Here I am again. I always end up here when my cotton-candy barriers fall apart and I can't handle it anymore. The wind makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and imagine it taking me away, far away...
I let it flood again. The waters came and they poured through my mind, and they melted my barriers like ice in the fire, and they poured out my eyes and I let myself cry. I stood in the corner, in the bathroom, in the safety of the shadow of my school and I let myself cry. Sometimes you see it, sometimes you don't. Sometimes I want you to see. Sometimes I don't.
Here it is beautiful; here, with death just a step away. I could jump, and I could feel alive as I fell -- alive! I could be free. And then when I hit, it would be over, and I couldn't hurt people anymore, and I couldn't cry, and I could be home. Just a step away.
I balance carefully on the edge. The wind blows me back, it blows through my hair and whispers with the voices of those I love, those who love me. I know what they say, and I wish I did not have to hear them. I am afraid. Fear is only countered by mastering it, and here I am, a step away from ending it all, and fear is still creeping up my spine and poisoning me slowly.
I spread out my arms and scream, I scream so that my hoarse voice echoes and bounced. In my mind's eye, I can see the bodies of those who have followed this tempting path before. They are all broken and bleeding, but they are free, and they won't hurt anyone anymore.
I want someone to know. I want to take him, to take you, to take anyone and shake them and make them know who I really am.
Listen to me. Do you hear that? Look at me. Do you see that? Do you see what I am? Do you see my faults? Do you see them? Do you know where I fall short? Do you know my weaknesses? Do you know where I lie, when I lie, why I lie? Do you know?
I dare you to look at me, I dare you to see who I am. I dare you to recognize my flaws. My bloody, scarred, deforming flaws. I want you to stare at them, I want you to take them in and understand. I dare you to listen to me cry until my voice burns. I dare you to hear me when I scream at night because of the nightmares. I dare you to know me.
And then I dare you to love me anyway.
This cliff -- this edge -- this chance, it's so beautiful, so tempting. I could leave this. I hate hurting you. I hate hurting and I hate feeling as if I am not enough. I am not good enough. I am not strong enough. I am not enough. I hate myself. I hate who I am, I hate who I have become.
I dare you to love me anyway.
I dare you to come and pull me away from where I am standing. All my cotton-candy barriers are down, I have nothing to hold me together, nothing to keep me from throwing myself off this beautiful, beautiful edge. I dare you to say I still mean something to someone. I dare you to say I've still got a chance. I dare you to humor me and just make me feel better one more time.
I dare you to mean what you say to me. The sun is setting fast and I need a decision, I need to know what I'm going to do.
I dare you to drag me away. I dare you to hit me until I understand that I'm lying to myself. I dare you to yell at me until I cry. I dare you to keep me away from this place in my mind.
And I dare you to love me anyway.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Train
"Do you hear that?"
I stopped and listened. I did hear it; the faint rumbling of a train far away down the tracks. I kicked the rail. "I don't hear anything," I said irritably.
He looked at me gravely. "What are you going to do when it gets here?"
"I told you, I don't hear anything."
"Denial won't help you, Jez."
I wanted to cry, so I turned away from him and balanced myself on the rail. It vibrated gently. He sighed behind me, which only made me want to cry more.
"I'm sorry, Jez, but you knew this was going to come one day."
"No, I didn't."
"We talked about it."
"No, we didn't."
"I have to go."
"No, you don't."
I turned around and stared at him. He looked sad, with his hands in his pockets and his hair blowing around in the odorless breeze. The light was pale and filtered, sliding down through the clouds to an earth that ungratefully ate up the warmth.
"You don't have to go," I repeated.
"I have to."
"Stay with me," I said, my voice suddenly pleading. My eyes stung and a tear streaked out, rebellious and boiling. My hands clenched into fists and my nails bit into my palms.
He just looked sad. I turned away again so I could cry without him seeing me.
The rumbling was getting louder. My shoes shook on the rail.
"Get down, Jez."
"No."
The train screamed out a warning. I ran my sleeve across my eyes angrily.
He touched my shoulder. "Jez--"
I whirled around, prepared to shout at him or push him away, but he grabbed me and held me tight and I closed my eyes and cried against him.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
The train screeched again, and he picked me up and carried me away from the tracks.
"Jez, please don't cry," he said, gripping my shoulders. "I'll be back. I promise. You know that."
I kept crying and didn't look up at him. I curse myself for my feminine heart and the way I cry.
"Jez."
The train came around the bend, and I hated it.
"Jez, look at me."
"No." My voice sounded muffled and raw.
"Please."
I raised my eyes to his, somewhat defiantly. He still looked sad. Well, I was the one crying, so I didn't have much sympathy for him. He was the one leaving me.
"I love you, Jez."
I started crying anew. He hugged me again. "I'll be back," he murmured.
"Promise?"
"I promise you."
And so the train took him away, and I still stand next to the rails, and wait.
I stopped and listened. I did hear it; the faint rumbling of a train far away down the tracks. I kicked the rail. "I don't hear anything," I said irritably.
He looked at me gravely. "What are you going to do when it gets here?"
"I told you, I don't hear anything."
"Denial won't help you, Jez."
I wanted to cry, so I turned away from him and balanced myself on the rail. It vibrated gently. He sighed behind me, which only made me want to cry more.
"I'm sorry, Jez, but you knew this was going to come one day."
"No, I didn't."
"We talked about it."
"No, we didn't."
"I have to go."
"No, you don't."
I turned around and stared at him. He looked sad, with his hands in his pockets and his hair blowing around in the odorless breeze. The light was pale and filtered, sliding down through the clouds to an earth that ungratefully ate up the warmth.
"You don't have to go," I repeated.
"I have to."
"Stay with me," I said, my voice suddenly pleading. My eyes stung and a tear streaked out, rebellious and boiling. My hands clenched into fists and my nails bit into my palms.
He just looked sad. I turned away again so I could cry without him seeing me.
The rumbling was getting louder. My shoes shook on the rail.
"Get down, Jez."
"No."
The train screamed out a warning. I ran my sleeve across my eyes angrily.
He touched my shoulder. "Jez--"
I whirled around, prepared to shout at him or push him away, but he grabbed me and held me tight and I closed my eyes and cried against him.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
The train screeched again, and he picked me up and carried me away from the tracks.
"Jez, please don't cry," he said, gripping my shoulders. "I'll be back. I promise. You know that."
I kept crying and didn't look up at him. I curse myself for my feminine heart and the way I cry.
"Jez."
The train came around the bend, and I hated it.
"Jez, look at me."
"No." My voice sounded muffled and raw.
"Please."
I raised my eyes to his, somewhat defiantly. He still looked sad. Well, I was the one crying, so I didn't have much sympathy for him. He was the one leaving me.
"I love you, Jez."
I started crying anew. He hugged me again. "I'll be back," he murmured.
"Promise?"
"I promise you."
And so the train took him away, and I still stand next to the rails, and wait.
It's Alright
The words will come. Of course they will come, they have to come. It's what I have to do. It's alright, even things you have to do don't go on constantly. Do you eat without breaks? Are you forever sleeping? It's alright.
Still, it seems like something is missing. I don't even mind the overwhelming irrationality of this feeling, because I've always been overwhelmingly irrational. I have a need to do something I don't need to do. It's alright, though, because after you get over that part, I'm just a normal person, same as you.
If I tried to explain that part of me to you, you probably wouldn't understand it. I can tell as many people as I want that I love to write. I can patiently describe the excitement I feel when given a new challenge, a new perspective, a new voice. I could tell you over and over again, but you wouldn't feel it like I do. That's alright, though, because you don't need to. You just have to understand it's how I function.
I handed my papers to James once and asked him to pick out the qualities in my characters that resembled mine. It challenged him, and I know exactly why. He can read who I wrote about, and he can understand that these fictional characters are as real as ourselves, but he won't know what's going on in their mind. Only I know that. I could go into as much detail as I want about my characters, but even so, I leave out so many vital clues to their personality. Every character has part of me written into their blood. That's alright, though, because if I based every character on James instead of me, it would be painfully fake and plastic.
James doesn't write, he reads. My friends used to tease me about the boys in my writing clubs, and every week they tried to pair me up with a different one. They didn't understand, though. I already knew how to write, and I already knew how to take my writing to a level that no one else could manage. I didn't need another person with me that could do the same thing; what would we have to talk about? If he understood me completely, and I understood him completely, we would be remarkably bored with each other.
The strange thing about James was that I never thought about him as anything more than someone to discuss different views with until I already loved him. Weird how love creeps up on you like that. It's alright, though, because we are never bored with each other. Why is that? We never see things quite the same way, and so naturally we have to argue about which one is right.
James reads things from a ladder that I don't even know how to climb. He can look at my scribblings and tell me which metaphors I use when I'm in what mood. He can pick out a phrase and tell me what I meant by it, even if I didn't understand exactly why I wrote it. And he's not afraid to be harsh, either. "That's not an original one, Izzie," he'd say seriously. "You based that one completely of this movie such-and-such. And this one, it's far too jumpy. Don't try to even it out, because then it will make your characters flat. Start over."
He doesn't always know what he's talking about, of course, because he doesn't write. Sometimes I can take a story that he thought was a lost cause, and I can rewrite it to make it the best thing he's ever read.
The words aren't coming today, but that's alright. My tower is humid and uncomfortably warm, but I've got a window up here that I can look out of. James and I live in a tiny little white house right at the edge of a forest, and that part is cliche, I know. If I were a painter, it would be even too cliche to paint. It was the only house James could afford, but I didn't mind, because on the other side of this little white house there was a cliff, and below that, the ocean.
We discovered, after a few months of living there, why exactly it had been so cheap. The winds were horrendous coming off the waters, and we lost electricity five times a week. It was never very warm, even in August, even when there was no wind. That was alright, though, because we were happy there, and that was all that mattered.
The best thing about our little white house was that it had a tower. A real stone tower that had a real spiral staircase and a real little room at the top, like in Rapunzel. I don't know why it was there, or who built it, I just knew that I loved it.
The words aren't coming today, but I can see James from my tower window. I could write about him. I have before, and then he's read it, and frowned at me for making fun of him. The only person who never has part of me in them when I write about them is James. When I write about James, I write about James, and that's it.
He comes up to see me in my tower. "How's it coming, Izzie?"
"It's not coming at all."
"Have you written anything? I want to read it."
"Nothing."
James doesn't believe me, and he starts digging through my paper mess. "Here's something," he calls. "'Izzie's Diary.' What's in here, Izzie girl?"
I laugh. "Even if there was anything in there, it'd all be writing ideas."
"True." He shuffles it aside and then comes to stand by me.
I lean against his shoulder. "Can we paint our house green?"
"Why?"
"Because."
"I think orange would be a better color."
"Stripes?"
He laughs.
We're quiet for a bit. I'm thinking about what to write, because I have to write. It's irrational. I love the word irrational. I had James paint it on the front of my tower door. He painted it green and orange, though, which bothers me every time I see it because "irrational" is a red and white word.
"It's too warm up here," James says.
"Go away, I have to write."
"Be that way." He hugs me quick. "See you later, Izzie."
He's gone, and I go over to my papers. I found another reason why I married him -- he makes me write. He'll read my story later and he'll laugh because he'll know who it's about, because sometimes I don't even try to fictionalize it. I'll hand him these very papers on which I am writing this very moment, and it will be a summary of the last hour. That's alright, though. It's alright.
Still, it seems like something is missing. I don't even mind the overwhelming irrationality of this feeling, because I've always been overwhelmingly irrational. I have a need to do something I don't need to do. It's alright, though, because after you get over that part, I'm just a normal person, same as you.
If I tried to explain that part of me to you, you probably wouldn't understand it. I can tell as many people as I want that I love to write. I can patiently describe the excitement I feel when given a new challenge, a new perspective, a new voice. I could tell you over and over again, but you wouldn't feel it like I do. That's alright, though, because you don't need to. You just have to understand it's how I function.
I handed my papers to James once and asked him to pick out the qualities in my characters that resembled mine. It challenged him, and I know exactly why. He can read who I wrote about, and he can understand that these fictional characters are as real as ourselves, but he won't know what's going on in their mind. Only I know that. I could go into as much detail as I want about my characters, but even so, I leave out so many vital clues to their personality. Every character has part of me written into their blood. That's alright, though, because if I based every character on James instead of me, it would be painfully fake and plastic.
James doesn't write, he reads. My friends used to tease me about the boys in my writing clubs, and every week they tried to pair me up with a different one. They didn't understand, though. I already knew how to write, and I already knew how to take my writing to a level that no one else could manage. I didn't need another person with me that could do the same thing; what would we have to talk about? If he understood me completely, and I understood him completely, we would be remarkably bored with each other.
The strange thing about James was that I never thought about him as anything more than someone to discuss different views with until I already loved him. Weird how love creeps up on you like that. It's alright, though, because we are never bored with each other. Why is that? We never see things quite the same way, and so naturally we have to argue about which one is right.
James reads things from a ladder that I don't even know how to climb. He can look at my scribblings and tell me which metaphors I use when I'm in what mood. He can pick out a phrase and tell me what I meant by it, even if I didn't understand exactly why I wrote it. And he's not afraid to be harsh, either. "That's not an original one, Izzie," he'd say seriously. "You based that one completely of this movie such-and-such. And this one, it's far too jumpy. Don't try to even it out, because then it will make your characters flat. Start over."
He doesn't always know what he's talking about, of course, because he doesn't write. Sometimes I can take a story that he thought was a lost cause, and I can rewrite it to make it the best thing he's ever read.
The words aren't coming today, but that's alright. My tower is humid and uncomfortably warm, but I've got a window up here that I can look out of. James and I live in a tiny little white house right at the edge of a forest, and that part is cliche, I know. If I were a painter, it would be even too cliche to paint. It was the only house James could afford, but I didn't mind, because on the other side of this little white house there was a cliff, and below that, the ocean.
We discovered, after a few months of living there, why exactly it had been so cheap. The winds were horrendous coming off the waters, and we lost electricity five times a week. It was never very warm, even in August, even when there was no wind. That was alright, though, because we were happy there, and that was all that mattered.
The best thing about our little white house was that it had a tower. A real stone tower that had a real spiral staircase and a real little room at the top, like in Rapunzel. I don't know why it was there, or who built it, I just knew that I loved it.
The words aren't coming today, but I can see James from my tower window. I could write about him. I have before, and then he's read it, and frowned at me for making fun of him. The only person who never has part of me in them when I write about them is James. When I write about James, I write about James, and that's it.
He comes up to see me in my tower. "How's it coming, Izzie?"
"It's not coming at all."
"Have you written anything? I want to read it."
"Nothing."
James doesn't believe me, and he starts digging through my paper mess. "Here's something," he calls. "'Izzie's Diary.' What's in here, Izzie girl?"
I laugh. "Even if there was anything in there, it'd all be writing ideas."
"True." He shuffles it aside and then comes to stand by me.
I lean against his shoulder. "Can we paint our house green?"
"Why?"
"Because."
"I think orange would be a better color."
"Stripes?"
He laughs.
We're quiet for a bit. I'm thinking about what to write, because I have to write. It's irrational. I love the word irrational. I had James paint it on the front of my tower door. He painted it green and orange, though, which bothers me every time I see it because "irrational" is a red and white word.
"It's too warm up here," James says.
"Go away, I have to write."
"Be that way." He hugs me quick. "See you later, Izzie."
He's gone, and I go over to my papers. I found another reason why I married him -- he makes me write. He'll read my story later and he'll laugh because he'll know who it's about, because sometimes I don't even try to fictionalize it. I'll hand him these very papers on which I am writing this very moment, and it will be a summary of the last hour. That's alright, though. It's alright.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Fascism
"Name on the line, please."
I keep my gaze lowered and repress the urge to count the number of eyes this woman has. I know how many eyes she has. She has two eyes. Just like every other person on his planet. Two eyes. Two eyes. Two eyes. She hands me the pen and I take it with my left hand, ignoring the curious look I know she is directing at me. Write my name. Continue on.
The line shuffles along slowly, and I keep my hands deep in my pockets to try to hide the brand marks. Too many smells greet me, and I feel sick, but emptying my stomach in this gray corridor would be one of the worst things to do today. I have successfully kept myself hidden, and no one else wants attention brought to themselves, so I think today I am safe.
They forget me each day. Each day I struggle to move on without someone seeing me. Each day I walk down this long hall, and each day I write my name on the sheet of paper, and each day the woman has two eyes. She wants to ask me why I do not use my right hand. As long as I never make eye contact with her, I am safe. I wear gloves with only the fingers uncovered so she can't see the burns, or the numbers, or the scars. Sometimes I wonder if it would even matter. Tomorrow they won't remember me. They never remember me.
I wonder if they notice that after I walk away, my name fades from their list. I wonder if they think their sanity is slipping away, bit by bit, day by day. I want to take them by their shoulders and shake them so hard they can't see, I want to scream in their ear and tell them that yes, yes, yes, their sanity is leaving them. They have no choice. It is the system. Live, work, die. Write your name on the line. Don't worry if you think you're losing it, don't worry. You'll be fine.
I've seen what they do with those who do lose it. I know what they've done to the few who figured it out. Such horrible things, such torment, such agony. I've seen their severed hands nailed to the walls outside the Law-Room. I've seen their hearts, cold and bloodless, on display in the entry-way. No one else notices. No one notices the dead fingers secured to the boards. No one sees the horror. No one knows until it's too late.
The woman at the table with the list of names, she's changed so often it's frightened me. It used to be a tiny, mousy girl with large gray eyes and limp, pale hair. Her hands were disporportionately small; she was deformed. She was ugly. That's why she worked the table. She painted her nails a different color every day. She had two eyes. Of course she had two eyes. Everyone has two eyes. That's all they need to see what they are supposed to see.
The last time I saw her, her nails were bright red. I remember because one was chipped, and her fingers trembled when she handed me the pen. I remember looking up at her eyes, hoping to see a third eye in the middle of her forehead, but she only had two. Just two eyes. She looked startled to see my face, and I dropped my gaze and wrote my name, and moved on. That evening, a new decoration was added to the wall of hands, the wall of formers. A tiny hand, with bright red nails. The next day it was a different girl at the table.
Sometimes I dream about the nights I used to work the tables. I have nightmares about the endless lines of blank faces, the downcast eyes, the steady hands as they wrote their name. Name after name after name. In my dreams, no one has a mouth, and they all have been branded. They all have been branded. That terrible shape is burned into their flesh, on the back of their hand, and they have numbers marked permanently into their arms and their foreheads. They have no mouths, they cannot scream, they cannot warn.
In reality, the days I used to work the table were not much different. There were the endless lines of people, and I would sit there and I would only say five words, only five words, all day. It was what I was paid to do. "Name on the line, please." "Name on the line, please." No one looked at me. No one said anything to me. The long hallway stretched in either direction; from the left people came, to the right they walked away, heads bowed. Sometimes you could hear the invisible chains clink together as they went.
I remember once, I accidentally looked at the face of one of the people signing their name. I remember seeing blue eyes, two blue eyes. I remember the scars of a banished smile written across their face. I remember hearing the chains crash together, I remember smelling burning flesh. And then they were gone.
I had started to watch. The sound of the chains was clearer with each passing day, and sometimes I dared to read the names of those who had written their names on my list. I wrote my name on the list once, but it faded even as I traced the letters. I never saw another pair of blue eyes, but the smell of burnt flesh grew stronger with each person who passed me.
One night they came for me. They dragged me from my bed and led me to the Law-Room. They stood me in front of faceless men who struck me with a whip of chains and demanded my name. I had a name, I knew my name. But as they struck me again and again, and as I lay on the floor with blood dripping from my head, I screamed out the feelings that had been boiling inside me.
"I have no name."
They struck me again, and the dull pain sparked and boiled inside my skull. "What is your name?"
"I have no name!"
Again they struck me. "What is your name?"
"I have no name!"
They dragged me into a different room, and there they held me down as they pressed searing metal into my skin. They branded the backs of my hands, they branded my neck, they branded my left shoulder. They tattooed numbers into my skin, up my arms, down my back. They ignored my screams, and they did not look at me. And then they left me outside the Law-Room.
When I eventually recovered, they had replaced me at the table. A new girl was there, a mousy girl with pale hair. She painted her nails different colors, and she only said five words, only five words.
I joined the lines, but I knew now. I knew so much more than the mousy table girl knew. I knew so much more than the endless lines of nameless, faceless people knew. I wrote my name and it faded from their lists, for I had no name. I was a number. I was a symbol.
I cannot sleep tonight. The nightmares are horrible, and they leave me cold and shaking. I lie on my bed and stare up at the pale, cracked ceiling. The newest table lady has the bed next to mine. I listen to her snoring, and the brands on my flesh seem to burn again as they did the first time, so many months ago.
There is a noise from ouside, and instinctively I freeze, even stopping my breathing. Someone enters the room, and I open my eyes slightly. My heart pounds once and then is still.
The figure grasps the table woman and drags her from the bed and out of the room. I feel so cold I cannot feel the clothes on my body. I jump down from my bed and go outside, into the dark, shapeless night.
The person and the table woman enter the Law-Room. I sit outside one of the windows and I listen. I hear the snap, the rattle, the sickening sound of cold metal against flesh and bone, and my stomach tightens into a hard stone.
"What is your name?"
Thud. The woman cries out.
"My name is Cursed," she says.
Thud. "What is your name?"
"My name is Cursed."
Thud. "What is your name?"
She screams now. "My name is Cursed!"
The doors burst open and I duck my head. They walk by me; they do not even see me. They place the woman on a stone table and hold her down. I close my eyes tightly and turn away. I hear the sound of metal against stone, I hear her scream, and I throw up onto the dirt.
The next day, there is a new dead heart on the display, and there is a new pair of hands nailed to the wall. No one sees them. No one notices.
I have a mirror in my room. I pick it up and I look at it, even thought I know what I will see. I see myself. I see the numbers on my neck. I see the symbol-brand on my throat: the closed eye, stitched down to keep it from opening. And in the middle of my forehead, I see a third eye, a blue eye, raw around the edges and bleeding. I am the one within and without the system. I am the one who can see.
I keep my gaze lowered and repress the urge to count the number of eyes this woman has. I know how many eyes she has. She has two eyes. Just like every other person on his planet. Two eyes. Two eyes. Two eyes. She hands me the pen and I take it with my left hand, ignoring the curious look I know she is directing at me. Write my name. Continue on.
The line shuffles along slowly, and I keep my hands deep in my pockets to try to hide the brand marks. Too many smells greet me, and I feel sick, but emptying my stomach in this gray corridor would be one of the worst things to do today. I have successfully kept myself hidden, and no one else wants attention brought to themselves, so I think today I am safe.
They forget me each day. Each day I struggle to move on without someone seeing me. Each day I walk down this long hall, and each day I write my name on the sheet of paper, and each day the woman has two eyes. She wants to ask me why I do not use my right hand. As long as I never make eye contact with her, I am safe. I wear gloves with only the fingers uncovered so she can't see the burns, or the numbers, or the scars. Sometimes I wonder if it would even matter. Tomorrow they won't remember me. They never remember me.
I wonder if they notice that after I walk away, my name fades from their list. I wonder if they think their sanity is slipping away, bit by bit, day by day. I want to take them by their shoulders and shake them so hard they can't see, I want to scream in their ear and tell them that yes, yes, yes, their sanity is leaving them. They have no choice. It is the system. Live, work, die. Write your name on the line. Don't worry if you think you're losing it, don't worry. You'll be fine.
I've seen what they do with those who do lose it. I know what they've done to the few who figured it out. Such horrible things, such torment, such agony. I've seen their severed hands nailed to the walls outside the Law-Room. I've seen their hearts, cold and bloodless, on display in the entry-way. No one else notices. No one notices the dead fingers secured to the boards. No one sees the horror. No one knows until it's too late.
The woman at the table with the list of names, she's changed so often it's frightened me. It used to be a tiny, mousy girl with large gray eyes and limp, pale hair. Her hands were disporportionately small; she was deformed. She was ugly. That's why she worked the table. She painted her nails a different color every day. She had two eyes. Of course she had two eyes. Everyone has two eyes. That's all they need to see what they are supposed to see.
The last time I saw her, her nails were bright red. I remember because one was chipped, and her fingers trembled when she handed me the pen. I remember looking up at her eyes, hoping to see a third eye in the middle of her forehead, but she only had two. Just two eyes. She looked startled to see my face, and I dropped my gaze and wrote my name, and moved on. That evening, a new decoration was added to the wall of hands, the wall of formers. A tiny hand, with bright red nails. The next day it was a different girl at the table.
Sometimes I dream about the nights I used to work the tables. I have nightmares about the endless lines of blank faces, the downcast eyes, the steady hands as they wrote their name. Name after name after name. In my dreams, no one has a mouth, and they all have been branded. They all have been branded. That terrible shape is burned into their flesh, on the back of their hand, and they have numbers marked permanently into their arms and their foreheads. They have no mouths, they cannot scream, they cannot warn.
In reality, the days I used to work the table were not much different. There were the endless lines of people, and I would sit there and I would only say five words, only five words, all day. It was what I was paid to do. "Name on the line, please." "Name on the line, please." No one looked at me. No one said anything to me. The long hallway stretched in either direction; from the left people came, to the right they walked away, heads bowed. Sometimes you could hear the invisible chains clink together as they went.
I remember once, I accidentally looked at the face of one of the people signing their name. I remember seeing blue eyes, two blue eyes. I remember the scars of a banished smile written across their face. I remember hearing the chains crash together, I remember smelling burning flesh. And then they were gone.
I had started to watch. The sound of the chains was clearer with each passing day, and sometimes I dared to read the names of those who had written their names on my list. I wrote my name on the list once, but it faded even as I traced the letters. I never saw another pair of blue eyes, but the smell of burnt flesh grew stronger with each person who passed me.
One night they came for me. They dragged me from my bed and led me to the Law-Room. They stood me in front of faceless men who struck me with a whip of chains and demanded my name. I had a name, I knew my name. But as they struck me again and again, and as I lay on the floor with blood dripping from my head, I screamed out the feelings that had been boiling inside me.
"I have no name."
They struck me again, and the dull pain sparked and boiled inside my skull. "What is your name?"
"I have no name!"
Again they struck me. "What is your name?"
"I have no name!"
They dragged me into a different room, and there they held me down as they pressed searing metal into my skin. They branded the backs of my hands, they branded my neck, they branded my left shoulder. They tattooed numbers into my skin, up my arms, down my back. They ignored my screams, and they did not look at me. And then they left me outside the Law-Room.
When I eventually recovered, they had replaced me at the table. A new girl was there, a mousy girl with pale hair. She painted her nails different colors, and she only said five words, only five words.
I joined the lines, but I knew now. I knew so much more than the mousy table girl knew. I knew so much more than the endless lines of nameless, faceless people knew. I wrote my name and it faded from their lists, for I had no name. I was a number. I was a symbol.
I cannot sleep tonight. The nightmares are horrible, and they leave me cold and shaking. I lie on my bed and stare up at the pale, cracked ceiling. The newest table lady has the bed next to mine. I listen to her snoring, and the brands on my flesh seem to burn again as they did the first time, so many months ago.
There is a noise from ouside, and instinctively I freeze, even stopping my breathing. Someone enters the room, and I open my eyes slightly. My heart pounds once and then is still.
The figure grasps the table woman and drags her from the bed and out of the room. I feel so cold I cannot feel the clothes on my body. I jump down from my bed and go outside, into the dark, shapeless night.
The person and the table woman enter the Law-Room. I sit outside one of the windows and I listen. I hear the snap, the rattle, the sickening sound of cold metal against flesh and bone, and my stomach tightens into a hard stone.
"What is your name?"
Thud. The woman cries out.
"My name is Cursed," she says.
Thud. "What is your name?"
"My name is Cursed."
Thud. "What is your name?"
She screams now. "My name is Cursed!"
The doors burst open and I duck my head. They walk by me; they do not even see me. They place the woman on a stone table and hold her down. I close my eyes tightly and turn away. I hear the sound of metal against stone, I hear her scream, and I throw up onto the dirt.
The next day, there is a new dead heart on the display, and there is a new pair of hands nailed to the wall. No one sees them. No one notices.
I have a mirror in my room. I pick it up and I look at it, even thought I know what I will see. I see myself. I see the numbers on my neck. I see the symbol-brand on my throat: the closed eye, stitched down to keep it from opening. And in the middle of my forehead, I see a third eye, a blue eye, raw around the edges and bleeding. I am the one within and without the system. I am the one who can see.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Look At Me
"Look at me."
Do you know how often I've said that in my head?
"Look at me."
Just tell me what you see. I don't want you to lie. They lie to me enough.
"Look at me."
They told me I wasn't good enough. They told me I had to work to become someone. They told me the top of the ladder is still years away.
"Look at me."
A higher education was what they told me it would take to make it anywhere. They warned me of a miserable life with a low income if I got low grades. Either you do well or you fail in life, that's what they told me.
"Look at me."
I believed them. They scared me. They cornered me and threatened me with horrible outcomes. It was either-or. That was all there was to it.
"Look at me."
I worked. I struggled. I cried. The ladder kept getting taller. They kept telling me to pick up the pace. Make it happen. Do something right.
"Look at me."
But stop. What do you see in me? Am I really nothing? Who cares if I am nothing? I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing.
"Look at me."
The world sees me as nothing if I do not complete four years of college. They see me as a failure, as someone who didn't comply, as someone who didn't make it.
"Look at me."
I'm still something. It doesn't matter what the world thinks of me. I am someone.
Look at me.
Here I am.
Do you know how often I've said that in my head?
"Look at me."
Just tell me what you see. I don't want you to lie. They lie to me enough.
"Look at me."
They told me I wasn't good enough. They told me I had to work to become someone. They told me the top of the ladder is still years away.
"Look at me."
A higher education was what they told me it would take to make it anywhere. They warned me of a miserable life with a low income if I got low grades. Either you do well or you fail in life, that's what they told me.
"Look at me."
I believed them. They scared me. They cornered me and threatened me with horrible outcomes. It was either-or. That was all there was to it.
"Look at me."
I worked. I struggled. I cried. The ladder kept getting taller. They kept telling me to pick up the pace. Make it happen. Do something right.
"Look at me."
But stop. What do you see in me? Am I really nothing? Who cares if I am nothing? I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing.
"Look at me."
The world sees me as nothing if I do not complete four years of college. They see me as a failure, as someone who didn't comply, as someone who didn't make it.
"Look at me."
I'm still something. It doesn't matter what the world thinks of me. I am someone.
Look at me.
Here I am.
Our Song
We have a song, you know. Did you know that? You showed it to me when I first met you, when we were still trying to learn who the other person was. I didn't listen to it at first, I thought it was just some song. I didn't think it meant anything.
You sent it to me several times before I finally broke down and listened to it. I don't know why I was so set against listening to it before. You sent it with a message that said "Guess who this reminds me of." The picture on the front of the song was a baby, so I blindly assumed it reminded you of my baby sister. So I didn't feel a great need to listen to it.
I did finally listen to it. The music started playing and I leaned back and half-heartedly watched the colors dance across the screen.
You're better than the best...
I blinked and something inside me squashed and I don't know if I smiled or gaped.
I'm lucky just to linger in your light...
I listened to the entire song, smiling uncontrollably the whole time. My brother came in and asked what was so funny, but I closed the window and pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. When he left, I listened to it again... and again... and again...
I texted my friend and told her about the song. She said "Awwwwww" and that almost described my feelings.
That night I told you that I listened to the song. We talked late that night, past midnight, before you said I should get to bed. I left, and the song kept playing in my head.
Cooler than the flip side of my pillow... that's right...
The days went on and the song appeared in your status many times. When did we start calling it our song? I don't know for sure. I think you said it first, and it made me smile to death but I didn't draw attention to it. A few days later, I said, "I'm listening to our smile song," and you said "Our song," and I know you were smiling.
Completely unaware... nothing can compare to where you send me...
Valentine's day came around and I was still singing our song. We were still talking every day, and every day my world got a little bit brighter, a little bit sunnier. I didn't tell you this, I kept it to myself and glowed in my secret.
You gave me a card that day and I opened it and it said, word for word:
You're special
Some people are the gift of a lifetime
I'm so glad you're part of mine
Happy Valentine's Day
And then you signed your name at the bottom. That was almost three months ago and I still have the card.
And the moments when my good times start to fade...
Each week was something new for me. I still didn't say to you what you had said to me. That was almost three months ago. The most I said was that I liked you, didn't I? That was all I specifically said. You knew other things, like that I looked forward to seeing you, that you were special to me. I didn't say things like that, though. I said I liked you.
You make me smile like the sun, fall out of bed, sing like a bird, dizzy in my head...
One Wednesday, I saw you at church for something other than church. We walked around and we talked and we laughed and we were like best friends, even though we still didn't know each other that well. It was so easy to be around you, so easy to laugh, so easy. It was easier being around you than it was being around friends I had known forever. Why was that?
That day was the first day you ever hugged me. You said, "I still owe you a hug," and I said "Yes, you do," and you said, "Would you like a hug?" and I smiled and said yes and you hugged me.
"Thank you," I said. And I smiled.
Spin like a record, crazy on a Sunday night...
Thursday of that week was the most horrible day I had had in a long time. Friday was worse. I didn't play our song that weekend.
It was still our song. We didn't say it anymore, but it was still our song.
I saw you Sunday and neither of us were very happy. I only saw you a few minutes that day. You said the new rule was horrible and you hated it. I said I was sorry and you shrugged.
You had to leave early, and you hugged me quick and then got up and left. I watched you leave and I was sorry. You came back because you forgot something, and you hugged me again and left. I pretended you had forgotten something on purpose just to hug me twice.
You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breath, shine like gold, buzz like a bee...
We started emailing after awhile. That month was harder and I fell apart several times. It was still our song, but we didn't say it anymore. I wondered if you still remembered that it was still our song. I was afraid to ask.
Just the thought of you can drive me wild... Oh, you make me smile...
That month was when I started realizing something, but I didn't admit it, even to myself.
Even when you're gone, somehow you come along...
It started to hurt me when our song played and I couldn't go and talk to you. I couldn't say, "I was thinking of this song and it reminded me of you and I have seventeen things to tell you about." It hurt, so I closed our song from my mind and didn't listen to it.
I still knew all the words, and sometimes I would wake up singing it.
Just like a flower poking through the sidewalk crack...
The days went on and we stopped emailing. That month was over and I was in a horrible mood for several days. Maybe a week. Maybe more than a week. I missed you and it hurt and I turned it into writing. My writing boomed.
One Saturday, we were together at the church for several hours working. When we finished, we had an hour to ourselves, and that was something unheard of. We sat together and we talked and we didn't talk and we talked about things that weren't important. We went outside together and walked around and still we talked and didn't talk and nothing was said that would make a difference.
And just like that, you steal away the rain and just like that...
We came back inside and I knew you'd have to leave soon and we were standing by each other and were quiet. I looked up at you and very very quietly asked for a hug.
And then you hugged me and I think it was the best hug I've ever received.
You make me smile like the sun, fall out of bed, sing like a bird, dizzy in my head, spin like a record, crazy on a Sunday night...
We said goodbye and you hugged me one more time and whispered three words to me.
Two weeks passed, and we went on a bike ride. Those are good because we get to be alone-ish and we get to talk. We talked about everything. We talked about what came to mind. We left out a lot of words. We thought of things to say and we didn't say them. We smiled. We laughed. We are friends.
You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breath, shine like gold, buzz like a bee... just thought thought of you can drive me wild... Oh, you make me smile...
Sunday, May 2, 2010 was a good day.
Don't know how I lived without you...
We're waiting now, taking each day as it comes, waiting to see how we turn out, waiting to see where we'll be in ten years. And it's still our song.
'cause every time that I get around you, I see the best of me inside your eyes... Oh you make me smile... You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breathe, shine like gold, buzz like a bee, just the thought of you can drive me wild...
It's still our song.
You sent it to me several times before I finally broke down and listened to it. I don't know why I was so set against listening to it before. You sent it with a message that said "Guess who this reminds me of." The picture on the front of the song was a baby, so I blindly assumed it reminded you of my baby sister. So I didn't feel a great need to listen to it.
I did finally listen to it. The music started playing and I leaned back and half-heartedly watched the colors dance across the screen.
You're better than the best...
I blinked and something inside me squashed and I don't know if I smiled or gaped.
I'm lucky just to linger in your light...
I listened to the entire song, smiling uncontrollably the whole time. My brother came in and asked what was so funny, but I closed the window and pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. When he left, I listened to it again... and again... and again...
I texted my friend and told her about the song. She said "Awwwwww" and that almost described my feelings.
That night I told you that I listened to the song. We talked late that night, past midnight, before you said I should get to bed. I left, and the song kept playing in my head.
Cooler than the flip side of my pillow... that's right...
The days went on and the song appeared in your status many times. When did we start calling it our song? I don't know for sure. I think you said it first, and it made me smile to death but I didn't draw attention to it. A few days later, I said, "I'm listening to our smile song," and you said "Our song," and I know you were smiling.
Completely unaware... nothing can compare to where you send me...
Valentine's day came around and I was still singing our song. We were still talking every day, and every day my world got a little bit brighter, a little bit sunnier. I didn't tell you this, I kept it to myself and glowed in my secret.
You gave me a card that day and I opened it and it said, word for word:
You're special
Some people are the gift of a lifetime
I'm so glad you're part of mine
Happy Valentine's Day
And then you signed your name at the bottom. That was almost three months ago and I still have the card.
And the moments when my good times start to fade...
Each week was something new for me. I still didn't say to you what you had said to me. That was almost three months ago. The most I said was that I liked you, didn't I? That was all I specifically said. You knew other things, like that I looked forward to seeing you, that you were special to me. I didn't say things like that, though. I said I liked you.
You make me smile like the sun, fall out of bed, sing like a bird, dizzy in my head...
One Wednesday, I saw you at church for something other than church. We walked around and we talked and we laughed and we were like best friends, even though we still didn't know each other that well. It was so easy to be around you, so easy to laugh, so easy. It was easier being around you than it was being around friends I had known forever. Why was that?
That day was the first day you ever hugged me. You said, "I still owe you a hug," and I said "Yes, you do," and you said, "Would you like a hug?" and I smiled and said yes and you hugged me.
"Thank you," I said. And I smiled.
Spin like a record, crazy on a Sunday night...
Thursday of that week was the most horrible day I had had in a long time. Friday was worse. I didn't play our song that weekend.
It was still our song. We didn't say it anymore, but it was still our song.
I saw you Sunday and neither of us were very happy. I only saw you a few minutes that day. You said the new rule was horrible and you hated it. I said I was sorry and you shrugged.
You had to leave early, and you hugged me quick and then got up and left. I watched you leave and I was sorry. You came back because you forgot something, and you hugged me again and left. I pretended you had forgotten something on purpose just to hug me twice.
You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breath, shine like gold, buzz like a bee...
We started emailing after awhile. That month was harder and I fell apart several times. It was still our song, but we didn't say it anymore. I wondered if you still remembered that it was still our song. I was afraid to ask.
Just the thought of you can drive me wild... Oh, you make me smile...
That month was when I started realizing something, but I didn't admit it, even to myself.
Even when you're gone, somehow you come along...
It started to hurt me when our song played and I couldn't go and talk to you. I couldn't say, "I was thinking of this song and it reminded me of you and I have seventeen things to tell you about." It hurt, so I closed our song from my mind and didn't listen to it.
I still knew all the words, and sometimes I would wake up singing it.
Just like a flower poking through the sidewalk crack...
The days went on and we stopped emailing. That month was over and I was in a horrible mood for several days. Maybe a week. Maybe more than a week. I missed you and it hurt and I turned it into writing. My writing boomed.
One Saturday, we were together at the church for several hours working. When we finished, we had an hour to ourselves, and that was something unheard of. We sat together and we talked and we didn't talk and we talked about things that weren't important. We went outside together and walked around and still we talked and didn't talk and nothing was said that would make a difference.
And just like that, you steal away the rain and just like that...
We came back inside and I knew you'd have to leave soon and we were standing by each other and were quiet. I looked up at you and very very quietly asked for a hug.
And then you hugged me and I think it was the best hug I've ever received.
You make me smile like the sun, fall out of bed, sing like a bird, dizzy in my head, spin like a record, crazy on a Sunday night...
We said goodbye and you hugged me one more time and whispered three words to me.
Two weeks passed, and we went on a bike ride. Those are good because we get to be alone-ish and we get to talk. We talked about everything. We talked about what came to mind. We left out a lot of words. We thought of things to say and we didn't say them. We smiled. We laughed. We are friends.
You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breath, shine like gold, buzz like a bee... just thought thought of you can drive me wild... Oh, you make me smile...
Sunday, May 2, 2010 was a good day.
Don't know how I lived without you...
We're waiting now, taking each day as it comes, waiting to see how we turn out, waiting to see where we'll be in ten years. And it's still our song.
'cause every time that I get around you, I see the best of me inside your eyes... Oh you make me smile... You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breathe, shine like gold, buzz like a bee, just the thought of you can drive me wild...
It's still our song.
Wouldn't Say No
"Watch me."
That was all I ever said. I couldn't say no. I had to make them watch, I had to prove I had it in me, whatever "it" was. I had to show them I was more than the girl who cried in the halls when she thought no one was looking. I was more than the math-and-science geek. I was more than a sponge that just soaked up what people told me. I was more.
But I was not the girl who said no.
I stood at the base of the monkey bars and stared up. It was quiet behind me; no one thought I would make it. That much I had learned in the past year; they were quiet if they were afraid for you. They were loud if they knew you had guts -- they were loud because they wanted to make you lose it.
I threw off my gloves and my jacket. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stood up at the unpleasant chill. Ironic, maybe, that I had dressed lightly that day, knowing the school was always 78 degrees and I'd be burning up. Out here behind the building, where the wind blew, it was barely above zero, and here I was standing in a sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts.
I gripped the icy cold metal of the bars and pulled myself up. My skin smarted painfully as I pulled away to reach for the next rung; my flesh had frozen to the bar. I worried slightly about this, for pain would make it harder to complete my task.
I stood on the top bar, lamenting my choice of Converse high tops. I glanced briefly at the pale faces below me, and the one tall leering face in the back of the crowd, and steeled myself. No time for words; if I died, so be it. Those pale faces wouldn't care for long.
I placed my hands on the bar, so I was doubled. I gripped the burning ice firmly, ignoring the throbbing in my fingers. If I made it to the other side without numb hands, it would be a miracle. Swiftly, I pressed all my weight into my hands and flipped my legs into the air, straight up. The muscles in my arms trembled in protest, but I ignored them for now.
I was vaugely aware of a collective gasp below me, and I blocked it from my mind. Shifting the pressure to my left hand, I released the bar and pulled my hand from it, minus some outer skin. My arm screamed, and quickly I placed my right hand down on the next bar. So far so good. Only 22 more motions like that left.
Right arm -- take the pressure. Left hand -- release, move, drop, hold. Left arm -- take the pressure. Right hand -- release, move, swing body, drop, hold. Repeat.
My head was beginning to feel painfully enlarged and warm. My feet were pointed rigidly toward the white sky, every muscle in my body tense and prepared for a jarring, a crash, and lots of pain. I only hoped that if I did mis-hold and slip, I would die before I hit the ground. Preferrably quickly.
Release. Move. Drop. Hold. Press. Release. Move. Swing. Drop. Hold.
Now the voices had begun to murmur beneath me. I tried to block them out and concentrate, but someone was shouting. Did he want to kill me? Shut up and be quiet, I yelled in my head.
Three rungs left. I wondered now what I would do when I reached the end. A flip-turn-and-land-on-my-feet would be ideal, but I didn't want to count on the hope that I'd be conherent when I reached the ned.
Release, move, drop hold...
One more. I knew my hands were bleeding, but I didn't feel the pain. I felt the strange ripping as I pulled from the rung, and out of the corner of my eye saw the red drops fall to the ground. I bled as I released, the blood froze to the next bar, and tore off as I released.
I reached the last rung. I moved both my hands to it, feeling uncomfortable at the amount of numbness in my fingers. My grip wouldn't last long. I stood there, upside down, for exactly three seconds.
Then I swore loudly in triumph, and pushed off. Flip, turn, land on my feet. By some miracle I did end up on my feet, although my legs threatened to buckle beneath me. Lights flashed in my eyes but I would not faint. Adrenaline was released, and I wished grimly that it had kicked in before I was finished.
The group of people in front of me was silent.
At last, the tall leering one stepped out of the group. He looked grudgingly impressed.
"Not bad."
I spat on the ground and stalked away.
My mother, as usual, was horrified to find me walking home without a jacket nor gloves in subzero weather, dripping blood behind me. As usual, she didn't want to hear what I had been doing. As usual, she made me sit in front of the fire until every inch of my body was prickling as blood resumed its course.
I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
I knew my luck wouldn't hold out forever. I had taken every muscle-building class there was to take, but you wouldn't be able to tell from just looking at me. I ran on chance, spunk, and a little talent, and hadn't even gotten as far as a broken bone.
I had very few friends. That was stereotypical of a math-and-science geek, but not for the the type of person I was. I should have been hanging with the coolest people in the school, but I didn't. I was the intimidating, daring one who never spoke. I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
It was the day after Christmas break ended, and the weather was warmer this time. The snow was almost melting, and I had left my gloves at home. My friend Peter walked to school with me, and he talked while I listened. If he had heard about the monkey bars incident, he hadn't ever said a word to me about it.
We reached the schoolyard and began wading through the snow to the doors. The tall leering boy, whom everyone called Ratter, was standing in the snow with several of his friends. I met his eyes carelessly, and continued past. Peter had tensed beside me, but I always thought he worried too much about me and should relax.
"It's my life," I hissed at him as we parted on our way to classes. He knew what was going through my mind, and I knew what was going through his. He wasn't afraid of Ratter, but he was afraid of what Ratter would challenge me to do.
Peter shot a dark look at me and disappeared.
He and I were best friends, Peter and I. He was one of the few people who chose to put up with my stony silences, with my recklessness, with me. He didn't mind that I rarely responded to him when he told me about something exciting in his life, or if he did mind, he hid it well. He didn't mind my constant flared temper. He didn't ask how I rubbed my hands so raw they bled. He didn't ask where the three-inch scar on my shoulder had come from. He was exactly what I needed, but I'd never admit it to him.
At lunch, I didn't eat. I went outside. Peter and I didn't share a lunch, so I had no worries about him trying to get me to say no.
Ratter was waiting for me.
"Hello," he said coolly.
I didn't reply. I stared steadily at him.
"I've missed you, you know," he went on, his arm firmly around his girlfriend of two years. She was a strange choice. I never thought of them as a proper couple, probably because they were so completely different. While he was mysterious and intimidating and somewhat of a bully, she was plain and loving and kind and everything a normal church-boy would want in a girl. Perhaps it wasn't so strange for him to be dating her, but why was she dating him?
I still didn't say anything. My skin was itching for his challenge, my muscles already quivering. I was the girl who wouldn't say no. I missed it, oh, I missed it -- I missed the danger, the different levels of impossibility, the excitement of it all. I didn't miss Ratter. I missed his words.
"That last one you pulled was pretty impressive. How are your hands?"
Still nothing. Keep quiet. Speaking now would take away from the aura I was giving off.
"I thought that one might be the last one you do," he drawled. I was getting impatient. "I thought you might slip and fall. You didn't, though. You're standing right here in front of me."
I kept his gaze, his curious, insistent gaze. He wanted to know how far I would go.
"How long is it going to last? How long until you find something you can't do? How long until your luck gives out? How long until you make a mistake?"
Mistake...
"You're not invincible. You're fallible. You aren't a god. Just a girl."
My stomach was tightening into a painful knot. The falling snow was covering our heads, swirling around us, taunting me.
"Maybe you're only good with the physical stunts." His voice dropped, quieter, lower. I narrowed my eyes. "Maybe you can bench four hundred pounds, maybe you can walk on your hands over the monkey bars. Maybe that's all a game to you. It's a yes or a no. There's no 'maybe' in your mind, is there? You either do it, or you don't. And of course you do it, because you're you. You don't say no."
My fingertips were shaking.
"I'll bet you can't do something that requires mental will," he hissed softly. "I'll bet that you've been counting on your muscles all this time. What about something that doesn't require any great feat? What about something as simple as..." His eyes glinted. "Kissing me."
My stomach dropped into my feet. He had learned. He knew who I was, he knew how I thought. He knew that I was positive I could do every single physical exploit that any person in this school could do, and probably more. He knew that I wouldn't say no, he knew I couldn't say no to something like that. He knew he would win if I said no now.
My gaze had never wavered from his eyes, and for a moment I prided myself on hiding my inner turmoil. I knew every person within hearing was completely silent, because they thought I wouldn't do it. They thought I would say no. They were afraid I would say no.
I was afraid I would say no.
He looked smug, he looked triumphant. He thought he had won. But he hadn't, not until I said no. I still had 23 minutes to make up my mind.
I had the urge to look at his girlfriend and see if her face betrayed her thoughts. Did she know Ratter was going to say that? Was he risking anything by challenging me this last time? For we both knew this was a last time, and I would either come out the winner or the loser. I didn't move my gaze. He stared back at me, his mouth curved in a self-satisfied smile.
I spent 6 seconds on each scenario. Scenario one, I close the seven-step gap between us and kiss him. He would be shocked, I would be the victor. I would be free of his words, of his challenges, because I would win. It would be over. I could be a normal person. Something inside me wanted that. I was tired of being set apart from everyone else, because everyone else was afraid of me. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to be friends.
How much was I willing to sacrifice for the chance to be a normal kid? Was I willing to give in and bend to his last demand? That is what it would be, after all. In a way, he would win anyway. I would be showing that I am trapped by the invisible bonds of a strange sort of honor. I would keep my reputation as the girl who didn't say no, but would I be satisfied?
I thought of how disgusting it would be to kiss him.
Scenario two, I say no. I turn and walk away. He would win. He would shout something at me, something aggravating, and I would be tempted to turn around and beat him to a pulp. But I wouldn't. I would keep walking, and lose my reputation and the girl who wouldn't say no. I would no longer be feared. I would be, most likely, looked down on, because it would appear that I was weak.
I made up my mind.
I began walking toward him. Surprise registered across his eyes, and he dropped his arm from his girlfriend. She walked away and entered the school, but I wanted her to watch. I hoped she was watching from inside.
I stopped in front of Ratter's face. The surprise had drifted away and a look of a different sort of triumph was spreading. I hated him in those two seconds. I hated him, I hated his words, I hated his challenges.
"You lose," I whispered, and with considerably force collided my fist with his jaw. And then I turned and walked away, walked toward the school, walked in the school. I nodded to his girlfriend, who had indeed been watching, and proceeded past her. It wasn't until I found myself standing in front of Peter when I realized my fist was still clenched and was throbbing as if I had broke something.
"Hello," Peter said.
I didn't say anything. He would hear the story in a matter of minutes, and I knew for some strange reason, I would still have my reputation. I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
That was all I ever said. I couldn't say no. I had to make them watch, I had to prove I had it in me, whatever "it" was. I had to show them I was more than the girl who cried in the halls when she thought no one was looking. I was more than the math-and-science geek. I was more than a sponge that just soaked up what people told me. I was more.
But I was not the girl who said no.
I stood at the base of the monkey bars and stared up. It was quiet behind me; no one thought I would make it. That much I had learned in the past year; they were quiet if they were afraid for you. They were loud if they knew you had guts -- they were loud because they wanted to make you lose it.
I threw off my gloves and my jacket. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stood up at the unpleasant chill. Ironic, maybe, that I had dressed lightly that day, knowing the school was always 78 degrees and I'd be burning up. Out here behind the building, where the wind blew, it was barely above zero, and here I was standing in a sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts.
I gripped the icy cold metal of the bars and pulled myself up. My skin smarted painfully as I pulled away to reach for the next rung; my flesh had frozen to the bar. I worried slightly about this, for pain would make it harder to complete my task.
I stood on the top bar, lamenting my choice of Converse high tops. I glanced briefly at the pale faces below me, and the one tall leering face in the back of the crowd, and steeled myself. No time for words; if I died, so be it. Those pale faces wouldn't care for long.
I placed my hands on the bar, so I was doubled. I gripped the burning ice firmly, ignoring the throbbing in my fingers. If I made it to the other side without numb hands, it would be a miracle. Swiftly, I pressed all my weight into my hands and flipped my legs into the air, straight up. The muscles in my arms trembled in protest, but I ignored them for now.
I was vaugely aware of a collective gasp below me, and I blocked it from my mind. Shifting the pressure to my left hand, I released the bar and pulled my hand from it, minus some outer skin. My arm screamed, and quickly I placed my right hand down on the next bar. So far so good. Only 22 more motions like that left.
Right arm -- take the pressure. Left hand -- release, move, drop, hold. Left arm -- take the pressure. Right hand -- release, move, swing body, drop, hold. Repeat.
My head was beginning to feel painfully enlarged and warm. My feet were pointed rigidly toward the white sky, every muscle in my body tense and prepared for a jarring, a crash, and lots of pain. I only hoped that if I did mis-hold and slip, I would die before I hit the ground. Preferrably quickly.
Release. Move. Drop. Hold. Press. Release. Move. Swing. Drop. Hold.
Now the voices had begun to murmur beneath me. I tried to block them out and concentrate, but someone was shouting. Did he want to kill me? Shut up and be quiet, I yelled in my head.
Three rungs left. I wondered now what I would do when I reached the end. A flip-turn-and-land-on-my-feet would be ideal, but I didn't want to count on the hope that I'd be conherent when I reached the ned.
Release, move, drop hold...
One more. I knew my hands were bleeding, but I didn't feel the pain. I felt the strange ripping as I pulled from the rung, and out of the corner of my eye saw the red drops fall to the ground. I bled as I released, the blood froze to the next bar, and tore off as I released.
I reached the last rung. I moved both my hands to it, feeling uncomfortable at the amount of numbness in my fingers. My grip wouldn't last long. I stood there, upside down, for exactly three seconds.
Then I swore loudly in triumph, and pushed off. Flip, turn, land on my feet. By some miracle I did end up on my feet, although my legs threatened to buckle beneath me. Lights flashed in my eyes but I would not faint. Adrenaline was released, and I wished grimly that it had kicked in before I was finished.
The group of people in front of me was silent.
At last, the tall leering one stepped out of the group. He looked grudgingly impressed.
"Not bad."
I spat on the ground and stalked away.
My mother, as usual, was horrified to find me walking home without a jacket nor gloves in subzero weather, dripping blood behind me. As usual, she didn't want to hear what I had been doing. As usual, she made me sit in front of the fire until every inch of my body was prickling as blood resumed its course.
I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
I knew my luck wouldn't hold out forever. I had taken every muscle-building class there was to take, but you wouldn't be able to tell from just looking at me. I ran on chance, spunk, and a little talent, and hadn't even gotten as far as a broken bone.
I had very few friends. That was stereotypical of a math-and-science geek, but not for the the type of person I was. I should have been hanging with the coolest people in the school, but I didn't. I was the intimidating, daring one who never spoke. I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
It was the day after Christmas break ended, and the weather was warmer this time. The snow was almost melting, and I had left my gloves at home. My friend Peter walked to school with me, and he talked while I listened. If he had heard about the monkey bars incident, he hadn't ever said a word to me about it.
We reached the schoolyard and began wading through the snow to the doors. The tall leering boy, whom everyone called Ratter, was standing in the snow with several of his friends. I met his eyes carelessly, and continued past. Peter had tensed beside me, but I always thought he worried too much about me and should relax.
"It's my life," I hissed at him as we parted on our way to classes. He knew what was going through my mind, and I knew what was going through his. He wasn't afraid of Ratter, but he was afraid of what Ratter would challenge me to do.
Peter shot a dark look at me and disappeared.
He and I were best friends, Peter and I. He was one of the few people who chose to put up with my stony silences, with my recklessness, with me. He didn't mind that I rarely responded to him when he told me about something exciting in his life, or if he did mind, he hid it well. He didn't mind my constant flared temper. He didn't ask how I rubbed my hands so raw they bled. He didn't ask where the three-inch scar on my shoulder had come from. He was exactly what I needed, but I'd never admit it to him.
At lunch, I didn't eat. I went outside. Peter and I didn't share a lunch, so I had no worries about him trying to get me to say no.
Ratter was waiting for me.
"Hello," he said coolly.
I didn't reply. I stared steadily at him.
"I've missed you, you know," he went on, his arm firmly around his girlfriend of two years. She was a strange choice. I never thought of them as a proper couple, probably because they were so completely different. While he was mysterious and intimidating and somewhat of a bully, she was plain and loving and kind and everything a normal church-boy would want in a girl. Perhaps it wasn't so strange for him to be dating her, but why was she dating him?
I still didn't say anything. My skin was itching for his challenge, my muscles already quivering. I was the girl who wouldn't say no. I missed it, oh, I missed it -- I missed the danger, the different levels of impossibility, the excitement of it all. I didn't miss Ratter. I missed his words.
"That last one you pulled was pretty impressive. How are your hands?"
Still nothing. Keep quiet. Speaking now would take away from the aura I was giving off.
"I thought that one might be the last one you do," he drawled. I was getting impatient. "I thought you might slip and fall. You didn't, though. You're standing right here in front of me."
I kept his gaze, his curious, insistent gaze. He wanted to know how far I would go.
"How long is it going to last? How long until you find something you can't do? How long until your luck gives out? How long until you make a mistake?"
Mistake...
"You're not invincible. You're fallible. You aren't a god. Just a girl."
My stomach was tightening into a painful knot. The falling snow was covering our heads, swirling around us, taunting me.
"Maybe you're only good with the physical stunts." His voice dropped, quieter, lower. I narrowed my eyes. "Maybe you can bench four hundred pounds, maybe you can walk on your hands over the monkey bars. Maybe that's all a game to you. It's a yes or a no. There's no 'maybe' in your mind, is there? You either do it, or you don't. And of course you do it, because you're you. You don't say no."
My fingertips were shaking.
"I'll bet you can't do something that requires mental will," he hissed softly. "I'll bet that you've been counting on your muscles all this time. What about something that doesn't require any great feat? What about something as simple as..." His eyes glinted. "Kissing me."
My stomach dropped into my feet. He had learned. He knew who I was, he knew how I thought. He knew that I was positive I could do every single physical exploit that any person in this school could do, and probably more. He knew that I wouldn't say no, he knew I couldn't say no to something like that. He knew he would win if I said no now.
My gaze had never wavered from his eyes, and for a moment I prided myself on hiding my inner turmoil. I knew every person within hearing was completely silent, because they thought I wouldn't do it. They thought I would say no. They were afraid I would say no.
I was afraid I would say no.
He looked smug, he looked triumphant. He thought he had won. But he hadn't, not until I said no. I still had 23 minutes to make up my mind.
I had the urge to look at his girlfriend and see if her face betrayed her thoughts. Did she know Ratter was going to say that? Was he risking anything by challenging me this last time? For we both knew this was a last time, and I would either come out the winner or the loser. I didn't move my gaze. He stared back at me, his mouth curved in a self-satisfied smile.
I spent 6 seconds on each scenario. Scenario one, I close the seven-step gap between us and kiss him. He would be shocked, I would be the victor. I would be free of his words, of his challenges, because I would win. It would be over. I could be a normal person. Something inside me wanted that. I was tired of being set apart from everyone else, because everyone else was afraid of me. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to be friends.
How much was I willing to sacrifice for the chance to be a normal kid? Was I willing to give in and bend to his last demand? That is what it would be, after all. In a way, he would win anyway. I would be showing that I am trapped by the invisible bonds of a strange sort of honor. I would keep my reputation as the girl who didn't say no, but would I be satisfied?
I thought of how disgusting it would be to kiss him.
Scenario two, I say no. I turn and walk away. He would win. He would shout something at me, something aggravating, and I would be tempted to turn around and beat him to a pulp. But I wouldn't. I would keep walking, and lose my reputation and the girl who wouldn't say no. I would no longer be feared. I would be, most likely, looked down on, because it would appear that I was weak.
I made up my mind.
I began walking toward him. Surprise registered across his eyes, and he dropped his arm from his girlfriend. She walked away and entered the school, but I wanted her to watch. I hoped she was watching from inside.
I stopped in front of Ratter's face. The surprise had drifted away and a look of a different sort of triumph was spreading. I hated him in those two seconds. I hated him, I hated his words, I hated his challenges.
"You lose," I whispered, and with considerably force collided my fist with his jaw. And then I turned and walked away, walked toward the school, walked in the school. I nodded to his girlfriend, who had indeed been watching, and proceeded past her. It wasn't until I found myself standing in front of Peter when I realized my fist was still clenched and was throbbing as if I had broke something.
"Hello," Peter said.
I didn't say anything. He would hear the story in a matter of minutes, and I knew for some strange reason, I would still have my reputation. I was the girl who wouldn't say no.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Memories
A memory.
Right?
That's all we are.
Memories.
Just like picture you have of us, when we were just five and six. We went exploring in the woods in your backyard, and we found a piece of metal and thought it was gold. The picture shows me peering eagerly over your shoulder as you hold our "treasure." Remember that? Or do we just remember the picture?
Those are like fake memories. You remember the story of people telling you, you remember the pictures. But you don't remember it happening.
When we were eight and nine, we "ran away" to the library and read the comic books our mothers told us not to read. I colored on the inside of one of them, and laughed when you looked appalled. My mother found us, three hours later, asleep in one of the chairs. I was in such an amount of trouble I was positive I was going to die.
Remember that? You remember that. You still tease me about it.
When I had just turned thirteen, and you weren't quite fourteen yet, we had a "teenager" party, and ate too many cookies and far too much cake and then spent the next day home from school sick. We were the envy of the school for three days straight. Remember that? You have to remember that.
I remember when I was fifteen and you were sixteen, and you hugged me tight and told me that you remembered, you remembered all the same things I did, and that made us Shared Memories, like two people who've read the same book. Only it wasn't just some book, it was our story.
Our story. Remember when you told me that?
I'm seventeen now, and you're eighteen, and tonight you kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good and you'd see me later. Then you sqeezed my hand, winked at me, let go, and left.
And now I'm sitting here, with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, staring out the window at my reflection. I've got in my mind and in my fingers everything that keeps me smiling. And it's okay, because I'll make it, I've got something to smile about. You know.
You remember.
A memory.
Right?
Right?
That's all we are.
Memories.
Just like picture you have of us, when we were just five and six. We went exploring in the woods in your backyard, and we found a piece of metal and thought it was gold. The picture shows me peering eagerly over your shoulder as you hold our "treasure." Remember that? Or do we just remember the picture?
Those are like fake memories. You remember the story of people telling you, you remember the pictures. But you don't remember it happening.
When we were eight and nine, we "ran away" to the library and read the comic books our mothers told us not to read. I colored on the inside of one of them, and laughed when you looked appalled. My mother found us, three hours later, asleep in one of the chairs. I was in such an amount of trouble I was positive I was going to die.
Remember that? You remember that. You still tease me about it.
When I had just turned thirteen, and you weren't quite fourteen yet, we had a "teenager" party, and ate too many cookies and far too much cake and then spent the next day home from school sick. We were the envy of the school for three days straight. Remember that? You have to remember that.
I remember when I was fifteen and you were sixteen, and you hugged me tight and told me that you remembered, you remembered all the same things I did, and that made us Shared Memories, like two people who've read the same book. Only it wasn't just some book, it was our story.
Our story. Remember when you told me that?
I'm seventeen now, and you're eighteen, and tonight you kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good and you'd see me later. Then you sqeezed my hand, winked at me, let go, and left.
And now I'm sitting here, with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, staring out the window at my reflection. I've got in my mind and in my fingers everything that keeps me smiling. And it's okay, because I'll make it, I've got something to smile about. You know.
You remember.
A memory.
Right?
Twenty-five
Twenty-five things you must know about me in order to understand me.
1) Colors make me love things. For example, a white and black Algebra II book with a yellow and white cover is completely boring and uninviting. However, if the Algebra book happened to have a colorful red-and-purple hardcover front, it might make me actually want to look inside it. Even if I hate math and will hate math for the rest of my living and breathing life, I will at least enjoy looking at my math book.
2) Many colored sharpies plus myself equal many unnecessary drawing and doodles in very necessary places. For instance, the cover of my timeline book is now decked out in small creatures holding balloons, ironic history quotes written in tiny, brightly colored letters, random dots and stars, and the equation Ch (chocolate) + Co (coffee) = L (love). This forumla explains that if a girl likes coffee, and a boy likes chocolate (or vice versa, however you choose), they will be in love for the rest of their lives.
3) It is indeed possible for something to be both motivating and distracting at the same time. Today, instead of working on my Algebra like a normal child would be doing, I got out all my sharpies and colored my marking tabs all sorts of colors. The pink one meant "Start" and the yellow one meant "End," which I had been intending to simple tell me where my lessons began and where they stopped. But no, just plain pink and yellow were boring and a little intimidating. I drew arrows on them; the Start arrow pointed out, indicating I was to go forward with my lessons, and the End arrow pointed in, showing that I was to have stopped. Even that wasn't enough, so I drew dots and stars to match my timeline, and fireworks shooting out of the end of the End arrow. At this point I ran out of room on the marking tab, and began to do my Algebra, feeling very pleased with my colorful marking tabs.
4) The only time when anything productive works its way into my writing is when I don't need it to. For example, this article would make a wonderful segment in some magazine about creative thinkers, or those diagnosed with ADD (which I do not have, by the way). But no one asked me to write this piece, and I am most definitely going to do nothing with than simply send it to a few friends to tell them many important things about me that they might have already known. Instead of writing this, I should be doing Algebra. But we have covered that before, and we see that I have no intention of doing Algebra at this moment.
5) Work cannot be accomplished without multiple breaks to find junk food to eat, to play music on some sort of instument (guitar, mandolin, ukulele, and piano are usually available), or to write an enjoyable short piece of nothing. This would appear to prove that it is a good thing I am writing this piece, or my Algebra would never be done.
6) Caffeine doesn't really help, but I drink it anyway. It's the placebo effect.
7) Social interaction is vital for survival. This is why I come home from Internetless vacations looking like I've lost 20 pounds and perhaps contracted cholera.
8) Having a calculator at your disposal is not helpful for learning math.
9) It is impossible to work on anything without music blasting.
10) It is impossible to read anything, but especially non-fiction, without music blasting.
11) It is impossible to sleep without music blasting.
12) It is impossible to do anything without music blasting.
13) The number 13 is an ugly, yellow sort of number, and my least favorite of all the numbers. This is an important discovery to only me, and perhaps some crazy psych fanatic.
14) Denial is a wonderfully convienent, but impractical, way to handle things.
15) If you can put up with me in a bad mood, you can put up with me any time, and we're good to go. If I can put up with you in a bad mood, this is an even better sign.
16) People who do not understand computers frustrate me.
17) People who say they can sing and actually can't frustrate me. People who are honest about their singing skills are much preferred.
18) If you like to write fiction, I love you.
19) Even if you don't like to write fiction, I still may love you.
20) I do not understand people who know they cannot spell something, so they spell it wrong anyway. How hard is it to look a word up?
21) I do not understand people (girls in particular) who wear a ton of makeup on their face everyday, to make themselves appear "normal." Um. Acne is normal.
22) I have realized that by the time I have finished writing this list, I will be completely motivated to do my Algebra. But by that time it will be dinner. And after dinner, I won't want to anymore.
23) Also, most of the people I will send this to may not have the attention span to read to the end. If you are one of those people... :(
24) I am not ADD, but I act like it. Bad thing? Good thing? This is yet to be decided.
25) Twenty-five seems like a good number to stop on. I have gotten my creative writing in for the day; unfortunately it was not for any assignment, so I feel as if my skills (if this can be called skill) have just been wasted. For some reason, I do not view this as a bad thing. At least I'm happy.
1) Colors make me love things. For example, a white and black Algebra II book with a yellow and white cover is completely boring and uninviting. However, if the Algebra book happened to have a colorful red-and-purple hardcover front, it might make me actually want to look inside it. Even if I hate math and will hate math for the rest of my living and breathing life, I will at least enjoy looking at my math book.
2) Many colored sharpies plus myself equal many unnecessary drawing and doodles in very necessary places. For instance, the cover of my timeline book is now decked out in small creatures holding balloons, ironic history quotes written in tiny, brightly colored letters, random dots and stars, and the equation Ch (chocolate) + Co (coffee) = L (love). This forumla explains that if a girl likes coffee, and a boy likes chocolate (or vice versa, however you choose), they will be in love for the rest of their lives.
3) It is indeed possible for something to be both motivating and distracting at the same time. Today, instead of working on my Algebra like a normal child would be doing, I got out all my sharpies and colored my marking tabs all sorts of colors. The pink one meant "Start" and the yellow one meant "End," which I had been intending to simple tell me where my lessons began and where they stopped. But no, just plain pink and yellow were boring and a little intimidating. I drew arrows on them; the Start arrow pointed out, indicating I was to go forward with my lessons, and the End arrow pointed in, showing that I was to have stopped. Even that wasn't enough, so I drew dots and stars to match my timeline, and fireworks shooting out of the end of the End arrow. At this point I ran out of room on the marking tab, and began to do my Algebra, feeling very pleased with my colorful marking tabs.
4) The only time when anything productive works its way into my writing is when I don't need it to. For example, this article would make a wonderful segment in some magazine about creative thinkers, or those diagnosed with ADD (which I do not have, by the way). But no one asked me to write this piece, and I am most definitely going to do nothing with than simply send it to a few friends to tell them many important things about me that they might have already known. Instead of writing this, I should be doing Algebra. But we have covered that before, and we see that I have no intention of doing Algebra at this moment.
5) Work cannot be accomplished without multiple breaks to find junk food to eat, to play music on some sort of instument (guitar, mandolin, ukulele, and piano are usually available), or to write an enjoyable short piece of nothing. This would appear to prove that it is a good thing I am writing this piece, or my Algebra would never be done.
6) Caffeine doesn't really help, but I drink it anyway. It's the placebo effect.
7) Social interaction is vital for survival. This is why I come home from Internetless vacations looking like I've lost 20 pounds and perhaps contracted cholera.
8) Having a calculator at your disposal is not helpful for learning math.
9) It is impossible to work on anything without music blasting.
10) It is impossible to read anything, but especially non-fiction, without music blasting.
11) It is impossible to sleep without music blasting.
12) It is impossible to do anything without music blasting.
13) The number 13 is an ugly, yellow sort of number, and my least favorite of all the numbers. This is an important discovery to only me, and perhaps some crazy psych fanatic.
14) Denial is a wonderfully convienent, but impractical, way to handle things.
15) If you can put up with me in a bad mood, you can put up with me any time, and we're good to go. If I can put up with you in a bad mood, this is an even better sign.
16) People who do not understand computers frustrate me.
17) People who say they can sing and actually can't frustrate me. People who are honest about their singing skills are much preferred.
18) If you like to write fiction, I love you.
19) Even if you don't like to write fiction, I still may love you.
20) I do not understand people who know they cannot spell something, so they spell it wrong anyway. How hard is it to look a word up?
21) I do not understand people (girls in particular) who wear a ton of makeup on their face everyday, to make themselves appear "normal." Um. Acne is normal.
22) I have realized that by the time I have finished writing this list, I will be completely motivated to do my Algebra. But by that time it will be dinner. And after dinner, I won't want to anymore.
23) Also, most of the people I will send this to may not have the attention span to read to the end. If you are one of those people... :(
24) I am not ADD, but I act like it. Bad thing? Good thing? This is yet to be decided.
25) Twenty-five seems like a good number to stop on. I have gotten my creative writing in for the day; unfortunately it was not for any assignment, so I feel as if my skills (if this can be called skill) have just been wasted. For some reason, I do not view this as a bad thing. At least I'm happy.
Coloured Words
I've always liked how Europeans spell the word "colored." Adding a U gives it more character, a completely different feel.
Every word has a picture in my mind. Not just a picture, but a feel, and a sound, and a temperature. They build to make paintings and cities and worlds that I can escape to and live in. Words are my expression. Words are the way I speak. Words are how I feel.
I'm alive here.
Every word has a picture in my mind. Not just a picture, but a feel, and a sound, and a temperature. They build to make paintings and cities and worlds that I can escape to and live in. Words are my expression. Words are the way I speak. Words are how I feel.
I'm alive here.
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