Aside from Mark using my valve oil without permission and using my clarinet cork grease as lip balm, I'd say it was a pretty good rehearsal. We got through sightreading Tokyo Teddy Bear without crashing and burning. I packed up my horn and headed towards to the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra concert. We were playing some contemporary pieces that composers likely invent as musical torture devices for said concert. My altissimo register is not my strength--and those pieces required lots of it.
So, I guess it's off to abuse my new reed. I changed it out before taking off because it mysteriously broke in my case. I didn't really like the way the new one felt on my lips, but I had to deal with it all the same. A few minor adjustments to my embouchure should make everything work. Such is the life of a performer, always changing things on the fly, finding out what works and what doesn't.
"Hey, where's Steve?"
"He needs an early night."
"Knowing Steve, he'll probably be running naked and directionless through the woods screaming like a banshee and not sleeping." I tried not to laugh because my inhaler was running low. Leave it to Mark to come up with the most ridiculous things! Yes, Steve did frequently run through the woods directionless. He did so, however, fully clothed and not screaming unless necessary. He did not seem to have any desire to do that, though. After changing clothes in a nearby restaurant, we continued while attracting many stares.
We stopped in the room, taking out our instruments and parting to our different sections. I, however, felt this odd buzzing sensation in my head, like someone was incessantly texting my brain on vibrate. As annoying as it was, I kept on playing my scales. Eventually, after scales, I stopped to tell Sylvia about my predicament.
"You should listen to your body. Don't play if you feel like you can't."
"It's fine. My head just feels like a vibrating cell phone. I'll get used to it." After running through our music, I started smelling something odd in the air. It's probably creepers off in the distance or witch circles brewing poison.
The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and my vision was slowly coming into focus. Who were these people? Why was I on the ground? After rubbing my eyes, I could see clearly again. Oh. I popped back into my seat and continued the rest of the piece.
"I don't think you should play. You just...." Had a seizure, I know. It happens, but I won't let a silly thing like that impede my playing.
"It's fine. It's happened before." But I didn't want it to happen onstage. The last thing I wanted was to ruin the performance for everyone by faceplanting into a music stand. A sick feeling crept up on me; I put down my water and inhaled sharply. Maybe I shouldn't play. "You know, you're right. I don't feel well."
Well, it wasn't my misfiring brain that was making me sick. I didn't eat anything besides half a piece of bread today. I was still scoping out venues. One was absolutely beautiful, but the terrain would make me fall on my face. Another was an open field. That meant I had nowhere to hide from the noise. The lack of bathrooms was an issue as well. Here I am planning for what should be the happiest day of my life and I can't even pick a setting.
Rumor had spread that Steve ran off to some random bakeries to order various cakes to assemble on site. That could be disastrous for a myriad of reasons. For one, they could all crumble or not match. At least he was supporting small businesses with this course of action. Steve, so thoughtful, so kind. How could he have been attracted to me in the first place? Thinking of all the times he rescued me from various situations, I looked back at my own actions. I've been nothing but a burden on his shoulders and, now that he truly needed me, I didn't face his dragon the way he faced mine. Instead, I was a coward, hiding from it instead of fighting.
A news broadcast earlier that day featured interviews with my students. Nathan called me "the most understanding and compassionate teacher a student can have." He was probably saying that to improve my image. Alice's mother told me that I gave my students false hope. Alice got into the Minecraft Youth Orchestra symphonic band. I gave her tips on how to practice and she used them. She played Hitorinbo Envy for the recital, a song I thought fit her.
Alex sang 2.75 and Pon Pon Pon. She wrote the English lyrics herself by looking at the subtitles. The two sides of her personality showed through her songs. Alex loves to have fun, but not as much as she loves the spotlight. She pursues it with a tenacity most people don't think her to have and conducts herself with an assured confidence that even the Mindcrack High School Choir lacked. The people who smile without question are often looked down upon as unintelligent, which Alex has disproved on a regular basis through her ability to perform.
Nathan played a classical horn piece, something slow and lyrical as opposed to Carmen who gravitated towards fast and technical pieces. It's her first year and Carmen already knows how to double tongue and play almost all of her major scales. Nathan speaks logically, yet he does not do so to coerce or intimidate others. He clarifies, condenses, and comforts with his sound mind. It is frequently that Nathan acts as a mediator and a teacher when I step out of the room. As easy as it is to forget people like him, that should not be done.
Carmen, on the other hand, is vigorous and persistent. On one occasion, I have hinted that she would not be able to learn a certain piece in time for the recital. In turn, she proved me wrong and it ended up being the better of her two individual songs. I saw an article titled "Eight Year Old Clarinetist Reaches New Musical Heights Despite Visual Impairment" regarding Carmen. People like her attract attention from the press. Despite this, however, Carmen never loses sight of her true talent and is always on the lookout for more challenges to tackle.
I packed my clarinet away and headed home. When I got home, Steve woke up. Feeling guilty about disturbing his sleep, I slipped into a nightgown and laid my head on a pillow. In response, he took me in close and held me tightly. I got the feeling that he knew I wouldn't sleep well tonight. The gesture brought tears to my eyes. Gently wiping them away, he wrapped me in the blankets and continued to hold me.
My sisters, especially Alisha, mocked me for believing in true love. "Rescue yourself because no one will," she often said. " I was told that I could never be liked, let alone loved. I planted the crane in Steve's hand and he returned to me better than the man he was before. I almost reached over for a sword to leave marks in my flesh, but I decided against it. I turned in towards my lover and fell asleep knowing that I had proven a myriad of people wrong.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Defending Men (Jordan)
This fic contains rape/non-con. Proceed with caution and an open mind.
That all changed when I told Felicia how I really felt. Felicia led me into an empty restroom. She aggressively ripped--and I do mean ripped--my clothes off. This newfound aggressiveness stunned me to the point I couldn't react. After chasing me (for a while because I did track), she cornered me and started kicking me. As soon as I gained my bearings, I tried to fight back. However, the ballet she did made her agile and strong to the point I didn't stand a chance. The rest of the events were a blur (maybe because I was probably about to lose consciousness), but I do remember her accusing me of taking advantage of her when it was the other way around.
The rest of the year was rough for me. I had to be homeschooled because of what happened in that restroom. My "bad boy" persona made the whole thing more believable, but that's not really who I was. I had ten other siblings and I was the seventh child. My family had enough to eat and that's because I got the least. I was unable to do heavy physical labor, but I wasn't exactly weak either. My dream was to run track in high school, but that dream was quickly ended because my legs felt like they were in splints when I ran. My left hand does the same thing. My parents often told me "Jordan, if you weren't born so early, you would have been a fine specimen of a young man." It would have been fine if I had a sign that I wasn't a joke. They refused to admit that my problem even exists because they kept saying "You can do anything as long as you set your mind to it." I suppose they meant well, but it stung all the same. I could never get a mile time under 600 ticks or squat any kind of weight. Most of the time, I went home and cried in my room because I felt like a failure.
Tonight, I felt the judgment of my family and all my siblings (Anne, Kamber, Derek, Carson, George, Spencer, Marlee, Brice [a girl], Elliot, and Gerad in that order). Anne took Zinnia and Marlee to the other side of the table. We live in a small town, but not too small, so word of incidents like these spreads like wildfire.
"I was the one who was taken advantage of, not Fel." I tried to defend my position. "She ripped off my clothes."
"But a male can't do that to a female," Kamber chimed in. "It's impossible."
"How do you know? Were you in a similar situation?"
"Well, I just know. My intuition tells me."
"A girl did that to you? Wow, Jordan. You achieved a whole new level of weakness." My mother said this jokingly. An onslaught of similar comments in both French and English followed from nearly everyone else except for Marlee, Brice, Elliot, and Gerad. The latter two were too young to understand what had gone on while the former two actually believed me. Anne, however, shushed them.
"You know what? You guys will never understand or even try." Feeling tears about to burst through the wall I had worked to hard to build, I ran into my room ashamed that I really was so weak. Be a man, they said. But what does that mean? I am sick of being dismissed and told that I am wrong. Crying in frustration, I threw a pillow and punched it until I collapsed exhausted and in tears. I didn't bother with pushing myself to finish what little I ate.
The next day, I was taken to court. The building's tall ceiling supported by quartz pillars had a draft that I believe was specifically made to freeze the truth out of you. Fel was obviously dressed for the occasion in a black, tight-fitting blazer, round-collared blouse, and pleated midi skirt. Shooting daggers from her eyes, she did not see Jordan. She saw what I was accused of. I gave a cool nod in return and smirked although my soul burned with humiliation. When my attorney attested on my behalf, he demanded to see security footage. However, since there was none, I had to complete 200 hours of community service for a crime I never committed in the first place. There were no witnesses aside from someone who heard the incident from outside the door who said that the screams sounded like they were from a girl. Well, thank you. I sometimes sang alto in choir due to the lack of actual altos.
200 total hours of picking up trash, weeding wheat fields, moving furniture, etc. later, I was free. However, I didn't feel particularly liberated. I avoided empty restrooms for the longest time after that. I started treating myself like dirt. I started mining little pieces of coal to distract myself. After even more community service (Thank you, suggestion box.), Fel told me she would abandon the baby as soon as s/he was born. Okay. I shrugged and moved on with my life, thinking both of us could be absolved of this situation until the baby was actually born. It was a girl who I thought resembled me.
I don't know what compelled me, but when I held her, I felt connected in this strange, irrational way. Babies never really interested me before, but this one did. She opened her eyes, a brilliant, steely diamond blue. Who could abandon this little thing? She slept in my arms so peacefully. Enough with "the baby". This girl needs a name. I found a book of names and began reading it.
Melissa? No. Too popular girl.
Katherine? No. Too aggressive. Plus I was bullied by a Katherine.
Anna? No. Too common. It's too close to Anne too.
Lina? No. Just no. I don't even know why.
Margaret? No. That's my mother's name.
Skylar? Eh... It's a step in the right direction.
Nicole? No.
Felicia? NO NO NO NO. How did I notice that in the first place?
After looking at a thousand more names, I found "Alex." It just seemed right, like it was her name. However, it needed more. Alexandra seemed too severe while Alexa was too mediocre. Just Alex seemed...faceless. This girl needs to be known. Alexandria was perfect. I looked at the clock and realized that I spent an hour on naming Alexandria. I wanted her to have the world. But who was I to rob her of the joy of taking it for herself?
Another court visit followed soon afterwards. It was a rather intense custody battle despite the fact that Fel didn't want Alexandria in the first place. Her parents and mine were both bent on Fel keeping Alexandria. However, I knew she would just leave that precious little human being in a ditch to slowly wither and die. I fought with all my might to keep this little girl, my little girl. I had no idea how to warm a bottle or change a diaper, but I would learn. I would do everything in my power to ensure her happiness--and I meant everything. Fel went into the biological processes of birthing a baby. No, Fel. It's more than that. You have to invest your sweat, blood, and tears into Alexandria. I cared enough to give her a name, at least. I pulled poisonous weeds from wheat farms for 10 hours straight just to give, not only myself, but my child chance. Even if I could give her nothing else, I gave her a name, an identity.
Eventually, I won because I delivered my testimony in such a way that I won the judge's heart and because I proved that I was the victim by pointing out that Fel made that blazer out of my old jacket. Victorious, I took Alexandria from Fel's arms and walked out of the courthouse a new man, a father. A week later, it was my 16th birthday. I held her in my arms, knowing I was in it for good. I was in it for the birthday cakes, the hugs, and the utterings of "I love you, Daddy". I was in it for the graduations, school plays, enthusiastic belting of Disney songs, and sports games. Even more important, I was in it for the tears when she tripped and fell on her face, the agonizing minutes sitting in a corner, the failed tests, social issues, and, well, everything that could happen to my girl.
And how did my experience as a teenage father go from there? Horribly. And it was not Alexandria's fault. A store clerk thought I was a kidnapper and aggressively interrogated me when I was just buying baby formula! Sheesh. Even if no one said anything, they were staring. My grades were plummeting because I was tired all the time from sleeping maybe 800 ticks a night total. No one in my family helped either, except for my dad, Jérôme, when he was home from a business trip. During that short year, I learned a lot of things such as how to console a baby while listening to my parents
drone on about biology or how to combine tummy time with studying English. I saw my baby's eyes become more green as time progressed.
drone on about biology or how to combine tummy time with studying English. I saw my baby's eyes become more green as time progressed.
I checked the calendar. One year had passed. One year. Alex's eyes were a vibrant emerald green and she developed the most infectious laugh. That got me through the days when I was harassed for just trying my best to raise this miracle of a human being. When she was happy, I felt like I had done something right for once. Alex didn't care about my problem or that she didn't have a mother. All she wanted was another arrowroot cookie. I gladly obliged since the batch I had made was cooling. The ones at the store were hard as diamonds and tasted like stone. There was no way Alex was eating those!
Months blurred into years. Alex loved dance classes, especially tap. She would flap and slap day long if she could. The dance teacher was picky and temperamental, fussing over minutia. However, that never really bothered Alex. She just smiled and tapped on. However, no child is perfect. Alex had this tendency of getting into things and breaking out of the house. She needs a lot of attention and affection, but gladly returns it. That sweetness goes sour if she feels ignored. I eventually gave up trying to confine her the house and just let her wander wherever until it's 18600.
Alex grew into a talented, agreeable young lady and I evolved from a scared, confused single father to someone experienced in such a thing. Right now, as she gave me a hug, I remembered everything I had done to assist her in reaching this point. She curled up next to me in a rainbow-colored pajama set and she drifted off already eager to start another day with her bright smile. It is said that the name Alexandria means "defending men" and my Alex does that. She knows how to fight for others as well as herself. I taught her how to defend others as soon as she learned how to defend herself.
Months blurred into years. Alex loved dance classes, especially tap. She would flap and slap day long if she could. The dance teacher was picky and temperamental, fussing over minutia. However, that never really bothered Alex. She just smiled and tapped on. However, no child is perfect. Alex had this tendency of getting into things and breaking out of the house. She needs a lot of attention and affection, but gladly returns it. That sweetness goes sour if she feels ignored. I eventually gave up trying to confine her the house and just let her wander wherever until it's 18600.
Alex grew into a talented, agreeable young lady and I evolved from a scared, confused single father to someone experienced in such a thing. Right now, as she gave me a hug, I remembered everything I had done to assist her in reaching this point. She curled up next to me in a rainbow-colored pajama set and she drifted off already eager to start another day with her bright smile. It is said that the name Alexandria means "defending men" and my Alex does that. She knows how to fight for others as well as herself. I taught her how to defend others as soon as she learned how to defend herself.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
I Survived (Steve)
It was time for group therapy and the reporters (Seriously, who let those guys in?) took flashing pictures of me for about the tenth time today. The nurses managed to shoo them out after a while. Everyone looked better, honestly. Andras, however, was trying to keep himself in his seat. He looked like he defeated ten creepers in one hit. After running around the room for about ten laps, he sat down eagerly and then quietly took a pill. This would be my last session. Now, it was just me, Andras, and two other new people. Andras and I had become great friends in this time. He spoke for me when I couldn't and I did the same for him. Speaking of speaking, I got my device and I'm excited to try it.
Now that I had my device, I had to learn how to use it. Unfortunately, I have to use this annoying "level system" in which I had to regurgitate stuff in order to move up a level to earn more buttons. One gets sick of only asking for water and completing nonsense tasks just to prove one's self worthy of basic communication. Forget about using complex musical terms. Some of them aren't even in the packs! How am I supposed to teach my students how to paradiddle like this?
Ugh...
We exchanged hugs and farewells. Even those who did not know me bombarded me with embraces. A bittersweet feeling drifted around me, bitter in that I was leaving, and sweet in that I got most of my old self back and I can finally communicate properly! The anti-anxiety medication seemed to be working, but it feels like there are weights on my legs. I missed my band's last concert and didn't even realize that my birthday had passed.
Oh, well. At least I wasn't dead, thanks to the person who saved me. I wonder what they have inside that others don't. Andras came to me and said something I will never forget.
"Thank you." He paused and bowed. "Your Majesty." Whoa there, Andras! I looked down at myself wondering how I could even resemble a king. I mean, jeans and a T shirt don't exactly scream "regal". The Minecraftian monarchy has long been dissolved and we basically had no government except for the police and the schools. Considering our history with the Eight Minecraftian Wars and the countless little skirmishes that broke out, reinstating the monarchy was a bad idea. Even so, I could never be any sort of political figure. The power would get to my head and I'd destroy Minecraft like all the other previous kings have.
I guess I made the news again. Unflattering photos of me were plastered all over the television screen. Seriously, I did not consent to that! No one would consent to that! Speaking of consent, I said "No" to doing this stupid "communication levels" system and they still made me do it. They told me to "state an adequate reason" for refusing their system. As if being pitied and told I wasn't worthy of what I see as a basic sapient species (I changed from 'human' because it reinforces that other species who have similar capacities to humans should not be treated as such.) wasn't a valid enough reason!
What would Caitlin think of the new me? Surely she loves my true self as much as she loved my heroic persona. There is no better feeling than when she leans on me and falls asleep. Oddly enough, I feel safer like that. It could be the effect of just weight and warmth, but a heated, weighted blanket would not have nearly the same effect. I missed the way she curled up next to me. That was a reminder that it should be me. It should be me helping her up steps that lacked handrails, calling 911 when she stopped breathing, and telling reporters that use flash photography to stop. Many people could do a better job, but it should be me. I don't know why, but I know it should be me.
Caitlin came in through the door. The increased spread in her gait told me she was tired from walking the long distance to the hospital. I took in the familiar flush on her End stone skin, the way she pulled her black waist-length hair into an utterly baffling side braid, and her eyes. She had eyes that, at the same, conveyed complete innocence, yet held knowledge of all the world's hardships. We embraced right then and there in the hallway and left.
The scent of the outside air and the heat of the sun welcomed me with open arms. I swear orchestral swells were going in my head at that moment. I've played some of those. I felt Caitlin's hand squeeze mine. She smiled up at me reassuringly. The utter joy she had just in seeing me was enough to make me think: Why did I even try to die in the first place?
She told me about how Alice found me in my office unconscious and slumped over my desk (How did I not fall off?). So it was Alice. I thought it was Caitlin, but no. It was Alice. Had I attempted the day before, I probably would have been dead. I wondered how other seventh graders would have reacted in similar situations. They would probably scream or panic. Alice, however, is clearly more developed in character than even some of the teachers. She did what she had to do. I worried, however, about the effect this would have on her. Alice has a steel trap for a brain with regard to specific events of her life. Add her tendency towards analysis of these events and those events will come back to haunt her for the rest of her life.
What baffles me is that Alice's mother uses her chronic pain as an excuse to justify emotionally abusing Alice. Alice confessed this to me on a particularly bad day. She worried that I would back her mother up. I saw no reason to. My father developed chronic pain and, even when it was unbearable, he still made some effort to display some iota of compassion. It bothered me that I could never ease it, but his life was a reminder to me to be kind to others, even in my worst moments.
Caitlin needed to sit down. Though I was not tired myself, I sat with her. The labored breathing that followed worried me. Her hands were shaking, definitely too much to use an inhaler properly. Overall, she looked racked with anxiety. She shifted and looked up at me as if to ask me for a hug. Gladly, I obliged. She got to a point where she could use it properly. After that, she got up and we continued. Even if I could never get the old Steve back, I could find pieces of him and use them when it is convenient.
Alex ran up and greeted me. Despite her endless energy, she had a calming effect on others that I couldn't really place. I missed that. She had three others by her side. Alice I knew because she was in band. A boy on forearm crutches wearing shorts, a rather nondescript T shirt, and a cat backpack approached me with a dopey smile. He looked familiar, like I've seen him before. He re-introduced himself as Nathan Takeda. Now, I recognized him! I subbed for his band. The director has a reputation for driving her students into depression with her quixotic standards. Nathan, however, seems to be immune to those effects.
A dark-skinned girl who couldn't have been more than eight greeted me. I could see the fire in her eyes. Carmen Proctor, she was. Judging by the case, which looked comically large at her side, she played clarinet.
"Are you coming to the recital? Come on!" The rest of us tried to keep up with her. I started missing my old self less and less.
Now that I had my device, I had to learn how to use it. Unfortunately, I have to use this annoying "level system" in which I had to regurgitate stuff in order to move up a level to earn more buttons. One gets sick of only asking for water and completing nonsense tasks just to prove one's self worthy of basic communication. Forget about using complex musical terms. Some of them aren't even in the packs! How am I supposed to teach my students how to paradiddle like this?
Ugh...
We exchanged hugs and farewells. Even those who did not know me bombarded me with embraces. A bittersweet feeling drifted around me, bitter in that I was leaving, and sweet in that I got most of my old self back and I can finally communicate properly! The anti-anxiety medication seemed to be working, but it feels like there are weights on my legs. I missed my band's last concert and didn't even realize that my birthday had passed.
Oh, well. At least I wasn't dead, thanks to the person who saved me. I wonder what they have inside that others don't. Andras came to me and said something I will never forget.
"Thank you." He paused and bowed. "Your Majesty." Whoa there, Andras! I looked down at myself wondering how I could even resemble a king. I mean, jeans and a T shirt don't exactly scream "regal". The Minecraftian monarchy has long been dissolved and we basically had no government except for the police and the schools. Considering our history with the Eight Minecraftian Wars and the countless little skirmishes that broke out, reinstating the monarchy was a bad idea. Even so, I could never be any sort of political figure. The power would get to my head and I'd destroy Minecraft like all the other previous kings have.
I guess I made the news again. Unflattering photos of me were plastered all over the television screen. Seriously, I did not consent to that! No one would consent to that! Speaking of consent, I said "No" to doing this stupid "communication levels" system and they still made me do it. They told me to "state an adequate reason" for refusing their system. As if being pitied and told I wasn't worthy of what I see as a basic sapient species (I changed from 'human' because it reinforces that other species who have similar capacities to humans should not be treated as such.) wasn't a valid enough reason!
What would Caitlin think of the new me? Surely she loves my true self as much as she loved my heroic persona. There is no better feeling than when she leans on me and falls asleep. Oddly enough, I feel safer like that. It could be the effect of just weight and warmth, but a heated, weighted blanket would not have nearly the same effect. I missed the way she curled up next to me. That was a reminder that it should be me. It should be me helping her up steps that lacked handrails, calling 911 when she stopped breathing, and telling reporters that use flash photography to stop. Many people could do a better job, but it should be me. I don't know why, but I know it should be me.
Caitlin came in through the door. The increased spread in her gait told me she was tired from walking the long distance to the hospital. I took in the familiar flush on her End stone skin, the way she pulled her black waist-length hair into an utterly baffling side braid, and her eyes. She had eyes that, at the same, conveyed complete innocence, yet held knowledge of all the world's hardships. We embraced right then and there in the hallway and left.
The scent of the outside air and the heat of the sun welcomed me with open arms. I swear orchestral swells were going in my head at that moment. I've played some of those. I felt Caitlin's hand squeeze mine. She smiled up at me reassuringly. The utter joy she had just in seeing me was enough to make me think: Why did I even try to die in the first place?
She told me about how Alice found me in my office unconscious and slumped over my desk (How did I not fall off?). So it was Alice. I thought it was Caitlin, but no. It was Alice. Had I attempted the day before, I probably would have been dead. I wondered how other seventh graders would have reacted in similar situations. They would probably scream or panic. Alice, however, is clearly more developed in character than even some of the teachers. She did what she had to do. I worried, however, about the effect this would have on her. Alice has a steel trap for a brain with regard to specific events of her life. Add her tendency towards analysis of these events and those events will come back to haunt her for the rest of her life.
What baffles me is that Alice's mother uses her chronic pain as an excuse to justify emotionally abusing Alice. Alice confessed this to me on a particularly bad day. She worried that I would back her mother up. I saw no reason to. My father developed chronic pain and, even when it was unbearable, he still made some effort to display some iota of compassion. It bothered me that I could never ease it, but his life was a reminder to me to be kind to others, even in my worst moments.
Caitlin needed to sit down. Though I was not tired myself, I sat with her. The labored breathing that followed worried me. Her hands were shaking, definitely too much to use an inhaler properly. Overall, she looked racked with anxiety. She shifted and looked up at me as if to ask me for a hug. Gladly, I obliged. She got to a point where she could use it properly. After that, she got up and we continued. Even if I could never get the old Steve back, I could find pieces of him and use them when it is convenient.
Alex ran up and greeted me. Despite her endless energy, she had a calming effect on others that I couldn't really place. I missed that. She had three others by her side. Alice I knew because she was in band. A boy on forearm crutches wearing shorts, a rather nondescript T shirt, and a cat backpack approached me with a dopey smile. He looked familiar, like I've seen him before. He re-introduced himself as Nathan Takeda. Now, I recognized him! I subbed for his band. The director has a reputation for driving her students into depression with her quixotic standards. Nathan, however, seems to be immune to those effects.
A dark-skinned girl who couldn't have been more than eight greeted me. I could see the fire in her eyes. Carmen Proctor, she was. Judging by the case, which looked comically large at her side, she played clarinet.
"Are you coming to the recital? Come on!" The rest of us tried to keep up with her. I started missing my old self less and less.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
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.
"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.
Friday, June 3, 2016
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?
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.
"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."
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.
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.
Friday, May 20, 2016
A Terrible Mistake (Steve)
Seriously, I hate the psych ward. All I do here is sit and twiddle my thumbs. I can feel my thumbs. This place feels sterile, monochromatic, dead. The nauseating fluorescent lights glare down from the ceiling onto whitewashed walls with curtained rooms. The A counselor walked the halls waiting for one of us to say something. It's surreal, terrible. A chill ran up my spine. I am alive. Still alive.
Caitlin visited me two days ago. She's doing it out of obligation. These nurses aren't here because they want to be. I can tell from their apathetic sighs. Who thought I was worth saving? Who was it? It must have been Caitlin. Who else would continually ignore my mistakes? I went back to sleep since I had nothing else to do.
A nurse prodded me to ask me how I was doing. I just smiled and nodded as usual. I wanted to be anywhere but here. There was no sweet sound of music. I was cut off from the world. The group therapy sessions were useless because I could not contribute to them. (Thaaaanks, aphasia.) Aside from the reporters invading at random intervals, I had almost no stimulation. Wouldn't it be nice if a creeper could blow this place up?
Whoever decided to save me made a terrible mistake. If you know me because I slayed the Ender Dragon, I just want you to know that I am not that man. I am not the same young, impulsive sword swinger I was last year. I was escorted to yet another ineffective group therapy session that I could not contribute to. I got a different group this time.
I got sneering looks that said things like What are you doing here? from the other mostly middle-aged people. Frankly, I was surprised that people getting treated for heavily stigmatized conditions could be so judgmental. Mallory, a mother of four children, spoke up about how she worked up the guts to get herself here. Her hooded green eyes were inviting and warm. Richard, however, eyed me with suspicion. He said he couldn't trust anyone. Andras, a young college student, kept wringing his hands anxiously. He shrank into the background shamefacedly and spoke shakily. His black hair was messy.
When my turn came, I sputtered trying to find the words. They were on the tip of my tongue. I kept trying. I repressed my tears. I couldn't say anything. The others moved on. Had Kyle ever felt this way at the psych ward? Here I am, a young teacher, just as out of place as a student...again. I hate this place and I want to get out of here, but I'm beginning to like Andras already.
Caitlin visited me two days ago. She's doing it out of obligation. These nurses aren't here because they want to be. I can tell from their apathetic sighs. Who thought I was worth saving? Who was it? It must have been Caitlin. Who else would continually ignore my mistakes? I went back to sleep since I had nothing else to do.
A nurse prodded me to ask me how I was doing. I just smiled and nodded as usual. I wanted to be anywhere but here. There was no sweet sound of music. I was cut off from the world. The group therapy sessions were useless because I could not contribute to them. (Thaaaanks, aphasia.) Aside from the reporters invading at random intervals, I had almost no stimulation. Wouldn't it be nice if a creeper could blow this place up?
Whoever decided to save me made a terrible mistake. If you know me because I slayed the Ender Dragon, I just want you to know that I am not that man. I am not the same young, impulsive sword swinger I was last year. I was escorted to yet another ineffective group therapy session that I could not contribute to. I got a different group this time.
I got sneering looks that said things like What are you doing here? from the other mostly middle-aged people. Frankly, I was surprised that people getting treated for heavily stigmatized conditions could be so judgmental. Mallory, a mother of four children, spoke up about how she worked up the guts to get herself here. Her hooded green eyes were inviting and warm. Richard, however, eyed me with suspicion. He said he couldn't trust anyone. Andras, a young college student, kept wringing his hands anxiously. He shrank into the background shamefacedly and spoke shakily. His black hair was messy.
When my turn came, I sputtered trying to find the words. They were on the tip of my tongue. I kept trying. I repressed my tears. I couldn't say anything. The others moved on. Had Kyle ever felt this way at the psych ward? Here I am, a young teacher, just as out of place as a student...again. I hate this place and I want to get out of here, but I'm beginning to like Andras already.
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