him. He had searched, he was an anomaly. Unique. Not special, just a freak. He tried to steady the weapon, but if anything the shaking increased. “What are you talking about?” he whispered after the stranger. Why was he following him? Taern began to follow, almost against his will. Why didn't he just complete the deed and be done with it?
“I'm talking about this,” the man said. Taern followed his gaze. There was a little girl, blond, her hair chopped short, her gray eyes glittered in the street light, she knelt in the frosted grass, playing with frozen fingertips. She was freezing, but she continually ignored the woman's calls to come in. “I'm thinking about the girl.” Taern stared, fascinated. She was young, but not a baby, not a child. She had to be closer to 12 or 13. It seemed like years before she finally stood up and began walking toward the house. She walked with a frighteningly familiar step.
“Jessie,” Taern whispered. The name puffed out in a breath of white mist. The girl turned back, as though she'd heard him, then shrugged and rushed forward.
“I know something you don't know,” the man said. But he never finished. Taern yelled, spinning on his heel and ramming the black blade toward the man's heart. Let's see what you know.
The blade slowed, the world hesitated. The wind no longer felt cold and everything grew still and silent. Slow.
Silent.
Warm.
End.
And then it began.
[I]He'd been eleven when his father left. His sisters had all gotten older and left him before his mother got sick. But he'd always played with the chickens outback. Those stupid chickens that weren't good for anything but food. But he played with them, because there'd been no one else to play with.
Men came when he was fifteen. They told him things, things he'd never dreamed of. His mother told him to stay, begged him to stop, but he'd hit her and run away. She couldn't stop him. She was weak because she'd let his father leave. She couldn't stop him, and now she couldn't stop her son either. The boy ran.
He joined the group, he got older, learned how to fight, learned how to take care of himself. He learned that there were things out in this world, things that he didn't care to really know about. They scared him, but he fought them. He killed them, burned them, destroyed them. They grew to fear him, and ran when he came near. But he was strong. He stayed. He fought.
There was a girl, a beautiful girl with curly red hair. He loved her. They talked, smiled, held hands. He was afraid. Was he strong enough? Was she? What would she do if she found out what he did? He couldn't tell her, but he wanted to. He wanted her to love him the way he loved her. But was that possible?
They told him she was a monster, one of the ones he fought against. He told them she wasn't, she was different, he would change her. Tears fell from his eyes for the first time in a long time. He yelled, cried, fought, but he couldn't beat them. He watched in horror as they tied her to a stake and burned her alive, her beautiful green eyes wide with terror. Why? They asked him. Why?
Years later, he left. He wandered. He searched. He found someone, a young boy. Taern jolted within his mind, recognizing the black hair and steel gray eyes. The boy was reserved. Taern hadn't realized he'd been so different, even back then. He was the boy who would change everything. Should he kill him?
The boy was so young, he didn't know what he had done. The danger he had put the young girl in. ######The man felt a pain where his heart had been, so many years ago. He saw the cursed child with the girl. They were happy the way only the young were, before it was beaten out of them. But they didn't have much time left.
But he was too late. By the time he reached them the girl was already dead. The boy was gone, fleeing into the night. He had lost everything. The man searched through the rubble, his heart sinking. And then a small cry reached him. He turned over a spare table cloth, pulling out a young baby. He tucked the baby under his arm and walked away.
More images tumbled through the air. Taern watched every aspect of the man's life. He saw all of the horrible things he had done, all of the good. He watched him kill, watched him save lives. Saw the man save the baby and drop her off here, leave her with the lady at the care center. The man had searched for him for years. Looking for the cursed child. He hadn't found him.
Until now. [/I]
Like he always did, Taern tried to pull back, tried to stop the blade from its killing blow. Like always, he felt the blade bite into the soft flesh, peeling it back, a warm gush of blood seeping from the wound to coat his chilled hands. Gods help him, but it actually felt good.
The man fell to the ground, his eyes glazing over in pain. But a small smile lit his face, a sigh of relief, the last thought entered Taern's mind before the man went still and dark. The last thought to haunt him forever.
[I]Now it's in your hands, Boy.[/I]
* * *
Jade looked up when the lights went out, “Mrs. Laney?” she whispered. A few of the other children started to cry and she grabbed one of the younger kid's hands, gripping it tightly. “Mrs. Laney? What's going on?” There was no reply. The children's sobs were getting louder and Jade had to resist the urge to put her hands over her ears. What was going on?
“Jade?” She turned to the little girl who's hand was grasped tightly in her own, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, the lights just went out.”
“Jade?”
“Yes?”
“What's that?” Jade spun around, her eyes widening as the silvery point of a blade rested at her throat. She froze, her entire body icing over and leaving her immobile. Something flashed in the darkness and the little girl began to cry with the others. Jade couldn't take her eyes off the shiny material pressed up against
her neck.
“Jessie,” a man whispered, his voice was dark, deep. Jade tried to keep herself from quivering, but only slightly succeeded.
“I-I'm not Jessie,” she whispered, the blade pressed tighter against her skin, “I-I'm Jade.”
“Jade?”
“Y-Yes.” She hated the quivering in her voice. She hated the stumble over the words. She straightened her back, tried to seem brave, but it was hard. It was difficult to think about anything but the feeling of the cold steel against her throat. She closed her eyes, hoping that if she couldn't see it gleaming then she wouldn't be able to feel it anymore. But she could. It was cold and sharp.
“What are you doing here?!” It was Mrs. Laney, Jade opened her eyes only slightly to see the woman's blur run toward the stranger. “What are you doing??!” she screamed. Jade jumped backwards when it seemed like her guardian would ram into the intruder, she had her nails out and seemed to be about ready to scrape them across the strangers back when he shifted.
It was so slight, Jade might have missed it if she hadn't been staring at his blur so intently. He barely moved, but in that movement the blade vanished from against her skin and flickered through the air. Mrs. Laney gasped. Jade thought someone was screaming but couldn't tell who. It seemed an eternity, like the world had decided to slow down and stop in that one, measureless moment. Jade opened her eyes wide, because she knew that she couldn't be allowed to miss a second of it.
A light seemed to be coming from Mrs. Laney. A whispy trailing light that flickered against the darkness. Jade frowned, feeling her stomach muscles tighten and jolt, if she squinted, she could see tiny figures dancing in the light. Little people. Most of them looked like Mrs. Laney, only younger. There was a little girl dancing through some flowers, a child crying by a tombstone. Two girls linking arms. A man leaning in to kiss a young woman. The images continued. Until finally the world seemed to speed up and the light vanished into the stranger.
And Mrs. Laney slumped to the ground.
“I'm the girl's father,” the stranger spoke to her corpse, he sounded tired and sad, “I'm here to take her home.” it was only then that Jade realized the screaming was her own.
* * *
Taern dropped his daughter onto a horse and rode. They rode far, the ride seemed like it would last forever, like nothing would ever stop them from just riding and riding and riding. He didn't know how much the young girl could stand but she never complained. She never said anything. Taern wondered how much of the Transition she saw. Did she see death the way he did? Did she have the curse that would make her life a living Hell if she ever shed another persons blood? Or was she just a normal girl who'd been shocked into silence after she'd essentially been kidnapped?
“Do you know who Jessie is?” Taern finally asked, trying to keep his voice impassive. He didn't know what to think of this girl, but she looked so like her. Looked exactly like the woman Taern had loved so long ago. Was it even possible that this was really her daughter?
“No,” the girl said, her voice quiet, “I don't know her.” She sounded strong despite the lack of volume. Taern could almost believe she wasn't frightened. Almost. He nodded and continued to ride. The two fresh lifespans he'd consumed warmed his insides and played out behind his eyelids. Sometimes he would do nothing for days after a Transition but sit and watch the life of the person he'd consumed. He sit and watch, criticize their stupidity, feel proud at their triumphs and cry at their sorrows. He almost never thought about how he'd killed them anymore. He never thought about how they would never get to return to whatever family they'd had before. He didn't think about how he was the one who had stolen their lives from them.
No, he couldn't think that way. Instead he would sit and watch, the memories alive and fresh in his veins. He felt good, felt alive as they played out along his insides, as though he had consumed their very souls and they were no warming his. He supposed that in a sense they were. If he even had a soul anymore.
Going without a Transition for more than a couple of days was torture for him. He would get the shakes first, but if he didn't satisfy his need soon then he would convulse on the floor, vomiting until he found the strength to push forward until he found the next life he wanted to consume. He couldn't live without them. If you could call whatever it was he did living.
The man he'd consumed had been a member of a group of people that hunted monsters like him. People who were different, who had. . . abilities. Some had the powers of the gods, others were more like curses. For Taern, it was a living nightmare. The man he'd killed should have been hunting him, but he hadn't been. He'd been leading Taern to his daughter. To the child of the only person Taern hadn't felt the need to kill, the only person who he had wanted to consume in an entirely different way. .
Taern bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. The tip of his forehead rested against his daughter's hair, making her shift uncomfortably beneath him. “Who are you?” she finally asked. She had Jessie's fierce temper. Taern looked up, they were traveling through fields of grass. The mountains in the distance. Should he take her there or should he continue to a town?
What, precisely, had he ever thought about doing with this child?
“I'm Taern,” he said, “Your mother was Jessie.” He didn't want to talk about it, but the words felt compelled to come out of him. Maybe it was because he'd never spoken them aloud before. Only let them consume his nightmares. “What's your name?”
“J-” Taern could almost here her clamping her jaw in an attempt to stop stuttering, “Jade.”
“That's a pretty name.”
“Why did you kidnap me?”
“Because. . .” Why had he kidnapped her? “Because you're my daughter too.” The girl fell silent for a moment, her body shaking.
“You killed Mrs. Laney.”
“Yes.”
“W-why?” Taern was taken by surprise at the question. Which was odd, since it really wasn't that strange of a question. In fact, it was rather reasonable. Why had he killed the woman? Maybe he was just so used to killing by now that the thought of there actually being a legitimate reason astounded him. When was there ever a good reason for killing someone? Didn't that seem a little like a oxymoron?
“She. . . was in the way.” Taern squinted, trying to pretend that there was something he was trying to see in the distance. The girl shivered in his arms and he tightened them automatically around her. She stiffened but he pretended to ignore it.
“What are you?” she whispered. Taern dug his spurs into the horse's flank, making him leap forward. The wind howled in his ears, his heartbeat loud in his chest. What are you? What are you? What are you?
The girl didn't ask anymore questions.
There was a little village at the bottom of the mountains. It was cute. The little houses all lined up in rows behind the main street. There weren't many shops, most of the “villagers” lived further out on their farms. Jade shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, obviously feeling restless. Taern was slightly surprised, forgetting the hours it had taken for him to become accustomed to the saddle. She would be sore for days. They headed toward the town, stopping at the little inn that hovered just at the edge of town. Taern jumped off the horse, extending his hand for the girl. She hesitated, obviously unwilling to take it, when he grabbed her and pulled her down. A stable hand came out and took the horse, leading him toward the stables. The girl crossed her arms and looked away, still quivering slightly. Taern wondered if she was cold.
He grabbed her shoulder and steered her into the Inn, half expecting her to make a run for it the moment they walked in the door. People stopped and stared as they walked in. A few whispered urgently to each other. Taern walked up to the bar tender and ordered a drink and some water. The man stared at him for a moment, his jaw agape.
“Taern. . .You're. . .”
“The drinks Sampson.” Taern said.
“You're not supposed to be here, Freak,” the voice came from a man behind them. Taern glanced over his shoulder and saw a huge man standing up in his chair. His girth doubled past his belt and rippled as he straightened. Taern was dwarfed in comparison.
Jade watched as her captor sighed, his expression mildly annoyed, “Do you really want to push this?” he asked, “It's been years.”
“You should never have shown your face here again,” the big man said. Taern bit back a grimace. Jade scooted closer to him. He killed Mrs. Laney, but he wasn't nearly as frightening looking as the men around her. She hated herself for it, but she stayed close. “Who's the girl?” the big man demanded, “Now you're resorting to children.”
Taern made a snap decision, “She's my daughter,” he said. There was murmuring and angry noises from the onlookers, Taern couldn't help but smile, “Maybe
you should fear her as much as you fear me.”
“Is she like you?” For the first time, the giant looked small as he cowered before a twelve year old girl.
“Do you want to find out?” Taern's expression was neutral and uninterested. His eyebrow raised ever so slightly. Jade shifted uncomfortably under all the stares, but something else was stirring too. It was like she wanted them to come at her. She wanted to see if she could beat them. She wanted to see if she could beat them all.
Was. . . was she like her father?
“Get out!” The bar tender yelled. Taern glowered at him.
“I want my drinks,” he said, the entire tavern had gone silent. Taern reached to his belt and pulled out a long black dagger. All the light seemed to be drawn to it, like a black hole. Jade couldn't tear her eyes away from it. She wanted it. The same strange feeling she'd had when all of those men were staring at her, she wanted it. She wanted to feel it in her hand, she wanted to know if she could wield it. Or would it wield her?
What did that mean? How could a knife wield someone?
“How long has it been Taern? Since you last. . . fed.” It was the bar tender again, his voice gruff in the silence. Taern raised his eyebrows at him it was the only facial expression he gave.
“Last night,” he said, his body was completely calm, none of the tell tale shakes to show his usual need.
“Then maybe you'll run dry,” Something big leaped forward, ramming into Taern and knocking him backwards into the bar. The bar tender smashed a bottle, making the glass fly away in jagged, sharp points. The newly forged weapon was shoved toward Taern's throat but he was already in motion. He shoved his first attacker back, spinning and shoving him into the broken bottle. The bar keeper gasped and tried to pull back, but it was too late, the glass had already run him through. Now the others were in motion, the entire bar was in chaos, most running to mob Taern and the others dashing for the exit.
Taern leaped and rolled, moving so quickly he seemed like he was flying. His black dagger was merciless, drinking up the flood of life as it cracked their bodies open. Jade was fascinated, it was like everything was going in slow motion. He would be about to sink the dagger in and everything would slow, and the little light figures would begin to dance into Taern. Jade watched all of them, her father draining the body dry, before he would try to pull the knife back and spare the attacker.
It was always too late.
And then everything would speed up again.
As he fought, Taern looked like he was bursting with health. His eyes were bright, his skin gleaming. The more he killed the healthier he looked. Jade huddled underneath the bar, her legs curled up under her as the whirlwind of sound and screams cascaded down from everywhere. Part of her wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out and yell and yell and yell until the world stopped and people stopped dying. The bodies looked very strange right before they hit the ground, like something was missing. Like he'd done more than take their life. Some were grimacing, some crying, some growling, but all had one thing in common. They were dead.
What a worthless way to die.
Shouldn't death mean something? Why didn't it mean anything for them? Blood flooded the girl's cheeks as she glared at the men attacking her father and dying. They were all dying, and for what? Shouldn't they try to stay alive so it isn't worthless? Or was everything worthless already? Was that why they kept on fighting?
But no. . . now they were running. The few still standing turned and ran from Taern, some of them yelling, some of them just fleeing as fast as possible. The bar keeper was slumped over the counter, his hand still clutching the broken bottle. There were at least six men lying on the ground. None of them were breathing. None of them were moving at all.
Taern didn't leave survivors. Why didn't that surprise her?
Or more importantly, why didn't it mortify her?
Jade pulled herself out from under the bar, looking down at the bodies that lay between her and Taern. There was something missing. Something vital. A soul? Jade wasn't sure she believed in souls. She wasn't sure that such a thing existed. She knew what did exist though, lives. Living. People had stories, they had lives, they had secrets. Was that what was gone? Did such a thing leave a mark upon a person? She turned to her father, who was staring at her from dark eyes. He didn't say anything, just stood there. His blade wasn't even bloody, it still gleamed from the light it sucked into it.
“I know what you do,” She whispered. Taern tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, examining his daughter. “Stories.”
“What?”
“Their stories. You steal them. That's the only thing that nobody should be able to take, but you take them. You take their life story.” Jade took a deep breath, surprised that she was trembling. Taern started to take a step toward her when she vomited all over the floor. She fell forward onto her knees, her hands snaking out at the last moment to catch herself. There were tears in her eyes, but she couldn't seem to make them go away. “You steal them,” she repeated, “You steal their stories.”
* * *
“Does it hurt?” She seemed tired, her eyes drooping and red. She poked at the fire with a long stick, roasting the tip of it. Fire was strange. It only consumed. It ate and ate and ate without regards to anything else. Any good that it had, any good it presented, was just a by-factor of the consumption.
“No,” Taern said, “Not anymore.” Of course not. Why should it hurt him? Jade swallowed the lump in her throat. Did he think of them as friends? He must know them more than their closest family members. He would see where they were born, where they came from, their first love, their every loss. . . did he hate them? Or did he love them? Did their faces haunt his dreams? Would Mrs. Laney be remembered among all those faces?
“H-how do you. . .live?”
“By breathing.” Taern stopped, gazing up at the sky, “In and out.”
“You know what I mean,” she snapped at him, it seemed wrong. He shouldn't say things like that. He shouldn't joke. It wasn't funny. He didn't reply. The snap of the logs being consumed by the flames sent up a flurry of sparks. She jerked away to avoid getting burned. “Will it happen to me?” he stayed silent. “Answer me!”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say no,” there was a catch in her voice now, but she shoved it down, “I want you to say nothing is wrong with me.”
“You want me to say you're not like me.”
“Yes.”
“I can't.”
“So I am like you?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You just don't know.”
“No, I don't.”
“How can you stand it!? How can you look at them. . .”
“I don't look anymore.”
“Did you ever?”
He flinched slightly, but didn't look at her face. His eyes reflected the dancing flames. “I remember their eyes,” he finally said, “They were black. Soulless. Looking into them for too long made me feel like I was drowning. So no, I don't look at them anymore.” He stood up abruptly. Agitated. The flames parted in his eyes and Jade wondered if maybe she could see the memories, feelings and stories playing out behind his gaze. Did he still watch them when it was over? Did he remember all of their names? Did he love them or hate them? She had to know. She had to know if she was like him. She had to know if she was cursed like he was.
“Why did you take me?” she whispered, “I would have been safe where I was, I would never have the opportunity to. . .to. . .to kill anyone. I wouldn't have to worry about it!” Why did she worry about it now? What was the point? If she just didn't kill anyone. If she just didn't slide that obsidian dagger into anyone's lifeblood. . .
“Because.” Taern raised his hands and then dropped them lifelessly. “You look like her.”
“What?”
“Jessie.” he turned away, “You look like Jessie.” It wasn't an excuse. It didn't even come close to an excuse. And yet Jade laid down by her spot near the fire and didn't ask anymore questions. She didn't want to know, she decided. She didn't want to understand.
The night passed swiftly. Jade dreamed of monsters and fangs dripping with blood. When she woke up, Taern was already packing up the little camp, stamping out the fire, the few belongings already strapped to the horse. Jade laid there for a moment, her breath catching. When she could finally force herself to her feet it felt like the world was trying to shove her back down. What was her story? Did she even have one anymore? All these things happening to her. . .they didn't feel real. Like she was watching it from the sidelines. It was some other girl, some other time, some other reason. It wasn't real. It was all in her head.
Her blood pulsed in her ears, she wondered what it would look like if it spilled out over the ground. Would it be gleaming scarlet? Like rubies? Or would it just fall to the ground while all of her stories were stolen by the man behind her?
Why did she care?
Taern's dagger laid on the grass a few feet away from her. Jade took two steps and swept it into her hands, holding it gently. What would it be like? Having all of those stories to fill up your own? You wouldn't have to think about how your life was worthless, how nothing mattered. Because you would see the things that do matter. You would see the things that are important and some feeling would return to you. Maybe. Maybe he stole the stories because he couldn't live knowing his life had no reason and no point. He couldn't live believing he was a freak, so he killed people who didn't know, he killed them and lived through their lives. Maybe some of them actually made him feel better about himself. Maybe others made him want to die.
Maybe he should die.
“Jade?” His voice was very near. It wasn't angry, it wasn't annoyed, it was tired. Like everything was finally hitting him.
“How many have you killed?” she whispered.
“One or two every week for twelve years.” he said quietly. She nodded, her hands trembling. The dagger turned, pointing toward her.
“Do you love them?” she said, her breath puffing out in the morning air, gently misting her face.
“Every single one.”
Jade nodded, her hands trembling. It would be easy. What stories would she see? What things would she know?
Or should she just end it here and now?
“Jade.” her name sounded pretty coming from his mouth. Like it was something precious. Jade looked behind her at him, looked into those eyes and saw all those stories playing out behind them.
“How did you meet my mother?” she asked.
“We were school mates. She was my best friend. She didn't know I was a freak.”
“How did she die?”
“They found out.”
Jade turned slowly toward him, still clutching the dagger's hilt tightly in her hands, “Do you miss her?”
“Every single day.”
“Every single day,” Jade repeated, “Every single day.” The knife flew forward and everything slowed down. The blade slowed, the world hesitated. The wind no longer felt cold and everything grew still and silent. Slow.
Silent.
Warm.
End.
And then it began.
It was just after six in the evening three months after the world went to Hell. Taern ghosted through the streets without making a sound, following after a man in a long blue coat. He stopped as the man reached a blank wall, looking up at it's height. He was almost as tall as Taern, but stood hunched over which made him seem much smaller.
“I know you're there Taern,” He said, “You don't have to hide.” Taern stepped out of the shadows and faced the man, keeping his hood covered.
“You know me,” he said.
“I remember you. Years ago it seems. Back in a time when you weren't afraid to walk out into the light.” He looked up at the street lamp lighting the small patch of gravel he stood on. Taern stayed as far from the illumination as possible. The man smiled sadly, his eyes swimming in the faint light, “Come with me Taern, we have something to discuss.”
He turned and began walking down along the wall, going toward the right. Taern thought about stopping him, but then began to follow. His eyes darted along the shadows, trying to keep everything that moved within his sight. The shakes were getting worse, he needed to finish this soon.
The man led him through the alleys until they reached the main road. Once there they followed a side road that led to a neighborhood of houses. They were all lit, the windows streaming light and the faint sound of voices crying through the doorways. Mothers called for their children to come inside out of the cold and fathers demanded that they hurry because they wanted dinner. The ground was crisp and chill, a faint frost dusting the lawns and houses.
“Wait a moment, Taern,” the man turned to face him once more, his green coat hovering around him, “We don't have to continue on just yet.” Taern stopped, his black boots crunching into the cold grass and breaking their fragile stems. His breath hovered around his face like a cloud and his fingers felt numb with the cold. He was still shaking, but he could control it for a little while longer. The man had to know how much danger he was in, why wasn't he running? What did he want?
“You think you've lost everything, don't you?” the man asked, trying to peer past the cowl of Taern's cloak. Taern was determined not to reply. His green eyes glittered in the midnight light. “Answer me, Taern,”
“What right do you have to demand anything?” Taern's voice was soft, barely more than a rumble in the night.
“I know something you don't.”
“Then tell me what it is,” He was tired of the wait, he needed this to be over, then he would return to the hills to live out his miserable existence until he couldn't stand to wait any longer. The man looked toward one of the houses on the street. There were more children around that house than any other, a woman calling to them as she wiped her hands on a green towel. Taern let his hand fall to his belt, pulling out a long obsidian blade. The warped, blackened glass reflected none of the dim light around it.
“Do you remember Taern? Do you remember?” The man spoke again, jolting
Taern from his thoughts.
“Remember what?”
“Remember when.” He began to move, walking toward the house with the most children. Taern scowled, his hand trembling where he held the blade. If he didn't answer his questions soon then. . .then what? He'd commit the deed before children?
Innocents?
What if they were like him?
Taern shoved the thought away. There were no others like him. He had searched, he was an anomaly. Unique. Not special, just a freak. He tried to steady the weapon, but if anything the shaking increased. “What are you talking about?” he whispered after the stranger. Why was he following him? Taern began to follow, almost against his will. Why didn't he just complete the deed and be done with it?
“I'm talking about this,” the man said. Taern followed his gaze. There was a little girl, blond, her hair chopped short, her gray eyes glittered in the street light, she knelt in the frosted grass, playing with frozen fingertips. She was freezing, but she continually ignored the woman's calls to come in. “I'm thinking about the girl.” Taern stared, fascinated. She was young, but not a baby, not a child. She had to be closer to 12 or 13. It seemed like years before she finally stood up and began walking toward the house. She walked with a frighteningly familiar step.
“Jessie,” Taern whispered. The name puffed out in a breath of white mist. The girl turned back, as though she'd heard him, then shrugged and rushed forward.
“I know something you don't know,” the man said. But he never finished. Taern yelled, spinning on his heel and ramming the black blade toward the man's heart. Let's see what you know.
The blade slowed, the world hesitated. The wind no longer felt cold and everything grew still and silent. Slow.
Silent.
Warm.
End.
And then it began.
[I]He'd been eleven when his father left. His sisters had all gotten older and left him before his mother got sick. But he'd always played with the chickens outback. Those stupid chickens that weren't good for anything but food. But he played with them, because there'd been no one else to play with.
Men came when he was fifteen. They told him things, things he'd never dreamed of. His mother told him to stay, begged him to stop, but he'd hit her and run away. She couldn't stop him. She was weak because she'd let his father leave. She couldn't stop him, and now she couldn't stop her son either. The boy ran.
He joined the group, he got older, learned how to fight, learned how to take care of himself. He learned that there were things out in this world, things that he didn't care to really know about. They scared him, but he fought them. He killed them, burned them, destroyed them. They grew to fear him, and ran when he came near. But he was strong. He stayed. He fought.
There was a girl, a beautiful girl with curly red hair. He loved her. They talked, smiled, held hands. He was afraid. Was he strong enough? Was she? What would she do if she found out what he did? He couldn't tell her, but he wanted to. He wanted her to love him the way he loved her. But was that possible?
They told him she was a monster, one of the ones he fought against. He told them she wasn't, she was different, he would change her. Tears fell from his eyes for the first time in a long time. He yelled, cried, fought, but he couldn't beat them. He watched in horror as they tied her to a stake and burned her alive, her beautiful green eyes wide with terror. Why? They asked him. Why?
Years later, he left. He wandered. He searched. He found someone, a young boy. Taern jolted within his mind, recognizing the black hair and steel gray eyes. The boy was reserved. Taern hadn't realized he'd been so different, even back then. He was the boy who would change everything. Should he kill him?
The boy was so young, he didn't know what he had done. The danger he had put the young girl in. ######The man felt a pain where his heart had been, so many years ago. He saw the cursed child with the girl. They were happy the way only the young were, before it was beaten out of them. But they didn't have much time left.
But he was too late. By the time he reached them the girl was already dead. The boy was gone, fleeing into the night. He had lost everything. The man searched through the rubble, his heart sinking. And then a small cry reached him. He turned over a spare table cloth, pulling out a young baby. He tucked the baby under his arm and walked away.
More images tumbled through the air. Taern watched every aspect of the man's life. He saw all of the horrible things he had done, all of the good. He watched him kill, watched him save lives. Saw the man save the baby and drop her off here, leave her with the lady at the care center. The man had searched for him for years. Looking for the cursed child. He hadn't found him.
Until now. [/I]
Like he always did, Taern tried to pull back, tried to stop the blade from its killing blow. Like always, he felt the blade bite into the soft flesh, peeling it back, a warm gush of blood seeping from the wound to coat his chilled hands. Gods help him, but it actually felt good.
The man fell to the ground, his eyes glazing over in pain. But a small smile lit his face, a sigh of relief, the last thought entered Taern's mind before the man went still and dark. The last thought to haunt him forever.
[I]Now it's in your hands, Boy.[/I]
* * *
Jade looked up when the lights went out, “Mrs. Laney?” she whispered. A few of the other children started to cry and she grabbed one of the younger kid's hands, gripping it tightly. “Mrs. Laney? What's going on?” There was no reply. The children's sobs were getting louder and Jade had to resist the urge to put her hands over her ears. What was going on?
“Jade?” She turned to the little girl who's hand was grasped tightly in her own, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, the lights just went out.”
“Jade?”
“Yes?”
“What's that?” Jade spun around, her eyes widening as the silvery point of a blade rested at her throat. She froze, her entire body icing over and leaving her immobile. Something flashed in the darkness and the little girl began to cry with the others. Jade couldn't take her eyes off the shiny material pressed up against
her neck.
“Jessie,” a man whispered, his voice was dark, deep. Jade tried to keep herself from quivering, but only slightly succeeded.
“I-I'm not Jessie,” she whispered, the blade pressed tighter against her skin, “I-I'm Jade.”
“Jade?”
“Y-Yes.” She hated the quivering in her voice. She hated the stumble over the words. She straightened her back, tried to seem brave, but it was hard. It was difficult to think about anything but the feeling of the cold steel against her throat. She closed her eyes, hoping that if she couldn't see it gleaming then she wouldn't be able to feel it anymore. But she could. It was cold and sharp.
“What are you doing here?!” It was Mrs. Laney, Jade opened her eyes only slightly to see the woman's blur run toward the stranger. “What are you doing??!” she screamed. Jade jumped backwards when it seemed like her guardian would ram into the intruder, she had her nails out and seemed to be about ready to scrape them across the strangers back when he shifted.
It was so slight, Jade might have missed it if she hadn't been staring at his blur so intently. He barely moved, but in that movement the blade vanished from against her skin and flickered through the air. Mrs. Laney gasped. Jade thought someone was screaming but couldn't tell who. It seemed an eternity, like the world had decided to slow down and stop in that one, measureless moment. Jade opened her eyes wide, because she knew that she couldn't be allowed to miss a second of it.
A light seemed to be coming from Mrs. Laney. A whispy trailing light that flickered against the darkness. Jade frowned, feeling her stomach muscles tighten and jolt, if she squinted, she could see tiny figures dancing in the light. Little people. Most of them looked like Mrs. Laney, only younger. There was a little girl dancing through some flowers, a child crying by a tombstone. Two girls linking arms. A man leaning in to kiss a young woman. The images continued. Until finally the world seemed to speed up and the light vanished into the stranger.
And Mrs. Laney slumped to the ground.
“I'm the girl's father,” the stranger spoke to her corpse, he sounded tired and sad, “I'm here to take her home.” it was only then that Jade realized the screaming was her own.
* * *
Taern dropped his daughter onto a horse and rode. They rode far, the ride seemed like it would last forever, like nothing would ever stop them from just riding and riding and riding. He didn't know how much the young girl could stand but she never complained. She never said anything. Taern wondered how much of the Transition she saw. Did she see death the way he did? Did she have the curse that would make her life a living Hell if she ever shed another persons blood? Or was she just a normal girl who'd been shocked into silence after she'd essentially been kidnapped?
“Do you know who Jessie is?” Taern finally asked, trying to keep his voice impassive. He didn't know what to think of this girl, but she looked so like her. Looked exactly like the woman Taern had loved so long ago. Was it even possible that this was really her daughter?
“No,” the girl said, her voice quiet, “I don't know her.” She sounded strong despite the lack of volume. Taern could almost believe she wasn't frightened. Almost. He nodded and continued to ride. The two fresh lifespans he'd consumed warmed his insides and played out behind his eyelids. Sometimes he would do nothing for days after a Transition but sit and watch the life of the person he'd consumed. He sit and watch, criticize their stupidity, feel proud at their triumphs and cry at their sorrows. He almost never thought about how he'd killed them anymore. He never thought about how they would never get to return to whatever family they'd had before. He didn't think about how he was the one who had stolen their lives from them.
No, he couldn't think that way. Instead he would sit and watch, the memories alive and fresh in his veins. He felt good, felt alive as they played out along his insides, as though he had consumed their very souls and they were no warming his. He supposed that in a sense they were. If he even had a soul anymore.
Going without a Transition for more than a couple of days was torture for him. He would get the shakes first, but if he didn't satisfy his need soon then he would convulse on the floor, vomiting until he found the strength to push forward until he found the next life he wanted to consume. He couldn't live without them. If you could call whatever it was he did living.
The man he'd consumed had been a member of a group of people that hunted monsters like him. People who were different, who had. . . abilities. Some had the powers of the gods, others were more like curses. For Taern, it was a living nightmare. The man he'd killed should have been hunting him, but he hadn't been. He'd been leading Taern to his daughter. To the child of the only person Taern hadn't felt the need to kill, the only person who he had wanted to consume in an entirely different way. .
Taern bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. The tip of his forehead rested against his daughter's hair, making her shift uncomfortably beneath him. “Who are you?” she finally asked. She had Jessie's fierce temper. Taern looked up, they were traveling through fields of grass. The mountains in the distance. Should he take her there or should he continue to a town?
What, precisely, had he ever thought about doing with this child?
“I'm Taern,” he said, “Your mother was Jessie.” He didn't want to talk about it, but the words felt compelled to come out of him. Maybe it was because he'd never spoken them aloud before. Only let them consume his nightmares. “What's your name?”
“J-” Taern could almost here her clamping her jaw in an attempt to stop stuttering, “Jade.”
“That's a pretty name.”
“Why did you kidnap me?”
“Because. . .” Why had he kidnapped her? “Because you're my daughter too.” The girl fell silent for a moment, her body shaking.
“You killed Mrs. Laney.”
“Yes.”
“W-why?” Taern was taken by surprise at the question. Which was odd, since it really wasn't that strange of a question. In fact, it was rather reasonable. Why had he killed the woman? Maybe he was just so used to killing by now that the thought of there actually being a legitimate reason astounded him. When was there ever a good reason for killing someone? Didn't that seem a little like a oxymoron?
“She. . . was in the way.” Taern squinted, trying to pretend that there was something he was trying to see in the distance. The girl shivered in his arms and he tightened them automatically around her. She stiffened but he pretended to ignore it.
“What are you?” she whispered. Taern dug his spurs into the horse's flank, making him leap forward. The wind howled in his ears, his heartbeat loud in his chest. What are you? What are you? What are you?
The girl didn't ask anymore questions.
There was a little village at the bottom of the mountains. It was cute. The little houses all lined up in rows behind the main street. There weren't many shops, most of the “villagers” lived further out on their farms. Jade shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, obviously feeling restless. Taern was slightly surprised, forgetting the hours it had taken for him to become accustomed to the saddle. She would be sore for days. They headed toward the town, stopping at the little inn that hovered just at the edge of town. Taern jumped off the horse, extending his hand for the girl. She hesitated, obviously unwilling to take it, when he grabbed her and pulled her down. A stable hand came out and took the horse, leading him toward the stables. The girl crossed her arms and looked away, still quivering slightly. Taern wondered if she was cold.
He grabbed her shoulder and steered her into the Inn, half expecting her to make a run for it the moment they walked in the door. People stopped and stared as they walked in. A few whispered urgently to each other. Taern walked up to the bar tender and ordered a drink and some water. The man stared at him for a moment, his jaw agape.
“Taern. . .You're. . .”
“The drinks Sampson.” Taern said.
“You're not supposed to be here, Freak,” the voice came from a man behind them. Taern glanced over his shoulder and saw a huge man standing up in his chair. His girth doubled past his belt and rippled as he straightened. Taern was dwarfed in comparison.
Jade watched as her captor sighed, his expression mildly annoyed, “Do you really want to push this?” he asked, “It's been years.”
“You should never have shown your face here again,” the big man said. Taern bit back a grimace. Jade scooted closer to him. He killed Mrs. Laney, but he wasn't nearly as frightening looking as the men around her. She hated herself for it, but she stayed close. “Who's the girl?” the big man demanded, “Now you're resorting to children.”
Taern made a snap decision, “She's my daughter,” he said. There was murmuring and angry noises from the onlookers, Taern couldn't help but smile, “Maybe
you should fear her as much as you fear me.”
“Is she like you?” For the first time, the giant looked small as he cowered before a twelve year old girl.
“Do you want to find out?” Taern's expression was neutral and uninterested. His eyebrow raised ever so slightly. Jade shifted uncomfortably under all the stares, but something else was stirring too. It was like she wanted them to come at her. She wanted to see if she could beat them. She wanted to see if she could beat them all.
Was. . . was she like her father?
“Get out!” The bar tender yelled. Taern glowered at him.
“I want my drinks,” he said, the entire tavern had gone silent. Taern reached to his belt and pulled out a long black dagger. All the light seemed to be drawn to it, like a black hole. Jade couldn't tear her eyes away from it. She wanted it. The same strange feeling she'd had when all of those men were staring at her, she wanted it. She wanted to feel it in her hand, she wanted to know if she could wield it. Or would it wield her?
What did that mean? How could a knife wield someone?
“How long has it been Taern? Since you last. . . fed.” It was the bar tender again, his voice gruff in the silence. Taern raised his eyebrows at him it was the only facial expression he gave.
“Last night,” he said, his body was completely calm, none of the tell tale shakes to show his usual need.
“Then maybe you'll run dry,” Something big leaped forward, ramming into Taern and knocking him backwards into the bar. The bar tender smashed a bottle, making the glass fly away in jagged, sharp points. The newly forged weapon was shoved toward Taern's throat but he was already in motion. He shoved his first attacker back, spinning and shoving him into the broken bottle. The bar keeper gasped and tried to pull back, but it was too late, the glass had already run him through. Now the others were in motion, the entire bar was in chaos, most running to mob Taern and the others dashing for the exit.
Taern leaped and rolled, moving so quickly he seemed like he was flying. His black dagger was merciless, drinking up the flood of life as it cracked their bodies open. Jade was fascinated, it was like everything was going in slow motion. He would be about to sink the dagger in and everything would slow, and the little light figures would begin to dance into Taern. Jade watched all of them, her father draining the body dry, before he would try to pull the knife back and spare the attacker.
It was always too late.
And then everything would speed up again.
As he fought, Taern looked like he was bursting with health. His eyes were bright, his skin gleaming. The more he killed the healthier he looked. Jade huddled underneath the bar, her legs curled up under her as the whirlwind of sound and screams cascaded down from everywhere. Part of her wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out and yell and yell and yell until the world stopped and people stopped dying. The bodies looked very strange right before they hit the ground, like something was missing. Like he'd done more than take their life. Some were grimacing, some crying, some growling, but all had one thing in common. They were dead.
What a worthless way to die.
Shouldn't death mean something? Why didn't it mean anything for them? Blood flooded the girl's cheeks as she glared at the men attacking her father and dying. They were all dying, and for what? Shouldn't they try to stay alive so it isn't worthless? Or was everything worthless already? Was that why they kept on fighting?
But no. . . now they were running. The few still standing turned and ran from Taern, some of them yelling, some of them just fleeing as fast as possible. The bar keeper was slumped over the counter, his hand still clutching the broken bottle. There were at least six men lying on the ground. None of them were breathing. None of them were moving at all.
Taern didn't leave survivors. Why didn't that surprise her?
Or more importantly, why didn't it mortify her?
Jade pulled herself out from under the bar, looking down at the bodies that lay between her and Taern. There was something missing. Something vital. A soul? Jade wasn't sure she believed in souls. She wasn't sure that such a thing existed. She knew what did exist though, lives. Living. People had stories, they had lives, they had secrets. Was that what was gone? Did such a thing leave a mark upon a person? She turned to her father, who was staring at her from dark eyes. He didn't say anything, just stood there. His blade wasn't even bloody, it still gleamed from the light it sucked into it.
“I know what you do,” She whispered. Taern tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, examining his daughter. “Stories.”
“What?”
“Their stories. You steal them. That's the only thing that nobody should be able to take, but you take them. You take their life story.” Jade took a deep breath, surprised that she was trembling. Taern started to take a step toward her when she vomited all over the floor. She fell forward onto her knees, her hands snaking out at the last moment to catch herself. There were tears in her eyes, but she couldn't seem to make them go away. “You steal them,” she repeated, “You steal their stories.”
* * *
“Does it hurt?” She seemed tired, her eyes drooping and red. She poked at the fire with a long stick, roasting the tip of it. Fire was strange. It only consumed. It ate and ate and ate without regards to anything else. Any good that it had, any good it presented, was just a by-factor of the consumption.
“No,” Taern said, “Not anymore.” Of course not. Why should it hurt him? Jade swallowed the lump in her throat. Did he think of them as friends? He must know them more than their closest family members. He would see where they were born, where they came from, their first love, their every loss. . . did he hate them? Or did he love them? Did their faces haunt his dreams? Would Mrs. Laney be remembered among all those faces?
“H-how do you. . .live?”
“By breathing.” Taern stopped, gazing up at the sky, “In and out.”
“You know what I mean,” she snapped at him, it seemed wrong. He shouldn't say things like that. He shouldn't joke. It wasn't funny. He didn't reply. The snap of the logs being consumed by the flames sent up a flurry of sparks. She jerked away to avoid getting burned. “Will it happen to me?” he stayed silent. “Answer me!”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say no,” there was a catch in her voice now, but she shoved it down, “I want you to say nothing is wrong with me.”
“You want me to say you're not like me.”
“Yes.”
“I can't.”
“So I am like you?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You just don't know.”
“No, I don't.”
“How can you stand it!? How can you look at them. . .”
“I don't look anymore.”
“Did you ever?”
He flinched slightly, but didn't look at her face. His eyes reflected the dancing flames. “I remember their eyes,” he finally said, “They were black. Soulless. Looking into them for too long made me feel like I was drowning. So no, I don't look at them anymore.” He stood up abruptly. Agitated. The flames parted in his eyes and Jade wondered if maybe she could see the memories, feelings and stories playing out behind his gaze. Did he still watch them when it was over? Did he remember all of their names? Did he love them or hate them? She had to know. She had to know if she was like him. She had to know if she was cursed like he was.
“Why did you take me?” she whispered, “I would have been safe where I was, I would never have the opportunity to. . .to. . .to kill anyone. I wouldn't have to worry about it!” Why did she worry about it now? What was the point? If she just didn't kill anyone. If she just didn't slide that obsidian dagger into anyone's lifeblood. . .
“Because.” Taern raised his hands and then dropped them lifelessly. “You look like her.”
“What?”
“Jessie.” he turned away, “You look like Jessie.” It wasn't an excuse. It didn't even come close to an excuse. And yet Jade laid down by her spot near the fire and didn't ask anymore questions. She didn't want to know, she decided. She didn't want to understand.
The night passed swiftly. Jade dreamed of monsters and fangs dripping with blood. When she woke up, Taern was already packing up the little camp, stamping out the fire, the few belongings already strapped to the horse. Jade laid there for a moment, her breath catching. When she could finally force herself to her feet it felt like the world was trying to shove her back down. What was her story? Did she even have one anymore? All these things happening to her. . .they didn't feel real. Like she was watching it from the sidelines. It was some other girl, some other time, some other reason. It wasn't real. It was all in her head.
Her blood pulsed in her ears, she wondered what it would look like if it spilled out over the ground. Would it be gleaming scarlet? Like rubies? Or would it just fall to the ground while all of her stories were stolen by the man behind her?
Why did she care?
Taern's dagger laid on the grass a few feet away from her. Jade took two steps and swept it into her hands, holding it gently. What would it be like? Having all of those stories to fill up your own? You wouldn't have to think about how your life was worthless, how nothing mattered. Because you would see the things that do matter. You would see the things that are important and some feeling would return to you. Maybe. Maybe he stole the stories because he couldn't live knowing his life had no reason and no point. He couldn't live believing he was a freak, so he killed people who didn't know, he killed them and lived through their lives. Maybe some of them actually made him feel better about himself. Maybe others made him want to die.
Maybe he should die.
“Jade?” His voice was very near. It wasn't angry, it wasn't annoyed, it was tired. Like everything was finally hitting him.
“How many have you killed?” she whispered.
“One or two every week for twelve years.” he said quietly. She nodded, her hands trembling. The dagger turned, pointing toward her.
“Do you love them?” she said, her breath puffing out in the morning air, gently misting her face.
“Every single one.”
Jade nodded, her hands trembling. It would be easy. What stories would she see? What things would she know?
Or should she just end it here and now?
“Jade.” her name sounded pretty coming from his mouth. Like it was something precious. Jade looked behind her at him, looked into those eyes and saw all those stories playing out behind them.
“How did you meet my mother?” she asked.
“We were school mates. She was my best friend. She didn't know I was a freak.”
“How did she die?”
“They found out.”
Jade turned slowly toward him, still clutching the dagger's hilt tightly in her hands, “Do you miss her?”
“Every single day.”
“Every single day,” Jade repeated, “Every single day.” The knife flew forward and everything slowed down. The blade slowed, the world hesitated. The wind no longer felt cold and everything grew still and silent. Slow.
Silent.
Warm.
End.
And then it began.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Titleless
Look up.
Look down.
Look to the side.
Look around.
What do you see?
What do you want?
What do you hope for?
What can you pray for?
I don't know.
I never knew.
I don't understand.
I don't think you do.
Have you seen a person?
Have you seen a soul?
Have you seen the eyes of a pain wrecked hole?
Have you wondered why the world doesn't always seem to turn?
Done is the beginning.
Done is the end.
Done is my endless wandering around this wretched bin.
Done is my only cry as the horror pushes on.
Look what I have done.
Look down.
Look to the side.
Look around.
What do you see?
What do you want?
What do you hope for?
What can you pray for?
I don't know.
I never knew.
I don't understand.
I don't think you do.
Have you seen a person?
Have you seen a soul?
Have you seen the eyes of a pain wrecked hole?
Have you wondered why the world doesn't always seem to turn?
Done is the beginning.
Done is the end.
Done is my endless wandering around this wretched bin.
Done is my only cry as the horror pushes on.
Look what I have done.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Light
Can you see light?
The light in the sky, the light in the wind, in the trees. Can you see the soul? The soul of a person, thought, being.
I thought we'd all get along great, I thought this world would hold true.
It doesn't.
It won't.
Light.
It flies through space and time, it goes faster than anything, moves more gracefully and efficiently. Why can't we all just be a little more like light?
What are we missing?
Choices.
We make mistakes, we are delusional, we forget. I don't want to forget, but how can I not?
Why do I write?
I write because to not would be to kill me, I write because I'm whinny, I write because I don't know what else to do.
Fly.
Soar.
Light.
Shine.
Don't forget. But what is it you really want to remember?
This is the way my brain thinks. This is the way that it functions and rolls. Do you recognize it? Can you see similarities between my brain and yours?
Or am I really all alone?
The light in the sky, the light in the wind, in the trees. Can you see the soul? The soul of a person, thought, being.
I thought we'd all get along great, I thought this world would hold true.
It doesn't.
It won't.
Light.
It flies through space and time, it goes faster than anything, moves more gracefully and efficiently. Why can't we all just be a little more like light?
What are we missing?
Choices.
We make mistakes, we are delusional, we forget. I don't want to forget, but how can I not?
Why do I write?
I write because to not would be to kill me, I write because I'm whinny, I write because I don't know what else to do.
Fly.
Soar.
Light.
Shine.
Don't forget. But what is it you really want to remember?
This is the way my brain thinks. This is the way that it functions and rolls. Do you recognize it? Can you see similarities between my brain and yours?
Or am I really all alone?
Monday, October 25, 2010
Home
I'm not sure I like the idea of putting this one up here, but I'll do it anyway. This is another essay about another close topic. This one talks about home.
There's this street in my hometown of American Fork that runs exactly through the middle of everything. It's not extremely long, but it will take you from the New Walmart, to the library, through the fast food restaurants and all the way passed Macey's. It isn't the best street in the world-- No street within the borders of AF could be considered “The Best”-- but I cannot ride, walk, or look down it without having flashback mania.
Everything happens on that street. I worked on it; my best friend worked on it; it was the street we drove on to get anywhere and it was the street I walked on to travel everywhere! It was the street you could not avoid.
Once, after my best friend Caitlyn was finished working at the library, she, John and I were all hanging out around her car, staring out at that street. We were laughing, talking, teasing each other and texting everyone else in the known universe while we were doing it. I remember trying to keep things light while not actually looking at either of them since they would continually make goo goo eyes at each other, something that made me uncomfortable.
Knowing us at this period of time, it would never have surprised you that we were chatting with each other and texting every other friend known to mankind. Why? Because this was “The Era of Great Depression,” a period of time ranging approximately from January to the beginning of March. My senior year was terrible but January and February were the worst on dealing with it. So if we had a spare moment, it was spent hanging out with our friends and texting the ones that couldn't be there.
On this particular night, we were the unwilling witnesses to a texting battle we had been prepared for but didn't particularly want. It was between two of my closest friends, Erika and Amanda, and I don't even remember what it was about anymore. It lasted for. . . an hour? An hour and a half? Somewhere around there, and I played my usual role of jumping between the two trying to figure out what was going on. And at the same time was keeping up a pleasant conversation with Caitlyn and John and acting happy and hyper.
We were a bipolar bunch. Or we just had really good masks.
Even though I don't remember the specific reason for the fight, I do remember the sudden feeling of panic when Amanda sent out a text that said something along the lines of, “Whatever. It's fine. I just can't do this anymore,” and then stopped responding. Knowing Amanda at the time and the different things she was going through caused me to jump to a less-than-stellar conclusion as to what she meant. I launched myself into Caitlyn's Volkswagon Bug, Owen, (Yes, we named the car, and it was one of the coolest cars on the face of the planet. I swear, I spent more time in that beat up piece of junk then I did in my own house!) and told Caitlyn to drive to Amanda's as fast as she could!
I had been almost positive that Amanda was going to commit suicide.
I can't ride down that street at night without having flashbacks of that evening. It didn't turn out the way I thought it would; Amanda had no intents on committing suicide and had to talk to me for a good forty-five minutes before I would calm down. But as strange and anxious as the event was, it was only one of a long list of weird nights that I could spend pages upon pages talking about. See, American Fork is a dinky little town in the middle of Utah County. Nothing “cool” is ever supposed to happen there because it is Mormonsville within Mormonsville. The whole scenario is supposedly quite drab and altogether sleep-through worthy. And it was drab for most of my time living there. I had a few adventures when I was younger, but nothing too extravagant. Nothing that would scar me or make me remember every detail of a specific location or time for the rest of my life.
Until my senior year of course.
Then everything went a little psycho.
So home, to me, isn't home without the memories creeping up on me and sometimes forcing me into a little ball of pain. There have been many times where I want to hide from them and then turn around and realize that many of them were amazing On that same main street there is a park that sits right in front of our town Library. I sat there with the first boy I'd had a crush on in years and talked to him for hours. He kissed me in that park, on three different occasions. I can't walk through it without noticing the spots we sat, the places where he explained his life to me. It makes me smile even as it makes me sad.
In fact, I don't think there is a single spot in that entire city that doesn't bring back a rush of memories for me. Driving through the city with Caitlyn, running in the cool morning air, getting ready to have John teach me self-defense; getting my first bruise from said self-defense. I did a lot of crazy things my senior year. Not going to deny how fun it was, but it also left a lot of scars in a lot of places. The High School being one of the greatest. I never want to return there again, because the memories there are sharper than the memories on main street.
It was at the front of that building that the buses pulled up to a huge crowd of people, all standing silently with tear-filled eyes. I remember wanting to hide my face, duck down under the cushions and never come out. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, to pull myself upright and walk with the rest of my band down the aisle of the bus and walk out those doors and into the crowd. They were all clapping their hands, the tension building in the air because I could tell that many of them wanted to break through those carefully constructed lines and rush at us. To be able to grab hold of their friends and children and never let them go again. I had to turn away my face because tears were beginning to fall from my already cracked and tired eyes.
I'll never forget that night; the night of the bush crash where one of our teachers was lost and a fourth of our band didn't come home with us, but instead were taken in emergency vehicles to the hospital. That night haunted me for months, making me unable to sleep and soaking my pillow through with tears. No, I don't want to go back to the High School. Some memories are even more painful than others.
My room was probably the place that I can most assuredly call home. I lived in the rest of the house only kind of. If I was home, I was hibernating. Which isn't to say that me and my family weren't getting along just fine, I just often wanted to be alone. Of course, that's only when I actually was home. Usually I was out with my friends doing some stupid thing or other; but if I was home, I was in my room. And if I was in my room, then I was texting.
Oh the wonders of texting! Most people would be astounded at my mad skills in that area. I've had fights, emotional realizations, and therapy sessions all via text message. Lots and lots and lots of therapy sessions. Usually they weren't for me, though I'll admit that some were, but most of my therapy sessions were for the friends who were struggling the most at the time. I love them all dearly, but I also stayed up until three in the morning talking to a few of them to make them feel better about themselves without them remembering that I would be getting up two hours later to go running.
Not exactly considerate but, at the same time, I never blamed them, or told them to stop. I wanted to be there, because for some strange reason I thought that maybe my presence helped. We were all depressed, but we clung to each other in the hope that maybe it would get better. And not all of my conversations were depressing. Many of them were fun and happy! Those are the ones I wish I could remember better.
My room became a place of music to keep me awake, homework half done as I texted my friends, and novels. Lots and lots of novels! I couldn't get enough of them throughout my childhood, let alone through my senior year. My room was my refuge; my hidden space. I loved it there and can still close my eyes and remember it exactly the way it was, before we cleaned it out and moved me to Provo.
So what does home mean to me? To be honest, the feelings are mixed. The memories of home all seem to be sharply inclined toward pain, which was actually one of the reasons I decided to move to BYU in the first place. I was tired of the flashbacks, tired of being unable to go down a single street without being taken back to that moment, or that second, whether good or bad. But by the same token, I wouldn't want those memories to ever go away. I wouldn't want to ever forget. Because those are the memories that shaped me, that shaped who I am today.
So I guess my only definition of home would have to be the result: Me.
There's this street in my hometown of American Fork that runs exactly through the middle of everything. It's not extremely long, but it will take you from the New Walmart, to the library, through the fast food restaurants and all the way passed Macey's. It isn't the best street in the world-- No street within the borders of AF could be considered “The Best”-- but I cannot ride, walk, or look down it without having flashback mania.
Everything happens on that street. I worked on it; my best friend worked on it; it was the street we drove on to get anywhere and it was the street I walked on to travel everywhere! It was the street you could not avoid.
Once, after my best friend Caitlyn was finished working at the library, she, John and I were all hanging out around her car, staring out at that street. We were laughing, talking, teasing each other and texting everyone else in the known universe while we were doing it. I remember trying to keep things light while not actually looking at either of them since they would continually make goo goo eyes at each other, something that made me uncomfortable.
Knowing us at this period of time, it would never have surprised you that we were chatting with each other and texting every other friend known to mankind. Why? Because this was “The Era of Great Depression,” a period of time ranging approximately from January to the beginning of March. My senior year was terrible but January and February were the worst on dealing with it. So if we had a spare moment, it was spent hanging out with our friends and texting the ones that couldn't be there.
On this particular night, we were the unwilling witnesses to a texting battle we had been prepared for but didn't particularly want. It was between two of my closest friends, Erika and Amanda, and I don't even remember what it was about anymore. It lasted for. . . an hour? An hour and a half? Somewhere around there, and I played my usual role of jumping between the two trying to figure out what was going on. And at the same time was keeping up a pleasant conversation with Caitlyn and John and acting happy and hyper.
We were a bipolar bunch. Or we just had really good masks.
Even though I don't remember the specific reason for the fight, I do remember the sudden feeling of panic when Amanda sent out a text that said something along the lines of, “Whatever. It's fine. I just can't do this anymore,” and then stopped responding. Knowing Amanda at the time and the different things she was going through caused me to jump to a less-than-stellar conclusion as to what she meant. I launched myself into Caitlyn's Volkswagon Bug, Owen, (Yes, we named the car, and it was one of the coolest cars on the face of the planet. I swear, I spent more time in that beat up piece of junk then I did in my own house!) and told Caitlyn to drive to Amanda's as fast as she could!
I had been almost positive that Amanda was going to commit suicide.
I can't ride down that street at night without having flashbacks of that evening. It didn't turn out the way I thought it would; Amanda had no intents on committing suicide and had to talk to me for a good forty-five minutes before I would calm down. But as strange and anxious as the event was, it was only one of a long list of weird nights that I could spend pages upon pages talking about. See, American Fork is a dinky little town in the middle of Utah County. Nothing “cool” is ever supposed to happen there because it is Mormonsville within Mormonsville. The whole scenario is supposedly quite drab and altogether sleep-through worthy. And it was drab for most of my time living there. I had a few adventures when I was younger, but nothing too extravagant. Nothing that would scar me or make me remember every detail of a specific location or time for the rest of my life.
Until my senior year of course.
Then everything went a little psycho.
So home, to me, isn't home without the memories creeping up on me and sometimes forcing me into a little ball of pain. There have been many times where I want to hide from them and then turn around and realize that many of them were amazing On that same main street there is a park that sits right in front of our town Library. I sat there with the first boy I'd had a crush on in years and talked to him for hours. He kissed me in that park, on three different occasions. I can't walk through it without noticing the spots we sat, the places where he explained his life to me. It makes me smile even as it makes me sad.
In fact, I don't think there is a single spot in that entire city that doesn't bring back a rush of memories for me. Driving through the city with Caitlyn, running in the cool morning air, getting ready to have John teach me self-defense; getting my first bruise from said self-defense. I did a lot of crazy things my senior year. Not going to deny how fun it was, but it also left a lot of scars in a lot of places. The High School being one of the greatest. I never want to return there again, because the memories there are sharper than the memories on main street.
It was at the front of that building that the buses pulled up to a huge crowd of people, all standing silently with tear-filled eyes. I remember wanting to hide my face, duck down under the cushions and never come out. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, to pull myself upright and walk with the rest of my band down the aisle of the bus and walk out those doors and into the crowd. They were all clapping their hands, the tension building in the air because I could tell that many of them wanted to break through those carefully constructed lines and rush at us. To be able to grab hold of their friends and children and never let them go again. I had to turn away my face because tears were beginning to fall from my already cracked and tired eyes.
I'll never forget that night; the night of the bush crash where one of our teachers was lost and a fourth of our band didn't come home with us, but instead were taken in emergency vehicles to the hospital. That night haunted me for months, making me unable to sleep and soaking my pillow through with tears. No, I don't want to go back to the High School. Some memories are even more painful than others.
My room was probably the place that I can most assuredly call home. I lived in the rest of the house only kind of. If I was home, I was hibernating. Which isn't to say that me and my family weren't getting along just fine, I just often wanted to be alone. Of course, that's only when I actually was home. Usually I was out with my friends doing some stupid thing or other; but if I was home, I was in my room. And if I was in my room, then I was texting.
Oh the wonders of texting! Most people would be astounded at my mad skills in that area. I've had fights, emotional realizations, and therapy sessions all via text message. Lots and lots and lots of therapy sessions. Usually they weren't for me, though I'll admit that some were, but most of my therapy sessions were for the friends who were struggling the most at the time. I love them all dearly, but I also stayed up until three in the morning talking to a few of them to make them feel better about themselves without them remembering that I would be getting up two hours later to go running.
Not exactly considerate but, at the same time, I never blamed them, or told them to stop. I wanted to be there, because for some strange reason I thought that maybe my presence helped. We were all depressed, but we clung to each other in the hope that maybe it would get better. And not all of my conversations were depressing. Many of them were fun and happy! Those are the ones I wish I could remember better.
My room became a place of music to keep me awake, homework half done as I texted my friends, and novels. Lots and lots of novels! I couldn't get enough of them throughout my childhood, let alone through my senior year. My room was my refuge; my hidden space. I loved it there and can still close my eyes and remember it exactly the way it was, before we cleaned it out and moved me to Provo.
So what does home mean to me? To be honest, the feelings are mixed. The memories of home all seem to be sharply inclined toward pain, which was actually one of the reasons I decided to move to BYU in the first place. I was tired of the flashbacks, tired of being unable to go down a single street without being taken back to that moment, or that second, whether good or bad. But by the same token, I wouldn't want those memories to ever go away. I wouldn't want to ever forget. Because those are the memories that shaped me, that shaped who I am today.
So I guess my only definition of home would have to be the result: Me.
Memory
Okay, this isn't a story, but it's an essay and it's for creative writing so I think it's okay.
I really like this one.
I have a lot of really good memories. I have memories of days I took on dragons and monsters and knights in battle armor. I have memories of picking locks and stealing goods for the poor, or being Princess Peach and battling Bowser. I have memories of arguing with my step-brother about whether or not Wood Elves were better than Light Elves, and of acting out a story that would later turn into my first novel. Going through my drawer of memories is like watching a movie of adventures; half of them fake, half of them real. I know that some of my childhood extravaganzas will go away and fade with time, but the real memories, the ones I breathed in and saw and felt, will remain with me forever.
I've mentioned in a few essays about how this last year was life-changing for me. I've talked about how it was difficult and how it was filled with pain and challenges. That's all true, but some of that pain led to the most memorable experience I have ever had. And for a change, it isn't one that will haunt my nightmares.
Sadly, the wonderful experience wouldn't have occurred without the tragedy that preceded it. On October 10, 2009 the American Fork High School Marching Band was coming home from Pocatello, Idaho after sweeping, or winning every caption, of the Pocatello competition. I can still remember how good we all felt! I was laughing and talking with my friend Zoe and sending a random text every once in a while to my friend Shelby, who was on a different bus because she was a woodwind and played clarinet. It was a little unusual that I actually had my phone on me, since I had often forgot it in my case or at home during those days.
I will never forget the moment Mr. Arnold, our assistant director, stood up and shouted at us all to “Shut up!” His voice was panicked, a phone to his ear. The message was delivered down the bus as the vehicle pulled over and sat there. I didn't know what to think, what to do. It was several hours later that any of us knew the extent of what had happened in that second.
One of our buses had overturned, the driver passed out at the wheel. They had narrowly avoided falling off a sheer cliff side only a few feet to their right. It was the woodwind bus. Our teacher, Heather Christensen, had jumped forward the instant she saw the driver begin to teeter at the wheel. She'd grabbed it, barely managing to maneuver the bus away from the drop beside them; she was thrown out the window and smashed beneath the monster for her troubles.
She saved all of those children's lives.
Everyone I knew had started to call, or text, my phone. They asked if I was okay, asked about what had happened. I gave them all a mechanical, genial response, unable to think past the fog in my brain. At first I had panicked, thinking Shelby had been on that bus, but she hadn't been. She'd been on the Color Guard bus. She, Erika, and John had all waited for me because I had been late and they hadn't been able to find a spot on the woodwind bus that day.
It was my fault that my three best friends in band weren't on that bus when it crashed and flipped.
Am I a bad person for being grateful for that? Am I horrible and evil for thanking God that I had been a few minutes late? How dare I be grateful that my closest friends weren't on that bus when others were. How dare I feel even a glimmer of happiness on that night when the world went to Hell.
I've kept my phone on my person every second of the day ever since that moment. I didn't even march without it in my pocket. Leaving it for even a moment makes me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. What if something happened? What if I couldn't reach my friends in time?
Unfortunately, it's necessary for me to explain this experience in order to understand the one that came after it. My world was shattered that night; a quarter of my family, my fellow band members, had been on that bus. Had been in danger. We all became so close as a band family, it's hard to even comprehend one of them being lost. Because of Heather, not one of them were taken away from us. The police made sure to push this point home to us, over and over. This was a miracle.
They all should have died.
Our band tour that year would take us to the Western Regional Championship. My first year in marching band the American Fork Band got second in the Western Region for the first time since we'd been founded. I still consider that one of the best memories I have. In 2008 we had actually won first place in the entire Region. That memory is one of the shinning points of my life.
And yet, that doesn't hold a candle to how what it felt when we marched onto that field in 2009. This year, this time, I wasn't marching for me. I wasn't marching for anything that I wanted. I wasn't marching for glory or for the chance to win the championship. I was marching for the person who saved my family. The person who protected the people I care about. Flashbacks played underneath my eyelids, bringing that night back to me with perfect clarity. Sobs were clogged in my throat, but I held my head up high, eyes shinning as the rest of my family marched around me. They were all there. Not one of them was missing from this most important of all performances.
It was because of her that they all had been there, standing and marching beside me.
I prayed hard that night, closing my eyes in those moments right before we marched onto the field. My friends surrounded me, the trumpet section being more accepting than I had ever known them to be. They were literally my brothers and sisters. I hugged each and every one of them, individually. Then I went and sought out John, Shelby, and Erika. Then I went and looked for Zoe's little brother, Sam, who had been on that bus that night. I hugged him too. It was time to perform.
There are no words. No words that could ever give justice to marching onto that field beneath that crowd. No words to explain the lights that shinned down, to explain the goosebumps that erupted along my skin as I looked up at the screaming crowd as they leaped off their chairs and cheered us on. No words to describe the feeling of the tears falling down my cheeks and onto my beautiful silver trumpet.
I wish something I wrote could ever give it justice. I wish something I spoke would ever be able to explain, but it won't. I could never even come close.
We performed. We performed in a way that I have never done before nor sense. Even when we went to Grand Nationals afterward, something nobody thought would happen, it didn't match this moment. It came close, but I had been hoping for another performance after that one. On this occasion, I thought that this would be my final show. The final time I would stand in that uniform, perform this music. On this occasion, I thought it was my final chance to give tribute to my hero.
I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire stadium. I know mine weren't; the tears cascaded down my cheeks but I had to ignore them. I couldn't focus on them, because I needed to perform that night. And tears would only get in my way. I played with everything I had. I tried to put my soul into my horn, put my heart into the music. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. I never stood straighter, held my horn higher, or looked upon the judges with more pride.
We had a purpose. We were one family and we had lost a member. A beautiful wonderful woman who had saved her children. We were playing for her.
For Heather.
When it was finished, not a single soul remained in their seats. Not one person attempted to stop the flow of moisture from their eyes. The lump in my throat grew into an unbearable size and my tears flowed unhindered. Looking around me showed the same for everyone else.
So if someone asks me, “What is your most memorable experience?” Or asks what I have accomplished in my life so far, I will always give them an answer. I will always tell them it was the night I played my horn for a hero. I will tell them it was the night we won Western Regionals.
It was the night Heather Christensen looked down from heaven and smiled.
I really like this one.
I have a lot of really good memories. I have memories of days I took on dragons and monsters and knights in battle armor. I have memories of picking locks and stealing goods for the poor, or being Princess Peach and battling Bowser. I have memories of arguing with my step-brother about whether or not Wood Elves were better than Light Elves, and of acting out a story that would later turn into my first novel. Going through my drawer of memories is like watching a movie of adventures; half of them fake, half of them real. I know that some of my childhood extravaganzas will go away and fade with time, but the real memories, the ones I breathed in and saw and felt, will remain with me forever.
I've mentioned in a few essays about how this last year was life-changing for me. I've talked about how it was difficult and how it was filled with pain and challenges. That's all true, but some of that pain led to the most memorable experience I have ever had. And for a change, it isn't one that will haunt my nightmares.
Sadly, the wonderful experience wouldn't have occurred without the tragedy that preceded it. On October 10, 2009 the American Fork High School Marching Band was coming home from Pocatello, Idaho after sweeping, or winning every caption, of the Pocatello competition. I can still remember how good we all felt! I was laughing and talking with my friend Zoe and sending a random text every once in a while to my friend Shelby, who was on a different bus because she was a woodwind and played clarinet. It was a little unusual that I actually had my phone on me, since I had often forgot it in my case or at home during those days.
I will never forget the moment Mr. Arnold, our assistant director, stood up and shouted at us all to “Shut up!” His voice was panicked, a phone to his ear. The message was delivered down the bus as the vehicle pulled over and sat there. I didn't know what to think, what to do. It was several hours later that any of us knew the extent of what had happened in that second.
One of our buses had overturned, the driver passed out at the wheel. They had narrowly avoided falling off a sheer cliff side only a few feet to their right. It was the woodwind bus. Our teacher, Heather Christensen, had jumped forward the instant she saw the driver begin to teeter at the wheel. She'd grabbed it, barely managing to maneuver the bus away from the drop beside them; she was thrown out the window and smashed beneath the monster for her troubles.
She saved all of those children's lives.
Everyone I knew had started to call, or text, my phone. They asked if I was okay, asked about what had happened. I gave them all a mechanical, genial response, unable to think past the fog in my brain. At first I had panicked, thinking Shelby had been on that bus, but she hadn't been. She'd been on the Color Guard bus. She, Erika, and John had all waited for me because I had been late and they hadn't been able to find a spot on the woodwind bus that day.
It was my fault that my three best friends in band weren't on that bus when it crashed and flipped.
Am I a bad person for being grateful for that? Am I horrible and evil for thanking God that I had been a few minutes late? How dare I be grateful that my closest friends weren't on that bus when others were. How dare I feel even a glimmer of happiness on that night when the world went to Hell.
I've kept my phone on my person every second of the day ever since that moment. I didn't even march without it in my pocket. Leaving it for even a moment makes me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. What if something happened? What if I couldn't reach my friends in time?
Unfortunately, it's necessary for me to explain this experience in order to understand the one that came after it. My world was shattered that night; a quarter of my family, my fellow band members, had been on that bus. Had been in danger. We all became so close as a band family, it's hard to even comprehend one of them being lost. Because of Heather, not one of them were taken away from us. The police made sure to push this point home to us, over and over. This was a miracle.
They all should have died.
Our band tour that year would take us to the Western Regional Championship. My first year in marching band the American Fork Band got second in the Western Region for the first time since we'd been founded. I still consider that one of the best memories I have. In 2008 we had actually won first place in the entire Region. That memory is one of the shinning points of my life.
And yet, that doesn't hold a candle to how what it felt when we marched onto that field in 2009. This year, this time, I wasn't marching for me. I wasn't marching for anything that I wanted. I wasn't marching for glory or for the chance to win the championship. I was marching for the person who saved my family. The person who protected the people I care about. Flashbacks played underneath my eyelids, bringing that night back to me with perfect clarity. Sobs were clogged in my throat, but I held my head up high, eyes shinning as the rest of my family marched around me. They were all there. Not one of them was missing from this most important of all performances.
It was because of her that they all had been there, standing and marching beside me.
I prayed hard that night, closing my eyes in those moments right before we marched onto the field. My friends surrounded me, the trumpet section being more accepting than I had ever known them to be. They were literally my brothers and sisters. I hugged each and every one of them, individually. Then I went and sought out John, Shelby, and Erika. Then I went and looked for Zoe's little brother, Sam, who had been on that bus that night. I hugged him too. It was time to perform.
There are no words. No words that could ever give justice to marching onto that field beneath that crowd. No words to explain the lights that shinned down, to explain the goosebumps that erupted along my skin as I looked up at the screaming crowd as they leaped off their chairs and cheered us on. No words to describe the feeling of the tears falling down my cheeks and onto my beautiful silver trumpet.
I wish something I wrote could ever give it justice. I wish something I spoke would ever be able to explain, but it won't. I could never even come close.
We performed. We performed in a way that I have never done before nor sense. Even when we went to Grand Nationals afterward, something nobody thought would happen, it didn't match this moment. It came close, but I had been hoping for another performance after that one. On this occasion, I thought that this would be my final show. The final time I would stand in that uniform, perform this music. On this occasion, I thought it was my final chance to give tribute to my hero.
I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire stadium. I know mine weren't; the tears cascaded down my cheeks but I had to ignore them. I couldn't focus on them, because I needed to perform that night. And tears would only get in my way. I played with everything I had. I tried to put my soul into my horn, put my heart into the music. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. I never stood straighter, held my horn higher, or looked upon the judges with more pride.
We had a purpose. We were one family and we had lost a member. A beautiful wonderful woman who had saved her children. We were playing for her.
For Heather.
When it was finished, not a single soul remained in their seats. Not one person attempted to stop the flow of moisture from their eyes. The lump in my throat grew into an unbearable size and my tears flowed unhindered. Looking around me showed the same for everyone else.
So if someone asks me, “What is your most memorable experience?” Or asks what I have accomplished in my life so far, I will always give them an answer. I will always tell them it was the night I played my horn for a hero. I will tell them it was the night we won Western Regionals.
It was the night Heather Christensen looked down from heaven and smiled.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Needle
(This is an older thing of mine, but I still like it.)
The last customer left the shop, the small bell letting out a high ding as the door closed. I sighed in relief, dropping my hands to my sides. Thank goodness, the day was finally over. Mercy bustled around the kitchen as I left the counter and went to help her close up. Flour was everywhere, covering pots, pans and most importantly, Mercy herself. Mercy’s red hair was clinging to her forehead, her green apron only visible under the dough and icing.
“Will you make sure these dishes are cleaned?” She begged, grabbing her coat and getting flour all over the black velvet. “They won’t want to clean them in the morning.”
“Yes, I promise,” I assured her, my eyes rolling. The bakery was Mercy’s heart and soul. The thought of leaving me here alone scared her to death. What if I broke something?
“Just. . . Don’t forget to lock up.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t forget. . .”
“Mercy! Go home.” She threw me an insulted glare before glancing around the shop one more time nervously. Only a few short steps brought me to her side and allowed me to grip her shoulder. I pushed her around and opened the back door one handed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but will my bakery?” she grumbled. I laughed and shoved her through the door. She spun around, opening her mouth to continue the argument. I snapped the door shut, shoving the dead bolt home. The lights flickered above me sending little spidery shadows all along the walls.
Finally! I hummed a little as I went about my work, putting the finishing touches on a few pastries as I closed up. It was dark outside, nearly one A.M. and I couldn’t wait to be able to go home. It had been a hectic day, no less then 12 orders of cinnamon rolls had come in during my shift alone. That was nearly twice the amount we normally received!
I plunged the roller into the steaming, soapy water, pushing against the clinging dough with impatient fingers. My bed was waiting and when I got there I wouldn’t leave until noon. The water felt good against my skin, warm and steamy. I could feel the sweat on my brow, but didn’t mind it so much as my hands transferred dish after dish from one sink to another. My eyes burned with the effort of keeping them open, my work turning to autopilot as my mind drifted.
I just couldn’t wait to go home to my warm bed. My pillows were soft and clean, my blankets would wrap around me and be my sails as I was taken from harsh reality into the warm comforts of. . .
Something very cold touched the back of my head. It wormed its way into my hair, shifting through the thin strands like a snake. Screaming, I whirled around, my hands jumping to my hair in panic. It was gone, ripping a few of the strands along with it. For a moment, I didn’t move. Just stared around the kitchen. It looked just like normal, the big black oven to my left with a preparatory counter off to the side. Great silvery cabinets adorning the walls.
My hand rubbed the sore spot gently as I turned back to the sinks. The lights above me flickered unsteadily. Calm down Natalie, I ordered myself, taking deep breaths. It had probably just been my hair getting caught on one of the drying utensils above my head. My heart beat slowed down to a more normal pace allowing my breaths to come easier. It was nothing, don’t be stupid.
It didn’t feel like nothing though, I could still imagine the cold hand wrapping around my hair. Touching me. . . I shoved the thoughts from my mind, grabbing a bowl and shoving it into the water with unnecessary force. Water slopped all up the sides and stained my apron, showering my shoes. I held my breath in anger, trying to calm down. It was stupid, it wasn’t like I had never closed up shop before.
[I]But never alone,[/I] a snide voice whispered in the back of my mind. I ignored it and went to grab the mop. The thing was so old bits of fiber were missing from the bundle. I gripped the rough worn handle comfortingly, as I pulled it back, a small piece of mirror fell from the shelf it had been leaning on. I tried to grab it before it hit the ground but it slipped through my fingers, shattering against the cold linoleum floor.
“That’s bad luck,” something whispered. Tell me about it, I thought. I dropped the mop and grabbed the broom instead. My heart was pounding again, sending the blood rushing through my veins. Thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump. Skittering sounded off to my right and I almost dropped the broom.
“Please,” I begged, “Don’t let it be rats.” Mercy would never forgive me if she found out there were rats in her store.
“Natalie. . .” something whispered, it’s voice was oily and smooth, goose bumps erupted all along my skin, my heart pounding ferociously.
“Shut up!” I yelled, it echoed around the store, bouncing off the silver surfaces. I felt stupid. It wasn’t real, I was just freaking myself out. I leaned my head against the broomsticks handle. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I was being stupid. It wasn’t real. I was just freaking out.
Now open your eyes, and just get back to work, I commanded, slowly peeling the lids back.
The mirror hung on the wall opposite me, completely full and unblemished. My fingers gripped the broom tighter. My mouth going dry. My eyes darted to the ground, where the shards of broken glass had just been scattered. There was nothing. I raised my eyes back to the mirror. My arms shaking.
The face looking back at me was distorted, strangled and thin, with dead sunken in cheeks and black lifeless eyes.
I touched my own face with shaking fingers, probing the skin. It felt the same. The mirror laughed at me, making no noise. She placed a long, white finger to her lips; motioning for me to be quiet, then pointed toward the walls.
She laughed again when I turned to gaze at them, when I looked back she was gone.
Nothing could hurt me here, it was all in my head, it was just a fake, unbelievable. . .
“Natalie,” My head jerked up, the voice coming from above me, “Naatalieee. . .” it called, soothing and quiet. It was a woman’s voice. “Please come upstairs.”
“Who. . . Who are you?”
“Please come upstairs Natalie, we don’t want to hurt you.” a snickering, high pitched giggle sounded from beneath me. I jumped backwards, straining to see clearly as the lights flickered above me. Something cold and clammy touched my bare leg. “Please come upstairs.”
The lights flickered faster, making my eyes stream water. I gasped and tried to rub them clear, but when I opened them again the kitchen was dark. Something sharp scraped against my shin, making me scream and jump into the air. Another high pitched giggle sounded. I ran, running from the supply closet in blind panic. My foot caught on the edge of something, causing me to sprawl to the ground, smashing my head against the cold, metal floor.
It giggled as it let go of my ankle.
“Natalie,” the voice whispered, its breath ruffling my hair “Oh Natalie. . . “
I pulled away, curling into a ball and clutching my bleeding leg. A shape was emerging from the darkness, a shape barely larger then a six month old child.
It was white, the skin glowing through the darkness like a beacon. Small little red eyes peered at me from a hairless face. It walked on two legs like a man, but clutched a long, thin needle in one hand. Something dribbled down the creatures mouth, spilling from its pale lips and down its little chin.
“We like you Natalie,” it whispered, “oh beautiful Natalie. . .” it rubbed its sharp needle down the length of my cheeks, caressing it gently. Another giggle sounded from above me and another from the side.
“Oh Natalie,” the voices called, “Sweet Natalie.” I screamed as they plunged their needles toward my heart.
***
When I awoke, I laid upon the flat, hard surface. My insides quivering uncontrollably. Cold seeped up through my clothing, attaching itself to the bumpy pieces of my goose pimpled skin. I couldn’t see, the night pressed in upon me, suffocating. I was stuck, my limbs iced over in cold My eyes frozen in their sockets.
I strained my muscles, trying to force them to move, but they remained stiff and immobile at my sides.
Thump.
I tried to breathe, tried to let the air flow through my lungs. Nothing happened.
Thump.
Memories of pale skin and sharp needles piercing through me, I was dead. They had killed me!
Thump. . .thump.
Something hit the roof above me. My finger twitched.
Thump. . .thump. .thump.
Slowly, painstakingly, my eyes began to shift. Becoming looser and slipperier in my sockets. They shifted, trying to pierce through the thick layer of darkness around me.
Thump.
The wood above me creaked, a small stream of dust falling on my lips.
Thump.
More dirt.
Thump, thump, thump.
The last customer left the shop, the small bell letting out a high ding as the door closed. I sighed in relief, dropping my hands to my sides. Thank goodness, the day was finally over. Mercy bustled around the kitchen as I left the counter and went to help her close up. Flour was everywhere, covering pots, pans and most importantly, Mercy herself. Mercy’s red hair was clinging to her forehead, her green apron only visible under the dough and icing.
“Will you make sure these dishes are cleaned?” She begged, grabbing her coat and getting flour all over the black velvet. “They won’t want to clean them in the morning.”
“Yes, I promise,” I assured her, my eyes rolling. The bakery was Mercy’s heart and soul. The thought of leaving me here alone scared her to death. What if I broke something?
“Just. . . Don’t forget to lock up.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t forget. . .”
“Mercy! Go home.” She threw me an insulted glare before glancing around the shop one more time nervously. Only a few short steps brought me to her side and allowed me to grip her shoulder. I pushed her around and opened the back door one handed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but will my bakery?” she grumbled. I laughed and shoved her through the door. She spun around, opening her mouth to continue the argument. I snapped the door shut, shoving the dead bolt home. The lights flickered above me sending little spidery shadows all along the walls.
Finally! I hummed a little as I went about my work, putting the finishing touches on a few pastries as I closed up. It was dark outside, nearly one A.M. and I couldn’t wait to be able to go home. It had been a hectic day, no less then 12 orders of cinnamon rolls had come in during my shift alone. That was nearly twice the amount we normally received!
I plunged the roller into the steaming, soapy water, pushing against the clinging dough with impatient fingers. My bed was waiting and when I got there I wouldn’t leave until noon. The water felt good against my skin, warm and steamy. I could feel the sweat on my brow, but didn’t mind it so much as my hands transferred dish after dish from one sink to another. My eyes burned with the effort of keeping them open, my work turning to autopilot as my mind drifted.
I just couldn’t wait to go home to my warm bed. My pillows were soft and clean, my blankets would wrap around me and be my sails as I was taken from harsh reality into the warm comforts of. . .
Something very cold touched the back of my head. It wormed its way into my hair, shifting through the thin strands like a snake. Screaming, I whirled around, my hands jumping to my hair in panic. It was gone, ripping a few of the strands along with it. For a moment, I didn’t move. Just stared around the kitchen. It looked just like normal, the big black oven to my left with a preparatory counter off to the side. Great silvery cabinets adorning the walls.
My hand rubbed the sore spot gently as I turned back to the sinks. The lights above me flickered unsteadily. Calm down Natalie, I ordered myself, taking deep breaths. It had probably just been my hair getting caught on one of the drying utensils above my head. My heart beat slowed down to a more normal pace allowing my breaths to come easier. It was nothing, don’t be stupid.
It didn’t feel like nothing though, I could still imagine the cold hand wrapping around my hair. Touching me. . . I shoved the thoughts from my mind, grabbing a bowl and shoving it into the water with unnecessary force. Water slopped all up the sides and stained my apron, showering my shoes. I held my breath in anger, trying to calm down. It was stupid, it wasn’t like I had never closed up shop before.
[I]But never alone,[/I] a snide voice whispered in the back of my mind. I ignored it and went to grab the mop. The thing was so old bits of fiber were missing from the bundle. I gripped the rough worn handle comfortingly, as I pulled it back, a small piece of mirror fell from the shelf it had been leaning on. I tried to grab it before it hit the ground but it slipped through my fingers, shattering against the cold linoleum floor.
“That’s bad luck,” something whispered. Tell me about it, I thought. I dropped the mop and grabbed the broom instead. My heart was pounding again, sending the blood rushing through my veins. Thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump. Skittering sounded off to my right and I almost dropped the broom.
“Please,” I begged, “Don’t let it be rats.” Mercy would never forgive me if she found out there were rats in her store.
“Natalie. . .” something whispered, it’s voice was oily and smooth, goose bumps erupted all along my skin, my heart pounding ferociously.
“Shut up!” I yelled, it echoed around the store, bouncing off the silver surfaces. I felt stupid. It wasn’t real, I was just freaking myself out. I leaned my head against the broomsticks handle. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I was being stupid. It wasn’t real. I was just freaking out.
Now open your eyes, and just get back to work, I commanded, slowly peeling the lids back.
The mirror hung on the wall opposite me, completely full and unblemished. My fingers gripped the broom tighter. My mouth going dry. My eyes darted to the ground, where the shards of broken glass had just been scattered. There was nothing. I raised my eyes back to the mirror. My arms shaking.
The face looking back at me was distorted, strangled and thin, with dead sunken in cheeks and black lifeless eyes.
I touched my own face with shaking fingers, probing the skin. It felt the same. The mirror laughed at me, making no noise. She placed a long, white finger to her lips; motioning for me to be quiet, then pointed toward the walls.
She laughed again when I turned to gaze at them, when I looked back she was gone.
Nothing could hurt me here, it was all in my head, it was just a fake, unbelievable. . .
“Natalie,” My head jerked up, the voice coming from above me, “Naatalieee. . .” it called, soothing and quiet. It was a woman’s voice. “Please come upstairs.”
“Who. . . Who are you?”
“Please come upstairs Natalie, we don’t want to hurt you.” a snickering, high pitched giggle sounded from beneath me. I jumped backwards, straining to see clearly as the lights flickered above me. Something cold and clammy touched my bare leg. “Please come upstairs.”
The lights flickered faster, making my eyes stream water. I gasped and tried to rub them clear, but when I opened them again the kitchen was dark. Something sharp scraped against my shin, making me scream and jump into the air. Another high pitched giggle sounded. I ran, running from the supply closet in blind panic. My foot caught on the edge of something, causing me to sprawl to the ground, smashing my head against the cold, metal floor.
It giggled as it let go of my ankle.
“Natalie,” the voice whispered, its breath ruffling my hair “Oh Natalie. . . “
I pulled away, curling into a ball and clutching my bleeding leg. A shape was emerging from the darkness, a shape barely larger then a six month old child.
It was white, the skin glowing through the darkness like a beacon. Small little red eyes peered at me from a hairless face. It walked on two legs like a man, but clutched a long, thin needle in one hand. Something dribbled down the creatures mouth, spilling from its pale lips and down its little chin.
“We like you Natalie,” it whispered, “oh beautiful Natalie. . .” it rubbed its sharp needle down the length of my cheeks, caressing it gently. Another giggle sounded from above me and another from the side.
“Oh Natalie,” the voices called, “Sweet Natalie.” I screamed as they plunged their needles toward my heart.
***
When I awoke, I laid upon the flat, hard surface. My insides quivering uncontrollably. Cold seeped up through my clothing, attaching itself to the bumpy pieces of my goose pimpled skin. I couldn’t see, the night pressed in upon me, suffocating. I was stuck, my limbs iced over in cold My eyes frozen in their sockets.
I strained my muscles, trying to force them to move, but they remained stiff and immobile at my sides.
Thump.
I tried to breathe, tried to let the air flow through my lungs. Nothing happened.
Thump.
Memories of pale skin and sharp needles piercing through me, I was dead. They had killed me!
Thump. . .thump.
Something hit the roof above me. My finger twitched.
Thump. . .thump. .thump.
Slowly, painstakingly, my eyes began to shift. Becoming looser and slipperier in my sockets. They shifted, trying to pierce through the thick layer of darkness around me.
Thump.
The wood above me creaked, a small stream of dust falling on my lips.
Thump.
More dirt.
Thump, thump, thump.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)