I can't live with myself anymore.
It was my fault. How could I have been so oblivious? I should have held her a little tighter at night. I should have let her room with me the night before what was supposed to be our wedding. I should have acted faster. I should have complimented her more often. With Caitlin, I had something I never had before and, now that she's gone, I don't know if I can ever have that again.
The pillow she used still smelled like her strawberry 3-in-1. She told me to pick it up at the store once and I had no clue why, but she's sworn by it ever since. The sweet scent reminded me of, well, everything about her. I found her box of reeds and her clarinet. Sometimes, I thought Caitlin loved her clarinet more than she loved me. Lost in thought, I bumped into a music stand and a pile of sheet music came crashing to the floor.
I picked up the pages and glanced at them. They were mostly clarinet etudes, but among them was an arrangement of World's End Dancehall for a trumpet/horn duet and a backing ensemble. I went on Twitter to distract myself, but what I saw disturbed me to my core.
Disability community, lend me your ears! We will wipe this stain "Caitlin Netherfield" from us with enough effort.
Let her know what harm she has done to us!
That's one less enemy we have to worry about.
We have victory!
At the last one, I ran to the bathroom and vomited. These people had no idea what I--and many others--had lost through Caitlin's suicide. I ran my fingers over the details on the wedding dress, beautiful and understated like she was. It's often said that one never knows what they have until it's gone. What did these people have in Caitlin that is now gone? I went back to distracting myself since nothing in the fridge looked appetizing.
She may have been a stain, but you reek of cowardice.
Hmm. What's this? *sniff sniff* It smells like a totally unjustified victim complex.
Way to promote empowerment for ALL disabled by driving one of your own into suicide and calling them an "enemy". *applause*
You fought a useless battle that shouldn't have been a thing in the first place.
Leave it to Mark to come up with the best comebacks. I wished I had that way with words, not only the effortless cadence of his speech, but his cleverness. I could not have thought of something quite so witty, especially under emotional duress.
Ever since Caitlin's death, the suicide plague at Mindcrack got worse and worse. Alex told me that, on one occasion, she found the bodies of several students littering the bathroom floor. She said they were mostly high schoolers. That told me several things: 1) SAT and ACT tests are coming. 2) The students were most likely AP students. 3) They were probably juniors or seniors. 4) They thought that no one would care or notice if they were gone. 5) Something was off with regards to their mental health. Though I didn't really want to do anything, I went to Mindcrack to lead my students. In these tough times, they needed me more than ever.
Having survived an attempt previously, I found leading my band difficult. Strange dizzy feelings started washing over me, almost as if my head were vibrating. My middle schoolers were not getting the hang of balance, so I explained the pyramid of sound to them. Their pyramid of sound sounded more like a step pyramid, so I had tenor saxes to play out a bit more, the bass clarinet back off a bit, and flutes to fix some tuning issues. I felt very sick and shaky, probably because I never had breakfast, but I continued. The clarinets played, although one of them had a broken reed, they sounded fairly decent.
The trumpets came in with some fracking, but that was to be expected from young players learning what high notes are. I led them in some lip slurs and ignored my pounding headache. To add to that, percussion came in too loud. I had our snare drum player play with a lower stick height for now, mainly to preserve my sanity.
During the break, I went to pick up information on online days. I found a handwritten note stamped "Urgent" and sealed with a glitter sticker. I opened it to find this inside:
I can't take this anymore. I need you to take over the orchestra.
How much could one day throw at me?
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Soul of a Violinist (Steve)
"...One of her ribs broke off and grazed several of her vital organs. Her spinal cord was fractured in several places and most of her bones sustained fractures if they weren't completely shattered." I listened to the autopsy people go on and on. "I don't know what would have motivated her to die in such a violent way." I showed them the various online attacks she received from Respect Ability Minecraft and its supporters. "Unfortunately, Caitlin's case not the first suicide we've had that was related to this organization. Here's a list of the names we compiled earlier. I also have their ages, occupations, and some of the last things they said."
I read the list of names and ages one by one, finding that most of them were in their teens or early twenties. The oldest was 45 and the youngest was 8. Most of them had incredibly low self-esteem and/or showed signs of depression. I skimmed the organization's Twitter and found that they posted positivity and resources for various things. Why, then, were there so many suicides linked to them?
This organization seemed fishy for a number of reasons due to the fact that they practically venerated people for their disabilities, but attacked those same people the moment they found identities outside of their disability status. Respect Ability Minecraft's motto is "Empowerment for all disabled", but what they're doing is anything but empowering.
I thought back to Caitlin's interactions with the organization and the things she said and then I realized why they hated her so much. Caitlin was always forthright, even blunt, about what she saw in others, including me, and a large-scale "charity" organization was no exception. Not only that, she chose love instead of hate in nearly every circumstance. Pitting our impairments against those of others is not going to help anyone, she said. Treat others well because, inevitably, everything is reciprocated.
I missed that. Her level of character is something I'm still striving for. More than that, however, I missed the little things. I missed feeling her hand in mine and how it felt when she slept in my arms. She liked it there, most likely because it was one of few the places she felt truly safe. I missed the sound of her voice whether she was talking to me, laughing at one of Mark's bad jokes, or practicing melismas in the shower. On one occasion, after I played a jazz-style solo on piccolo trumpet, I heard her imitating it perfectly using her voice. It sounded better than what I had played.
After a few more words, I left. It was about 4:00. Strangely enough, even though all I had was coffee, I wasn't hungry. I made my way home. Landon texted me, as evidenced by "Kokoro" playing.
Hey. Can you give me directions to the neurology clinic? Why would he need to go to the neurology clinic?
Where are you?
I'm near Mindcrack and the high school contest combat team is doing stuff.
Take a right.
Okay.
I continued to give directions. As I did that, I felt every ounce of animosity I had towards the guy melt away. Landon was actually pretty nice once you got to know him for who he truly was. From my understanding, he had a tumultuous past and was looking to get past it. It wouldn't seem true from the surface, but he and Caitlin had a lot in common. Both of them loved singing, for one. Their first duet must have been arranged by fate because, with very little practice, their voices blended as if they were made for each other. He texted again.
Actually, can you meet me there for moral support? I really need a friend.
Of course. Why me of all people? Landon could have chosen anyone else, but he chose me. He chose the guy who hated him. Then again, I've found that the changes we undergo always have ways of surprising us.
I met him at the neurology clinic. His hair was messy, but not in the cool, controlled way it usually fell. He had dark circles under his eyes and was wearing a weird onesie with what looked like a distressed egg.
"Hi." I waved back.
"What is that?" I was wondering why he was wearing old pajamas.
"Where I'm going, no one cares how I look." Landon laughed and averted his gaze.
"Anything you need?" For some reason, my device's voice wouldn't work. It would either distort or start emitting the most awful noise in the world if I used certain words. I ended up using the voice labeled "kawaii" because it was the only one that would work consistently.
"I just want to kill time. I'm bored out of my mind. You know what? I don't even know what I need. Something just feels weird."
"Why are you here?" That came out more impulsively than I had originally intended.
"I think my nocturnal epilepsy came back, which really sucks. I woke up yesterday and found out that I wet the bed. I don't know if it's the grief or what, but it's awfully frustrating." Yep. I knew what it felt like to wake up reeking of urine with a soaked diaper. If it wasn't that, it was my pajamas and sheets. "It started when I was six and it got worse and worse from there until I was about twelve. After that, it just stopped, even without the medication." He continued talking and opening up to me. It occurred to me, then, that if he was this honest to me, I should return that honesty.
"I was a violin prodigy." I didn't really feel comfortable talking about my past as a violin prodigy. It wasn't something I was particularly proud of, even if I did get to perform a few concerts and get paid for it.
"Lucky! Why do you get all the good awkward secrets?" Landon nudged me playfully, prompting me to answer. To be honest, though, my past as a violin prodigy was far from what others made it out to be.
It wasn't because it was forced on me. That would have never occurred to my parents, who just wanted their four boys to survive. Those four boys were Brandon, Trevor, Corbin (I call him Cory), and Steven. We grew up in a little village where (1) everyone wanted to kill us for not being human enough or (2) everyone wanted to kill us for not being villager enough. I heard the phrase "filthy half-breed" nearly every day of my life, but that's not exactly relevant to my violin playing.
I was about three years old when I started. Cory was the one taking violin lessons because my parents inherited an old violin. He taught me a few notes and, the moment I picked up the bow, I found out that I loved the violin. We bonded over that wonderful instrument. Eventually, I became better than he was and he pestered my parents into letting me take lessons. My parents relented and took me to my first violin lesson for my fourth birthday.
Rather impressed, my teacher gave me something I barely knew how to read. The notes swirled on the page and blurred into a mess. The music came in a colored sleeve and I read it through the sleeve because I "liked it better", so I said. It was actually so I didn't get sick on my music. Going with my tendencies, the violin teacher supported me and found that I had an especial gift for the instrument. I got bored with the beginner book and began devouring etudes, scales, and other music like candy. The recitals came and went as always: with me receiving applause and eating as many cookies as I possibly could.
Unfortunately, after Cory hit his head while we were playing spleef, the medical bills piled up to the point where I had to give up my violin lessons. I kept playing and challenging myself, hoping the sound of the violin would serve as an anesthetic to my pain. It was a trying time for all of us. Brandon and Trevor started fighting even more and it escalated into Trevor getting a black eye and Brandon's school project burning into a pile of ashes. My parents started bickering over the tiniest things and blaming everything on me. My grades started declining because I couldn't think about anything else besides the unrest in my family.
I ran away so that I could be with my violin. I played in villages hoping to get money. It worked. I practiced until I couldn't bear the throbbing pain in my fingers. On weekends, I played from sunrise to sunset with very few breaks other than to get food or use the restroom. What I made I mostly gave to help with the medical bills, but I saved 1% of my money to get new bridges, strings, and food.
I gained the attention of many people and eventually started playing in concert halls along with some of the top orchestras in all of Minecraft. More importantly, they agreed to help me in my situation by sending money to my family. I went to school in the morning, played my violin at night, and worked on my violin on the weekends. I lived off of herbal cough drops, apples, and, when I got lucky, chicken and wheat soup.
Unfortunately, this newfound attention led me to basically sell myself in order to play and please the crowds. Day and night, I performed, did my homework, and gave my soul over to performance. The melody from my instrument just became noise, but I was happy as long as the crowd enjoyed it, or so I thought. The medical bills came back again and there were even more of them. I didn't want my parents to have to worry about paying them, so I played my fingers to shreds. I lied to the local luthiers that the stains on my strings were from dirt, but, in reality, I played so much that it wore through my skin. On one occasion, I couldn't shake anyone's hands after a concert because they were dripping with blood.
It hurt to hold a pencil in class. No one cared that my hands were screaming with pain or that my neck felt like it was made of steel cables. They didn't care that I performed day and night. They just cared that I cranked out a grade. I remember sitting hunched over a paper thinking of a poem that had a strong rhythm that tells a story about the life of a talented person. I ended up writing the following:
Do this.
Do that.
You should.
You can't.
Put on
A show.
Just hold
Your bow.
Learn math
And write.
Stay up
All night.
Who cares,
Who cares
About
Your life?
At my last violin concert, I was about to enter the sixth grade. I picked up my violin, the cuts on my hands showing the state of my heart. Awaiting my entrance, I listened to the orchestra play their songs. When I heard my name, I walked onstage and went through the usual ceremonies. I readied my instrument and nodded to the conductor to start.
Everything fell perfectly into place. When I came in, my fingers were fleet and fluid. I moved my bow to create the notes and, as they moved, I saw the ambulance's flashing lights heard my brother encouraging me to bow the strings, smelled burnt plastic and paper, tasted the bland hospital food, and felt the sting of the string cutting into my fingers. However, above the din, I felt the music. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was actually playing. Art washes away the dust of everyday life, so people said. I felt the dust wash away from my soul.
The orchestra moved with me, almost as if we were dancing. I closed my eyes and felt the chill of the snow and the thump of a snowball hitting my face. At the end of the thing, my hands begged for mercy as I lowered instrument, faced the crowd, and acknowledged the orchestra and their conductor. I took so many liberties with that piece it was a wonder they could stay with me, let alone sound good while they were doing it. My mother came to the concert hall, and, instead of hugging me or telling me what I played well, dragged me by the ear and scolded me for not being supportive. I was shocked. Did she know that I was sending money from my performances to help with the medical bills?
"...You know, Cory would be ashamed to have a brother like you!" She snatched my violin out of my hands and broke it on a wall, crushing the bridge under the sole of her shoe. After taking my bow, she snapped it in two. "Going out and doing this meaningless music stuff..." It was useless trying to argue because she shattered my soul along with the violin.
I never played violin ever since.
I read the list of names and ages one by one, finding that most of them were in their teens or early twenties. The oldest was 45 and the youngest was 8. Most of them had incredibly low self-esteem and/or showed signs of depression. I skimmed the organization's Twitter and found that they posted positivity and resources for various things. Why, then, were there so many suicides linked to them?
This organization seemed fishy for a number of reasons due to the fact that they practically venerated people for their disabilities, but attacked those same people the moment they found identities outside of their disability status. Respect Ability Minecraft's motto is "Empowerment for all disabled", but what they're doing is anything but empowering.
I thought back to Caitlin's interactions with the organization and the things she said and then I realized why they hated her so much. Caitlin was always forthright, even blunt, about what she saw in others, including me, and a large-scale "charity" organization was no exception. Not only that, she chose love instead of hate in nearly every circumstance. Pitting our impairments against those of others is not going to help anyone, she said. Treat others well because, inevitably, everything is reciprocated.
I missed that. Her level of character is something I'm still striving for. More than that, however, I missed the little things. I missed feeling her hand in mine and how it felt when she slept in my arms. She liked it there, most likely because it was one of few the places she felt truly safe. I missed the sound of her voice whether she was talking to me, laughing at one of Mark's bad jokes, or practicing melismas in the shower. On one occasion, after I played a jazz-style solo on piccolo trumpet, I heard her imitating it perfectly using her voice. It sounded better than what I had played.
After a few more words, I left. It was about 4:00. Strangely enough, even though all I had was coffee, I wasn't hungry. I made my way home. Landon texted me, as evidenced by "Kokoro" playing.
Hey. Can you give me directions to the neurology clinic? Why would he need to go to the neurology clinic?
Where are you?
I'm near Mindcrack and the high school contest combat team is doing stuff.
Take a right.
Okay.
I continued to give directions. As I did that, I felt every ounce of animosity I had towards the guy melt away. Landon was actually pretty nice once you got to know him for who he truly was. From my understanding, he had a tumultuous past and was looking to get past it. It wouldn't seem true from the surface, but he and Caitlin had a lot in common. Both of them loved singing, for one. Their first duet must have been arranged by fate because, with very little practice, their voices blended as if they were made for each other. He texted again.
Actually, can you meet me there for moral support? I really need a friend.
Of course. Why me of all people? Landon could have chosen anyone else, but he chose me. He chose the guy who hated him. Then again, I've found that the changes we undergo always have ways of surprising us.
I met him at the neurology clinic. His hair was messy, but not in the cool, controlled way it usually fell. He had dark circles under his eyes and was wearing a weird onesie with what looked like a distressed egg.
"Hi." I waved back.
"What is that?" I was wondering why he was wearing old pajamas.
"Where I'm going, no one cares how I look." Landon laughed and averted his gaze.
"Anything you need?" For some reason, my device's voice wouldn't work. It would either distort or start emitting the most awful noise in the world if I used certain words. I ended up using the voice labeled "kawaii" because it was the only one that would work consistently.
"I just want to kill time. I'm bored out of my mind. You know what? I don't even know what I need. Something just feels weird."
"Why are you here?" That came out more impulsively than I had originally intended.
"I think my nocturnal epilepsy came back, which really sucks. I woke up yesterday and found out that I wet the bed. I don't know if it's the grief or what, but it's awfully frustrating." Yep. I knew what it felt like to wake up reeking of urine with a soaked diaper. If it wasn't that, it was my pajamas and sheets. "It started when I was six and it got worse and worse from there until I was about twelve. After that, it just stopped, even without the medication." He continued talking and opening up to me. It occurred to me, then, that if he was this honest to me, I should return that honesty.
"I was a violin prodigy." I didn't really feel comfortable talking about my past as a violin prodigy. It wasn't something I was particularly proud of, even if I did get to perform a few concerts and get paid for it.
"Lucky! Why do you get all the good awkward secrets?" Landon nudged me playfully, prompting me to answer. To be honest, though, my past as a violin prodigy was far from what others made it out to be.
It wasn't because it was forced on me. That would have never occurred to my parents, who just wanted their four boys to survive. Those four boys were Brandon, Trevor, Corbin (I call him Cory), and Steven. We grew up in a little village where (1) everyone wanted to kill us for not being human enough or (2) everyone wanted to kill us for not being villager enough. I heard the phrase "filthy half-breed" nearly every day of my life, but that's not exactly relevant to my violin playing.
I was about three years old when I started. Cory was the one taking violin lessons because my parents inherited an old violin. He taught me a few notes and, the moment I picked up the bow, I found out that I loved the violin. We bonded over that wonderful instrument. Eventually, I became better than he was and he pestered my parents into letting me take lessons. My parents relented and took me to my first violin lesson for my fourth birthday.
Rather impressed, my teacher gave me something I barely knew how to read. The notes swirled on the page and blurred into a mess. The music came in a colored sleeve and I read it through the sleeve because I "liked it better", so I said. It was actually so I didn't get sick on my music. Going with my tendencies, the violin teacher supported me and found that I had an especial gift for the instrument. I got bored with the beginner book and began devouring etudes, scales, and other music like candy. The recitals came and went as always: with me receiving applause and eating as many cookies as I possibly could.
Unfortunately, after Cory hit his head while we were playing spleef, the medical bills piled up to the point where I had to give up my violin lessons. I kept playing and challenging myself, hoping the sound of the violin would serve as an anesthetic to my pain. It was a trying time for all of us. Brandon and Trevor started fighting even more and it escalated into Trevor getting a black eye and Brandon's school project burning into a pile of ashes. My parents started bickering over the tiniest things and blaming everything on me. My grades started declining because I couldn't think about anything else besides the unrest in my family.
I ran away so that I could be with my violin. I played in villages hoping to get money. It worked. I practiced until I couldn't bear the throbbing pain in my fingers. On weekends, I played from sunrise to sunset with very few breaks other than to get food or use the restroom. What I made I mostly gave to help with the medical bills, but I saved 1% of my money to get new bridges, strings, and food.
I gained the attention of many people and eventually started playing in concert halls along with some of the top orchestras in all of Minecraft. More importantly, they agreed to help me in my situation by sending money to my family. I went to school in the morning, played my violin at night, and worked on my violin on the weekends. I lived off of herbal cough drops, apples, and, when I got lucky, chicken and wheat soup.
Unfortunately, this newfound attention led me to basically sell myself in order to play and please the crowds. Day and night, I performed, did my homework, and gave my soul over to performance. The melody from my instrument just became noise, but I was happy as long as the crowd enjoyed it, or so I thought. The medical bills came back again and there were even more of them. I didn't want my parents to have to worry about paying them, so I played my fingers to shreds. I lied to the local luthiers that the stains on my strings were from dirt, but, in reality, I played so much that it wore through my skin. On one occasion, I couldn't shake anyone's hands after a concert because they were dripping with blood.
It hurt to hold a pencil in class. No one cared that my hands were screaming with pain or that my neck felt like it was made of steel cables. They didn't care that I performed day and night. They just cared that I cranked out a grade. I remember sitting hunched over a paper thinking of a poem that had a strong rhythm that tells a story about the life of a talented person. I ended up writing the following:
Do this.
Do that.
You should.
You can't.
Put on
A show.
Just hold
Your bow.
Learn math
And write.
Stay up
All night.
Who cares,
Who cares
About
Your life?
At my last violin concert, I was about to enter the sixth grade. I picked up my violin, the cuts on my hands showing the state of my heart. Awaiting my entrance, I listened to the orchestra play their songs. When I heard my name, I walked onstage and went through the usual ceremonies. I readied my instrument and nodded to the conductor to start.
Everything fell perfectly into place. When I came in, my fingers were fleet and fluid. I moved my bow to create the notes and, as they moved, I saw the ambulance's flashing lights heard my brother encouraging me to bow the strings, smelled burnt plastic and paper, tasted the bland hospital food, and felt the sting of the string cutting into my fingers. However, above the din, I felt the music. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was actually playing. Art washes away the dust of everyday life, so people said. I felt the dust wash away from my soul.
The orchestra moved with me, almost as if we were dancing. I closed my eyes and felt the chill of the snow and the thump of a snowball hitting my face. At the end of the thing, my hands begged for mercy as I lowered instrument, faced the crowd, and acknowledged the orchestra and their conductor. I took so many liberties with that piece it was a wonder they could stay with me, let alone sound good while they were doing it. My mother came to the concert hall, and, instead of hugging me or telling me what I played well, dragged me by the ear and scolded me for not being supportive. I was shocked. Did she know that I was sending money from my performances to help with the medical bills?
"...You know, Cory would be ashamed to have a brother like you!" She snatched my violin out of my hands and broke it on a wall, crushing the bridge under the sole of her shoe. After taking my bow, she snapped it in two. "Going out and doing this meaningless music stuff..." It was useless trying to argue because she shattered my soul along with the violin.
I never played violin ever since.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Liar, Liar (Alex)
My oatmeal was lumpy and cold. I tried adding sugar, but it had no sweetness. It was like adding sand to mud. The sirens screamed in my head as if I were still standing as my teacher flung herself over the balcony onto the pavement below. I tried to stop her. I really did, but I don't think she heard me. The sickening crunch of bones and flesh shattering and the metallic smell of blood filled the air around me.
I tried concentrating on my oatmeal, which still tasted like sand and mud. I dragged myself out of bed, gathered my things, and headed to school. I didn't know if I could fake being the happy girl I usually was. I pulled the black jacket over my shoulders and ordered my hot chocolate. It tasted slightly bitter, more like coffee than chocolate, which was quite unusual. I ignored it, though. I drank it more for a sense of warmth than for its taste.
My first block class was language arts. Mrs. Hoffmann asked me for my paper. Proud of my work, I handed it in. She slammed it back on my desk, saying that I was an "insolent little brat" for not meeting her standards, which were too high in my opinion. She read my poem aloud and pointed out every little flaw she saw.
"...And this is what happens when we allow stupid people attend Mindcrack." And that is where you are wrong. I am not stupid. I'm just not pretentious about which classes I take or what grades I get, unlike some other people. Still, the jeers of the class seemed to indicate that I was. I've learned to take criticism as a performer, but an attack on my intelligence was too much. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. The mocking intensified and I just sat there helpless. I asked to be excused. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hoffmann let me go.
I made my way to an empty bathroom, found a stall, and let everything out. It wasn't fair. My paper was not stupid. An older student walked into the restroom. It's probably someone else who thinks I'm stupid.
"Let me guess: Mrs. Hoffman?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that." So it wasn't just me. "And she's the stupid one for not recognizing how intelligent you are." I didn't feel that intelligent. "You want me to take you to see a counselor?"
"I'd probably be in trouble for missing class." At this, she pulled out her computer and showed me the student handbook.
"It says right here that students can see a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'. Also, given what happened recently, I think they'd understand. I'll walk with you so, if anyone asks, I can tell them what the policy is."
"Thanks."
We walked together and arrived at the counselor's office. Just before making another turn, Mrs. Hoffman stopped us to ask us where we were going.
"Just where do you think you're going, you little punk?"
"To see a counselor."
"I didn't give you permission to do that!"
"It says here in the student handbook that a student can visit a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'." We left before she could say anything else.
Mrs. Akimoto sat in front of me, obviously concerned. She pushed a dish of rice candy towards me. I didn't take any.
"Is everything okay?" I noted the expression on her face. Mrs. Akimoto has a concerned face lined with thousands of emotions that I couldn't name, let alone determine accurately. She must have been here a long time since she seemed to know Mindcrack and its problems like the back of her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Hoffmann called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"A student sent me a video of the incident. I find it disturbing that a teacher, especially someone at Mindcrack, do something like that." She gave me the look that people give when they want more information.
"Do you know Miss Netherfield? I used to take vocal lessons with her."
"Oh, yes! We've talked many times. Is she doing well?" I don't know what Mrs. Akimoto has seen today, but something told me that this was an especially trying day for her.
"Well, she jumped off a building yesterday. She died about three hours later in the hospital."
I told Mrs. Akimoto everything about the incident from the smell of blood in the air to the fact that part of me jumped with my teacher. She listened intently, taking in every detail. Despite the recent string of suicides at Mindcrack, Mrs. Akimoto seemed deeply disturbed. She wrote an E-mail and dismissed me as another student stepped in.
"Just so you know, I wrote an E-mail to all your teachers that you can come see me whenever you like without even signing out." The bell rang, which meant it was time for band class.
To my surprise, Steve was there. His face was puffy from crying, but he tried to hide the fact. I guess neither of us took the recent events well. The other students had shared expressions of mingled despair and uncertainty. He went on teaching and handed out our song for the concert: Everything's Alright. Next to me, Adrian raised his hand.
"Why are we performing this song when, clearly, nothing is going right?" He had been crying too. I could tell from the red streaks on his face. Everyone mumbled uncomfortably at this question. Not quite sure how to answer, Steve shifted awkwardly. Even without the whole speech thing, it's a difficult question to answer. Eventually, he came up with some sort of response.
"We all have that one person in or lives who makes everything alright." That doesn't help when that person is dead! Still, that seemed to satisfy the others. We played scales, ran through the song, which didn't really sound like anything. After breaking the song into chunks, "dividing and conquering", as Steve calls it, the song began to fall into place.
After packing up, Steve stopped me. He plugged his device into the phone and typed something after answering a call. He gestured that I come with him, so I did. Despite terrible our situation, I was glad to skip math. We began walking and I noticed that we were moving away from the campus.
"Go see Mrs. Akimoto."
I went to see Mrs. Akimoto again. My father was there in the room, obviously troubled. I entered, unsure of what was going on.
"She's been through a lot yesterday."
"I am aware of that."
"On top of that, a teacher humiliated her in class." My father's eyes narrowed.
"How so?" Mrs. Akimoto played the video from earlier. His eyes widened again and then he turned towards me.
"Alex, if something like this happens, you need to tell me immediately." He took me in for a hug. "Mrs. Akimoto, have you seen other cases like this?"
"Yes, all from this teacher. I recommend that you pull Alex from her class. I have alerted Mrs. Hoffmann of what Alex went through yesterday and she said something that I wish not to repeat at this time. Alex, have you or any other students had your intelligence attacked by Mrs. Hoffmann?"
"Yes. It happens all the time."
"To whom?"
"To me, my friend Jasmine, and a few others. Jasmine took her own life three days ago. I found her body in the girls' bathroom near the choir room. There were two others with her, likely other sixth graders. I didn't get close enough to identify them." My father looked anxious, genuinely anxious. I've only seen him like that one other time when I twisted my ankle in the woods and there was a skeleton hot on my tail. He was clearly at a loss for words.
"Ten other sixth graders have seen me today because Mrs. Hoffmann directly attacked their intelligence. There may be more victims of her outright hostility, but I can never know for sure unless they see me."
"You can read my poem if you want." Mrs. Akimoto took it from me, scanning it. I remembered each line clear as day because I spent three hours perfecting it. "Try sending it to other English teachers to see if I honestly deserved a bad grade for it."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Don't tell me that you're not tired.
Don't tell me that you're not sad.
Don't tell me that you're not mad.
You know that I've seen you cry.
You've said that you want to die.
Don't tell me that you have it all
When I know you're afraid to fall.
Seeing past the mask you wear,
I know you think that life's not fair.
I see enough so that I care,
Through gilded guise, the wear and tear.
"I will take your suggestion. Go home and save your strength for singing with the choir. I will make sure that your work gets to you." We did as Mrs. Akimoto told us and went home.
I tried concentrating on my oatmeal, which still tasted like sand and mud. I dragged myself out of bed, gathered my things, and headed to school. I didn't know if I could fake being the happy girl I usually was. I pulled the black jacket over my shoulders and ordered my hot chocolate. It tasted slightly bitter, more like coffee than chocolate, which was quite unusual. I ignored it, though. I drank it more for a sense of warmth than for its taste.
My first block class was language arts. Mrs. Hoffmann asked me for my paper. Proud of my work, I handed it in. She slammed it back on my desk, saying that I was an "insolent little brat" for not meeting her standards, which were too high in my opinion. She read my poem aloud and pointed out every little flaw she saw.
"...And this is what happens when we allow stupid people attend Mindcrack." And that is where you are wrong. I am not stupid. I'm just not pretentious about which classes I take or what grades I get, unlike some other people. Still, the jeers of the class seemed to indicate that I was. I've learned to take criticism as a performer, but an attack on my intelligence was too much. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. The mocking intensified and I just sat there helpless. I asked to be excused. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hoffmann let me go.
I made my way to an empty bathroom, found a stall, and let everything out. It wasn't fair. My paper was not stupid. An older student walked into the restroom. It's probably someone else who thinks I'm stupid.
"Let me guess: Mrs. Hoffman?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that." So it wasn't just me. "And she's the stupid one for not recognizing how intelligent you are." I didn't feel that intelligent. "You want me to take you to see a counselor?"
"I'd probably be in trouble for missing class." At this, she pulled out her computer and showed me the student handbook.
"It says right here that students can see a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'. Also, given what happened recently, I think they'd understand. I'll walk with you so, if anyone asks, I can tell them what the policy is."
"Thanks."
We walked together and arrived at the counselor's office. Just before making another turn, Mrs. Hoffman stopped us to ask us where we were going.
"Just where do you think you're going, you little punk?"
"To see a counselor."
"I didn't give you permission to do that!"
"It says here in the student handbook that a student can visit a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'." We left before she could say anything else.
Mrs. Akimoto sat in front of me, obviously concerned. She pushed a dish of rice candy towards me. I didn't take any.
"Is everything okay?" I noted the expression on her face. Mrs. Akimoto has a concerned face lined with thousands of emotions that I couldn't name, let alone determine accurately. She must have been here a long time since she seemed to know Mindcrack and its problems like the back of her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Hoffmann called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"A student sent me a video of the incident. I find it disturbing that a teacher, especially someone at Mindcrack, do something like that." She gave me the look that people give when they want more information.
"Do you know Miss Netherfield? I used to take vocal lessons with her."
"Oh, yes! We've talked many times. Is she doing well?" I don't know what Mrs. Akimoto has seen today, but something told me that this was an especially trying day for her.
"Well, she jumped off a building yesterday. She died about three hours later in the hospital."
I told Mrs. Akimoto everything about the incident from the smell of blood in the air to the fact that part of me jumped with my teacher. She listened intently, taking in every detail. Despite the recent string of suicides at Mindcrack, Mrs. Akimoto seemed deeply disturbed. She wrote an E-mail and dismissed me as another student stepped in.
"Just so you know, I wrote an E-mail to all your teachers that you can come see me whenever you like without even signing out." The bell rang, which meant it was time for band class.
To my surprise, Steve was there. His face was puffy from crying, but he tried to hide the fact. I guess neither of us took the recent events well. The other students had shared expressions of mingled despair and uncertainty. He went on teaching and handed out our song for the concert: Everything's Alright. Next to me, Adrian raised his hand.
"Why are we performing this song when, clearly, nothing is going right?" He had been crying too. I could tell from the red streaks on his face. Everyone mumbled uncomfortably at this question. Not quite sure how to answer, Steve shifted awkwardly. Even without the whole speech thing, it's a difficult question to answer. Eventually, he came up with some sort of response.
"We all have that one person in or lives who makes everything alright." That doesn't help when that person is dead! Still, that seemed to satisfy the others. We played scales, ran through the song, which didn't really sound like anything. After breaking the song into chunks, "dividing and conquering", as Steve calls it, the song began to fall into place.
After packing up, Steve stopped me. He plugged his device into the phone and typed something after answering a call. He gestured that I come with him, so I did. Despite terrible our situation, I was glad to skip math. We began walking and I noticed that we were moving away from the campus.
"Go see Mrs. Akimoto."
I went to see Mrs. Akimoto again. My father was there in the room, obviously troubled. I entered, unsure of what was going on.
"She's been through a lot yesterday."
"I am aware of that."
"On top of that, a teacher humiliated her in class." My father's eyes narrowed.
"How so?" Mrs. Akimoto played the video from earlier. His eyes widened again and then he turned towards me.
"Alex, if something like this happens, you need to tell me immediately." He took me in for a hug. "Mrs. Akimoto, have you seen other cases like this?"
"Yes, all from this teacher. I recommend that you pull Alex from her class. I have alerted Mrs. Hoffmann of what Alex went through yesterday and she said something that I wish not to repeat at this time. Alex, have you or any other students had your intelligence attacked by Mrs. Hoffmann?"
"Yes. It happens all the time."
"To whom?"
"To me, my friend Jasmine, and a few others. Jasmine took her own life three days ago. I found her body in the girls' bathroom near the choir room. There were two others with her, likely other sixth graders. I didn't get close enough to identify them." My father looked anxious, genuinely anxious. I've only seen him like that one other time when I twisted my ankle in the woods and there was a skeleton hot on my tail. He was clearly at a loss for words.
"Ten other sixth graders have seen me today because Mrs. Hoffmann directly attacked their intelligence. There may be more victims of her outright hostility, but I can never know for sure unless they see me."
"You can read my poem if you want." Mrs. Akimoto took it from me, scanning it. I remembered each line clear as day because I spent three hours perfecting it. "Try sending it to other English teachers to see if I honestly deserved a bad grade for it."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Don't tell me that you're not tired.
Don't tell me that you're not sad.
Don't tell me that you're not mad.
You know that I've seen you cry.
You've said that you want to die.
Don't tell me that you have it all
When I know you're afraid to fall.
Seeing past the mask you wear,
I know you think that life's not fair.
I see enough so that I care,
Through gilded guise, the wear and tear.
"I will take your suggestion. Go home and save your strength for singing with the choir. I will make sure that your work gets to you." We did as Mrs. Akimoto told us and went home.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Nothing We Could Do (Mark)
Go away, sirens. My friend's getting married tomorrow. Give him and all of us a rest, thank you very much. No, seriously. Stop. It's getting annoying and he can barely sleep as it is. He has anxiety already, so shoo! Scat! They're not going anywhere, it seems. Against my better judgment, I decided to investigate.
"Sir, please return to your room." A woman with a well-done braided bun stopped me. Things must have been bad if I couldn't leave. What the heck was going on? It's like someone was murdered or like someone suspicious was roaming the building. Not wanting to make the woman's job harder, I slipped back into my room and turned on the TV. Steve was asleep, so I lowered the volume. I flipped through the channels, none of which interested me. I ended up watching the news.
A young woman recently jumped from a building. There was no note, no warning at all. The woman in question was in her early twenties about 4'11" with very pale skin. Could that woman have been Caitlin? She fit the description well enough. I watched on. The reporter said something about prohibiting guests from leaving their rooms so that they don't start riots or do things along those lines. Huh. That sounds a lot like...wait a second. Isn't that our hotel in the shot? And didn't she jump from the top floor?
The newscasters said they would reveal the woman's identity after the commercial break and telling us what the latest fashion trends were, so I decided to make some coffee. I chose my usual French roast and let it percolate. The hotel water smelled faintly of zombie flesh, but it was nothing that can't be fixed by adding roasted beans. However, all the world's finest coffees couldn't replace someone like Caitlin. Some people spend all their lives trying to be kind, beautiful or intelligent. Caitlin had all three of those traits. I remembered how Landon used to treat her terribly and, instead of retaliating with the same, she got to know him. That takes some level of character that I certainly do not have.
Not only that, I saw her influence on Steve. He used to be downright insufferable at times, but he did have talent, so I couldn't really say anything. However, with Caitlin's assistance, he became one of the sweetest people I know. Even with everything he's faced in the past year, he still managed to lead with the right balance of confidence and humility. His band sounds better sight reading than most bands do on the day of their concert. Of course, not every member is flawless, but his band definitely has something that other bands don't.
A familiar smell told me that the coffee was done. Not being sure of what Steve liked in his coffee, I did not add anything to his cup. I added cream and cinnamon to mine since I'm not really one for the cloying taste of pure sugar. The smell of coffee must have roused him. He made his way to the shower as the newscaster droned on and on about how men should wear chokers. It then hit me that Steve liked sugar and cream in his coffee--and lots of it.
As soon as Steve came out of the bathroom with wet hair, he sat down next to me. I didn't have the heart to tell him about the woman because I had a pretty good idea of who she was. However, that woman could have been Yasuke Inomoto or Fumiko Hiyashida. After another lecture on flattering eyeshadow colors, the newscasters were back to tell us the woman's identity.
"The woman has been identified as Caitlin Netherfield." At those words, my heart practically dropped out of my chest. Upon hearing that name, Steve came rushing to my side, obviously greatly concerned. He typed frantically, asking if she was okay. I wanted to be able to say that she was, but it was better that I just said it.
"She jumped and she's dead."
I waited for the tears to come. I waited for the denial, for Steve to say something. Instead, his knees buckled and he fainted. Luckily, I caught him and my first aid training came back. I laid him down flat on his back and tried to shake him awake. He stirred, got up, and sat on the couch shaking as he lowered himself. Seeing that neither of us have eaten, I asked Steve if he was hungry. He shook his head. I ordered room service for myself and I got an overpriced fruit plate just in case he changed his mind.
To be honest, I didn't really feel like eating either. I picked at my eggs. They were the most deliciously fluffy eggs I've ever had, but I couldn't bring myself to eat at the moment. Despite that, I prompted Steve to take a bite of fruit. He did so obligingly, later saying that it tasted like water.
"She died in the hospital after three hours, even on life support. " The camera showed a doctor in scrubs. "Her lungs filled with fluid so quickly there was nothing we could do."
There was nothing we could do. Had I known Caitlin's plans, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I don't know what is up with Mindcrack and the suicide epidemic there, but something told me that this had nothing to do with it. Would someone have been able to save her? I saw Alex begging her not to jump. She ran inside in tears when it happened. Speaking of Alex, she appeared on camera.
"I was there! I saw her fall and everything." Tears fell from her eyes. "I was telling her to stay up there and wait for me to get help, but I don't think she heard me over the noise in her head." It'a hard enough for a student to lose a teacher, as I have learned in the past, but losing a favorite teacher to a sudden, violent, and unexpected death? At such a young age, I might add? I couldn't imagine what Alex felt. More than that, Caitlin was like an older sister to her. Alex walked out of one of her lessons saying "See you later, onee-san!".
Not only did Alex lose a teacher, she lost someone that she considered family. As much as I try to promote the idea of a band family, none of them really considered me that way. Alex and Caitlin obviously had something that ran deeper than a student-teacher relationship, but I didn't know they were practically sisters.
Steve wrapped his arms around me as if begging for comfort. I sat there stroking his hair, which I think benefitted from the hotel's good shampoo. He cried into my shirt and didn't stop to breathe for a good minute. I wondered how many others were grieving the loss of a beautiful, kind, and intelligent woman. I wished someone could have saved her life so she could have been married tomorrow. Maybe Steve and I could have done it if we knew she were up there.
Or was there nothing we could do?
"Sir, please return to your room." A woman with a well-done braided bun stopped me. Things must have been bad if I couldn't leave. What the heck was going on? It's like someone was murdered or like someone suspicious was roaming the building. Not wanting to make the woman's job harder, I slipped back into my room and turned on the TV. Steve was asleep, so I lowered the volume. I flipped through the channels, none of which interested me. I ended up watching the news.
A young woman recently jumped from a building. There was no note, no warning at all. The woman in question was in her early twenties about 4'11" with very pale skin. Could that woman have been Caitlin? She fit the description well enough. I watched on. The reporter said something about prohibiting guests from leaving their rooms so that they don't start riots or do things along those lines. Huh. That sounds a lot like...wait a second. Isn't that our hotel in the shot? And didn't she jump from the top floor?
The newscasters said they would reveal the woman's identity after the commercial break and telling us what the latest fashion trends were, so I decided to make some coffee. I chose my usual French roast and let it percolate. The hotel water smelled faintly of zombie flesh, but it was nothing that can't be fixed by adding roasted beans. However, all the world's finest coffees couldn't replace someone like Caitlin. Some people spend all their lives trying to be kind, beautiful or intelligent. Caitlin had all three of those traits. I remembered how Landon used to treat her terribly and, instead of retaliating with the same, she got to know him. That takes some level of character that I certainly do not have.
Not only that, I saw her influence on Steve. He used to be downright insufferable at times, but he did have talent, so I couldn't really say anything. However, with Caitlin's assistance, he became one of the sweetest people I know. Even with everything he's faced in the past year, he still managed to lead with the right balance of confidence and humility. His band sounds better sight reading than most bands do on the day of their concert. Of course, not every member is flawless, but his band definitely has something that other bands don't.
A familiar smell told me that the coffee was done. Not being sure of what Steve liked in his coffee, I did not add anything to his cup. I added cream and cinnamon to mine since I'm not really one for the cloying taste of pure sugar. The smell of coffee must have roused him. He made his way to the shower as the newscaster droned on and on about how men should wear chokers. It then hit me that Steve liked sugar and cream in his coffee--and lots of it.
As soon as Steve came out of the bathroom with wet hair, he sat down next to me. I didn't have the heart to tell him about the woman because I had a pretty good idea of who she was. However, that woman could have been Yasuke Inomoto or Fumiko Hiyashida. After another lecture on flattering eyeshadow colors, the newscasters were back to tell us the woman's identity.
"The woman has been identified as Caitlin Netherfield." At those words, my heart practically dropped out of my chest. Upon hearing that name, Steve came rushing to my side, obviously greatly concerned. He typed frantically, asking if she was okay. I wanted to be able to say that she was, but it was better that I just said it.
"She jumped and she's dead."
I waited for the tears to come. I waited for the denial, for Steve to say something. Instead, his knees buckled and he fainted. Luckily, I caught him and my first aid training came back. I laid him down flat on his back and tried to shake him awake. He stirred, got up, and sat on the couch shaking as he lowered himself. Seeing that neither of us have eaten, I asked Steve if he was hungry. He shook his head. I ordered room service for myself and I got an overpriced fruit plate just in case he changed his mind.
To be honest, I didn't really feel like eating either. I picked at my eggs. They were the most deliciously fluffy eggs I've ever had, but I couldn't bring myself to eat at the moment. Despite that, I prompted Steve to take a bite of fruit. He did so obligingly, later saying that it tasted like water.
"She died in the hospital after three hours, even on life support. " The camera showed a doctor in scrubs. "Her lungs filled with fluid so quickly there was nothing we could do."
There was nothing we could do. Had I known Caitlin's plans, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I don't know what is up with Mindcrack and the suicide epidemic there, but something told me that this had nothing to do with it. Would someone have been able to save her? I saw Alex begging her not to jump. She ran inside in tears when it happened. Speaking of Alex, she appeared on camera.
"I was there! I saw her fall and everything." Tears fell from her eyes. "I was telling her to stay up there and wait for me to get help, but I don't think she heard me over the noise in her head." It'a hard enough for a student to lose a teacher, as I have learned in the past, but losing a favorite teacher to a sudden, violent, and unexpected death? At such a young age, I might add? I couldn't imagine what Alex felt. More than that, Caitlin was like an older sister to her. Alex walked out of one of her lessons saying "See you later, onee-san!".
Not only did Alex lose a teacher, she lost someone that she considered family. As much as I try to promote the idea of a band family, none of them really considered me that way. Alex and Caitlin obviously had something that ran deeper than a student-teacher relationship, but I didn't know they were practically sisters.
Steve wrapped his arms around me as if begging for comfort. I sat there stroking his hair, which I think benefitted from the hotel's good shampoo. He cried into my shirt and didn't stop to breathe for a good minute. I wondered how many others were grieving the loss of a beautiful, kind, and intelligent woman. I wished someone could have saved her life so she could have been married tomorrow. Maybe Steve and I could have done it if we knew she were up there.
Or was there nothing we could do?
Monday, January 2, 2017
A Leap of Faith (Caitlin)
For the life of me, I could not sleep.
The cake was delicious. Every other course was seasoned to perfection. The venue was beautiful. The decorations made everything cohesive. My dress fit like a dream. The man who would wait for
me at the end of the aisle made it all seem like none of this was real.
But something was amiss. I looked at myself in the mirror, at my messy hair and the dark circles under my eyes. I looked again at the scars on my arms. How could anyone find me desirable? Surely Steve intended to marry one of my sisters and not me. I did not deserve his loving touch or his nearly absolute devotion. I'm nothing but a burden. If not for my medical expenses, he could have paid off Alice's easily. I just live off his altruism like everyone says I do. I don't contribute anything useful or help anyone, at least nothing noteworthy.
I visited Alice in the hospital yesterday. She looked like a shadow of herself in that hospital gown, but she still had her persistent spirit. That girl went through so much with so little. I wondered, honestly, how she got by each day. Alice told me that everything was going "according to plan" with regards to her treatments, which I suppose was good, but no one actively plans to have cancer. I guess it's just one of those platitudes for use in situations when there's really nothing good to say.
The night sky glistened just beyond my window. I walked over it, wanting to touch it. Such a thought was foolish, but my impulses got the better of me. I opened the door, stepped outside, and felt the cold air on my face. I stepped out slowly, feeling the ground beneath my bare feet, and leaned on the balcony to gaze upon the desert landscape. Frustrated at my uselessness, I readied my bow and dashed a creeper's brains out. It would be one less exploding green thing terrorizing people.
I found a chair and looked up. Nothing was above me, just the sky. I was on the top floor with about twenty floors below me. Just before the desert, I saw people enjoying the hotel pool. Concrete surrounded the pool area along with a few trees. I wondered how it would feel falling from this height--or if I would feel anything at all.
It then occurred to me why I was on the top floor. Steve wanted me to jump. I'd just be a blood stain on the pavement to clean up and dispose of if I had the courage to do it. No one would notice if I was gone. Even if one person did, they'd move on with their life as if nothing ever happened. I could get myself beyond the balcony if I really wanted to. It's been said around the Internet that I shouldn't let my disabilities get in the way of me obtaining the things I desire. Well, now I desired to explode into a million pieces and get out of everyone's hair.
But why can't I do it when a simple shuffle over the railing is all I need to achieve my goal? Why am I so afraid to do something that will benefit everyone in my life? Pain is no stranger to me and I'm pretty sure a fall from this height would be fatal. Hotel staff passed underneath me. The people in the pool continued swimming. None of them would be concerned, let alone grieve. They would just scrape everything off the ground and continue with their lives.
I pulled myself up, my arms shaking from the effort. I shifted forward, throwing one leg, then the other, over the railing and relaxing my hands.
The night sky glistened just beyond my window. I walked over it, wanting to touch it. Such a thought was foolish, but my impulses got the better of me. I opened the door, stepped outside, and felt the cold air on my face. I stepped out slowly, feeling the ground beneath my bare feet, and leaned on the balcony to gaze upon the desert landscape. Frustrated at my uselessness, I readied my bow and dashed a creeper's brains out. It would be one less exploding green thing terrorizing people.
I found a chair and looked up. Nothing was above me, just the sky. I was on the top floor with about twenty floors below me. Just before the desert, I saw people enjoying the hotel pool. Concrete surrounded the pool area along with a few trees. I wondered how it would feel falling from this height--or if I would feel anything at all.
It then occurred to me why I was on the top floor. Steve wanted me to jump. I'd just be a blood stain on the pavement to clean up and dispose of if I had the courage to do it. No one would notice if I was gone. Even if one person did, they'd move on with their life as if nothing ever happened. I could get myself beyond the balcony if I really wanted to. It's been said around the Internet that I shouldn't let my disabilities get in the way of me obtaining the things I desire. Well, now I desired to explode into a million pieces and get out of everyone's hair.
But why can't I do it when a simple shuffle over the railing is all I need to achieve my goal? Why am I so afraid to do something that will benefit everyone in my life? Pain is no stranger to me and I'm pretty sure a fall from this height would be fatal. Hotel staff passed underneath me. The people in the pool continued swimming. None of them would be concerned, let alone grieve. They would just scrape everything off the ground and continue with their lives.
I pulled myself up, my arms shaking from the effort. I shifted forward, throwing one leg, then the other, over the railing and relaxing my hands.
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