Loneliness (Caitlin)

Landon and I sat at a cafe together, both of us awkwardly nibbling vanilla bean scones. He wrung his hands, a clear sign of anxiety. It looked like something weighed heavily on his heart.
          "If you wanted to know why I mistreated you earlier, here's why." He breathed in and sighed. "I felt lonely." Lonely? I felt lonely all the time and never felt compelled to mistreat anyone. I don't understand why people make things harder for others if it has no benefit for themselves.
          "I know how that feels." Many people did, really. I'm sure all four of my students have felt lonely at one point in their lives or another. I'm sure Steve felt lonely despite the masses uttering his name practically every five seconds. Alice knew that kind of pain like an old friend. I'm sure Nathan feels alienated due to the way his idiot director sees him and that Carmen, who is rather out of the box musically, shares his sentiments. One teacher flat out refused to give me a lesson because she thought I came as a joke, she said to me during her first lesson. Alex was recently accused of being a "diva" because she gets solos in choir on a regular basis. Why does everyone call me the diva? Just because I get a lot of solos doesn't mean I only want solos."But I don't know why you feel like you have to hurt people."
           "I'm not like you, Caitlin. I can't just suck stuff up and take it the way you do. I've done, horrible things, inexcusable even, all because I've felt lonely."
           "Such as?"
           "You don't want to know."
           "Tell me. It can't be much worse than stealing small amounts of my sisters' things when I didn't need them." It was stuff like makeup, pens, and bracelets, but it was still wrong.
           "Okay, fine. But don't assume I'll do it again." Landon sighed and threw up his hands. "I shot up my school." At that, he hid his face, but went on. Due to the recent increase in mass shootings including the ongoing Samantha Netherfield attacks, I worried about everyone I knew. It did not help me cope with these recent events. "It was in my sophomore year of high school. I was bullied all the time. I spent half the time just trying to not get beaten up or thrown into a dumpster. I got my backpack chucked into a pool so many times I started putting my homework in my shoes. And my teachers? At best, they didn't care. At worst, they actually encouraged it by making sure I got group projects with my bullies and then giving me a bad grade for not working enough. My GPA started plummeting so fast I didn't know what to do. Even the people who were my 'friends' started picking on me. I sat alone at lunch so often that it was obvious that everyone hated me. My worst bully, George, left me unconscious outside of the school. But it gets worse. A group of girls told everyone that the birthmark on my face was a highly contagious rash. That rumor spread like wildfire, giving everyone even more cause to avoid me. Another even had the nerve to say 'It's okay to make fun of Landon. He can't understand what you're saying.' That was the last straw. I loaded up my bow, enchanted with Fire Aspect II, and she was my first victim. The other ninety included complete innocents, even people I sort of liked. I'm sorry. I regret it to this day. Their agonized screams still haunt me every night. Luckily, I was released pretty quickly, but I still can't legally own weapons." He winked casually, but his eyes showed a pit of agony deeper than the void. I took another scone and chewed on it, digesting what he had said earlier. What could I say to a mass murderer? But what I saw in front of me and what I saw from his memories were completely different. Could I give him advice? No. I wanted to show him that I really cared, that I wasn't just curious.
          "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me." I left it that and we both headed in the same direction, to visit Steve. All the same, both of them had my respect and my trust. Both of them had their faults and foibles. I loved both of them, but I loved them differently. Landon made the world more pleasant to be in. Steve, however, was the world. I began to see pieces of them in each other, yet still managed to keep the two separate. I still believed that Samantha had good inside of her. Even if I never saw it surface, I still knew it was there.

Arigato (Caitlin)

During the brass band concert, my sleeve slipped to reveal the slashes on my wrist. When a rest came, I tugged at it quickly. I continued pressing the valves and pushing air through my horn despite the fact that the hot air I blew stung the fresh wounds on my right wrist. We were playing an arrangement of Abstract Nonsense made by a student that won our arranging contest. The trumpets sounded a little less confident. It was clear that Steve's absence adversely affected the band's sound. I couldn't help but think of him as I played on.

I thought of the faint scar on his chest that was different from all the others, clearly a sword cut from a diamond sword with Sharpness V. He is the only one I know with a sword enchanted at that level. I thought of the thoughts running that must have been through his head, that he wanted to end the pain. At the cutoff, I turned my music to Ugly Guy Documentary, a welcome diversion. 

The melody was upbeat as I kept my part in the bass line. I looked around at the other members, wondering if they ever felt too unattractive to approach the one they loved. I suppose that, if the song were about a girl, it would be called Ugly Girl Documentary and it would be Rin looking at shonen mangas to in order to know what kind of girl is cool right now. The flugelhorns were featured in this song, a refreshing change from our usual trumpet-heavy style. 

I would have to get up in front of the band and sing Kokoro Kisei after intermission. No one expects the meek fourth horn to step in front of the band and do it. It is an Impulsive Brass Band tradition that one of the (vocally trained) members sings over the band. I had to duet with Landon. As much as I hated the guy and he hated me, we put up with it professionally. In hindsight, his insults made me a stronger musician. They motivated me to prove that I was more than the one with the cane, that I had rightfully earned my spot as a fourth horn.

He tripped me on my way to the piano, begrudgingly helped me up, and insulting me all the way there. However, unlike before, I didn't break down and cry. Although I was strongly tempted, I instead steeled myself to his weapons.
          "Why do you keep mistreating me? I just want to know why." He did not respond, instead walking faster to the practice room, likely out of me having asked an awkward question
          "I don't know, but I'm sorry." What kind of response was that? 

We ran through our lip trills and other vocal warm-ups together, laughing at how silly we looked. Landon gave me a smile and asked me how I got vocally trained. I told him about how I was in choir since fourth grade. I loved to sing. If I could sing, I could be happy. He told me the same, that if he could sing, the worries would melt away. 

          "I apologize." Landon turned to me and eyed me with compassion I never knew he had. It shocked me to the core. Every impression I had ever made was false. "I'm sorry for everything I've ever done to you. It was not only unprofessional, but unethical of me. I'll understand if you can never forgive me, but please do that. It would mean a lot to me." The long-running grudges ran into the new man in front of me, colliding into each other. Could I forget what he had done to me? Absolutely not.
          "You know what you did is unforgivable, right?" I stared him down and pierced his soul, not for retribution, but for something more powerful.

However, I did not want revenge. As many a history textbook has proven, revenge does not get anyone anywhere. 

But could I forgive this man? The one who laughed at me and even kicked me in the side on one occasion? The one who made me feel undesirable, accused me of faking my seizures, and questioned my abilities routinely? I know Steve would have wanted me to fight him, preferably by sending an arrow through his head, but I chose not to fight him. It is easy to pull out a sword, but it is hard to let a stranger into your heart. It is harder still to let an enemy into your heart.

And that is what I chose by saying this simple, but utterly revolutionary phrase: "I forgive you anyway." My sleeve fell down my arm again when I studied the hiragana/romaji sheet. Before I could pull it up, Landon took my hand. It would have been useless as the red marks bled through to the surface fairly obviously. Still, I yanked it back defensively. No one knew what those scars meant, not even Steve. I awkwardly shoved my face in the hiragana sheet. 

          "Please don't do this to yourself. Contrary to what I have said before, you are a useful, capable, intelligent musician. I know it sounds like I'm just giving platitudes, but I know what it's like to be attacked and belittled for something I can't control." He pleaded with me earnestly. After that, we decided to rest our voices. Who would have thought that the one to reach out to me and know about the scars would have been my (now former) worst enemy? I thought it would have been Steve, Sylvia, or maybe even Alex, given her perceptiveness, who knew first. Never had I thought it would be Landon. 

Someone told us we had five minutes to be onstage. Before making our way on, we hugged, not romantically, but perfectly platonically, as friends. The audience welcomed us warmly as if they were aware of our change of heart. The band, well aware of this, applauded with them. When the band started, we rested until it was time to sing.

It was easy to tell who understood Japanese in the audience, or at least who was familiar with vocaloid. They started tearing up halfway through the song. Landon and I glanced at each other sang as if we were the lonely scientist and the miracle robot. I was pleasantly surprised that our voices could carry over the band and still sound good. Even though neither of us knew Japanese, we sang with an emotion that suggested otherwise...until I came to a certain passage in the song. Ari-ga-to...Ari-ga-to...

"Arigato" meant "Thank you," and I meant it. Thank you, Landon. Thank you for being the friend I needed at the time, even when you thought I wouldn't do the same. Thank you for trusting me with your kokoro, even if I wasn't at first willing to trust you with mine. You are more compassionate man than I have ever given you credit for. It was my mistake for thinking that you were just another bully, but I was terribly wrong.

After our performance, Landon thanked me profusely for forgiving him.
          "You were brave to ask for my forgiveness. You were the first enemy I've truly forgiven. It takes a great deal of courage to show someone your heart."
          "You are braver than I ever could be and I mean it. You have the guts to stand up and speak, but you also have the guts to sit down and listen. I admire that. If you need anything, let me know."
          "Arigato."

Failure of a Child (Alice)

I unpacked my trumpet and practiced as usual during lunch. To be honest, I was nervous about my audition to the Minecraft Youth Orchestra. I spent my lunch time polishing my piece. My tongue seems to never do what I want it to. My fingers were fine and the notes came out. However, it needed to be perfect. I wanted to honor my family. I come from a line of talented, important people such as military leaders, famous singers, and world-renowned blacksmiths. My father used to be a child prodigy, but his lack of other aptitudes led to him, as he says, "ending up in a dead end." My mother used to be a block artist, but chronic pain ended her career. She still drafts block art on paper, though. Melanie is a singer and and academic superstar. I'm pretty sure she would be touring by now if it weren't for school.

Why couldn't I have been born into a less talented family line? I am an Alder by blood with nothing to show for it. The name means "brave" and "noble", but it should mean "perfect". Most of my ancestors found their talents at a young age. Well, here I am, thirteen years old, and so far talentless. However, work ethic is a viable substitute for talent, isn't it? This is why I practice so often. I started to feel sick halfway through the slow passage. My head felt like it was vibrating. Apparently, I was noticed, so I stopped. It was my music teacher, Miss Netherfield.
         "Eat something."
         "Huh?" I was not expecting that response.
         "Alice, you need to eat. You look about ready to faint." It was true. As touching as her concern was, I needed to practice. "Get something in your body. You can't run without fuel." She handed me a package wrapped in foil. It was warm. I opened it to reveal a fried bologna sandwich with melted cheese. It smelled absolutely delicious, the savory aromas wafting everywhere. I dug into it like a starving wolf. Having skipped breakfast this morning, I never realized how hungry I was. I polished the sandwich off in a matter of minutes.
          On her good days, Mom would make fried bologna sandwiches for us if we did well on things according to her standards. I only remembered tasting it once when I got an A on a math test, the only A in my academic record thus far. After that, even if I managed to come close to an A, my mom told me that she wouldn't waste her spoons on a failure of a child. Yes, "failure of a child". She said those exact words. Whenever I tell anyone about it, they all say that it's the pain talking. However, why does she never say the same thing to Melanie? Sure, she gets frustrated, but she never called Melanie a failure of a child. Tears stung my eyes at the thought.
           "Alice, are you okay?" Miss Netherfield looked at me as if she felt my pain. Something told me she did.
           "Okay? I'm a failure. Don't you see that?" I was sobbing now. Why did my mom have to hate me? I don't get why everyone uses her illness to justify the way she treats me. It sounds selfish because it is. I am a seventh grader balancing school, work, and supporting my family as the youngest child and NO ONE CARES, but my mom can draft block art while laying in bed all day and  basically have the world at her disposal. Why don't you do better? You know you could if you worked hard enough. she often says to me, but DON'T YOU KNOW HOW HARD I'M WORKING????? Just because my grades don't show it doesn't mean I don't work hard. "I'm not talented like the rest of my family and my mom hates me. She always calls me a 'failure of a child' and a 'waste of spoons'. I get that it must be hard to have chronic pain and I must be horribly selfish for saying this, but I don't think she realizes just how hard I work on a daily basis."
            "You are not a failure by any stretch of the world. I know what it's like to have to count my spoons, but I would never consider you, Alex, Nathan, Carmen, or my sixth graders a waste of spoons no matter how little perceived progress any of my students make. You can play all of your major scales, some of them in two octaves, which you wouldn't have even dreamed of before." That was true. "You are the most hardworking student at Mindcrack and it may seem that no one sees it, but many people do. I see it. Mr. Lowell definitely sees it. Kyle sees it. It would be safe to say that the entire high school band sees it. I can't begin to describe how awful it must be to be dismissed and belittled by your own mother. Even if you will never be considered 'talented', whatever that means, know that working hard and doing the right thing are infinitely more important." She reached out wiped the tears from my eyes with a tenderness I have never experienced. "And remember that this is also hard for your mom. I think I know what she's doing to you." She handed me an article about emotional projection. I read it carefully.

I never really thought to look at things through her eyes. Was she just as frustrated as me? Could it be that she called me a failure of a child because she felt like a failure of a mother? As much as I thought she had failed me, I couldn't help but mull over this newfound knowledge.