He used to see her when he was asleep - her graceful, tiny form stepping from slippery stone to slippery stone. She always walked that dangerous bridge, her pale white dress blowing out limply behind her. Sometimes, she held a compass in her hand, and it had a red arrow on it that always pointed back the direction from which she came. Her face was white, almost grey, a frightened, frightening color. She was thin beyond slender; sometimes he could see her blue veins pulsing slightly from beneath her damp skin. She never spoke, and at times he almost went mad trying to imagine her voice.
She came, every night, as if his subconsious was on a schedule he had no control over. Each time, she stepped bare-footed from stone to stone, watching the water. The water was grey and thin, if water can be perceived as thin. It rippled under the pressure of an unheard and unfelt wind, blowing against her. He knew that if her balance slipped, she would fall into the water, and he somehow knew that if she did, he would never see her again.
His dreams of her had become almost an insane comfort. He grew steadily more uneasy until he was asleep, until he could see her face, her unspeaking lips. The first time he saw her was the summer of his first real crush, and since then she had visited him in his dreams, every single night, until he felt her absence when he was awake.
A passion of his had been painting, ever since he was a child. It was an unspoken assumption that he would be attending college for art, and all the little things parents do to help you on your way were not unnoticed by him. Everything seemed to lead to the encouragement of continuing his painting. He did not mind, in fact, it eased his life.
The second year of the dreams passed, and things began to change. She now opened her eyes - had he never noticed that her eyes were closed before? - and they were a startling green-gray. They looked as if someone was pouring emotion into them constantly, and yet, owing to the great depth of her eyes, they had never been filled. They were such a pale, but striking color. His insides recoiled uncertainly when he saw her eyes, and the next night he forced himself to stay awake so he would not have to see her.
But she had become a part of his life now, and he could not remove himself from her. She haunted his memories, he heard the soft stepping of her feet as they went gracefully from stone to stone, he felt the clammy coldness of the air. He saw the compass she held, almost carelessly, the red arrow pointing back to where she came from. When he allowed himself to close his eyes and see in his mind's eye his dream, her eyes would appear, staring at him, and he would quickly turn his mind to other thoughts.
Third year of her visits, he happened to be dating a girl named Lila, who he liked very much. She was a sweet little thing, always there when he needed to rant, always smiling, never shed a tear. Top of her class at school, she was an athlete, she danced, she sang, she acted. The only thing she didn't do was paint. She was very polite, however, and always pretended to be highly interested in his paintings, but she hadn't much of an imagination. He learned quickly that it is not easy to explain what comes from one's own mind.
At this point, his dreams took an erie turn. The girl would walk serenly over the water, as she always had, only the compass would fall from her hands into the depths. She would stop. Her empty eyes dropped to the water, and she watched the ripples fade away. The water was unspeakably deep. He was afraid she would jump in, to try to retrieve her compass. Her pale, tattered dress blew lazily in the stale breeze, and he could that she was shivering. And she would smile, as she stared down into the water - a cool, terrifying smile. She would look straight at him, straight at him with that ghastly smile, and lift one foot from the stone...
Each night, he awoke damp with sweat, shaking uncontrollably.
He began to paint her. Never could he get it right, but he drew the scene over and over and over again, filling his room with canvases. He finished each one, even if he knew that it was somehow incorrect. Her eyes gave him trouble, but something else always seemed to be missing when he thought he had completed it. At first, he always painted the compass in, with the arrow pointing stubbornly back. After the seventeenth attempt, he began to leave the compass out, since every night, it slipped out of her fingers. He tried to draw the compass just beneath the surface, as if it had just landed there. He tried to draw her eyes closed. He tried to draw the scene at night. It was always incomplete.
Lila surveyed his work with feigned interest. She traced her finger along the nameless girl's face, and asked him who she was.
"I don't know," he said helplessly. "I dream about her every night."
Suddenly Lila was intruiged. She had him tell her about everything - the girl, how she dressed, how often she had been holding the compass, what sounds he heard, the color of her eyes, when he first began to see her. All the while she smiled serenly, her head on his shoulder, her fingers intertwined with his.
He and Lila continued to date, and she continued to ask him about the girl in his dreams.
"She looks so frail," he would tell her. "Like she's about to faint. I can see her veins, she's so thin."
"Does she ever say anything?" Lila inquired, ignoring the subject of the nameless girl's thinness.
"Nothing, ever. Sometimes I wish she would."
"Where is she going?"
"I don't know. The compass always points back, from where she came."
"Can you see anything around her?"
"Just water. Just water as far as I can see, in any direction. And then the stones. They float, you know, halfway below the surface. They don't bob or anything; they're fixed. She can stand on them."
"How many are there?"
"I don't know. She walks until I'm about to wake up, and sometimes that's forever."
"Do you want to wake up?"
He didn't answer this question. He gazed silently at the setting sun and stroked Lila's soft blonde hair.
That night, the girl in his dream held out her arms, as if for balance, as she stepped from stone to stone. The compass fell early, but she didn't stop to watch it sink. She kept going for twenty-seven stones more, and then she paused. He hadn't noticed, but her other hand was holding a slender blade, which was biting into her pale, transparent fingers. Horror spread over his body like a virus as he watched the blue blood trip slowly toward the water, turning red before it made contact. Her lips curved into that emotionless smile, her eyes unblinking.
How horrible it must be, to walk like that, he thought unexpectedly. How lonely. Wouldn't it be easier just to run that blade through her heart and end it all?
He awoke, again, shaking and damp.
"Lila," he said, breathlessly, when he met her later that day. "Lila, she cut her fingers. I saw her, she had a knife, and she was bleeding into the water..."
Lila silenced him by taking his hand and kissing his cheek briefly. "It's alright," she said, reassuringly. "She can do that. She's just a dream, remember? Just a dream."
His paintings changed now, but he would not draw the blood dripping from her hand into the rippling water. It stayed bright and clean in her hand, her whole, unscarred hand. These he did not show to Lila, because she said it was just a dream. Just a dream.
When Lila turned 18, he and Lila's family threw her a surprise party, and invited all her friends. She was immensely pleased, and kissed him in front of her family, which resulted in his ears going quite red.
It was all going satisfactorily well. Midnight came and went, and he gave no thought to sleep, for all her friends were still laughing and eating and enjoying themselves. Two in the morning came and went, and still he was having a good time, and no one was leaving yet. Lila's parents had retired at 11, but had left a good number of chaperones.
Three a.m. rolled around, and suddenly he remembered the ghostly girl and the knife and the compass. He quickly found Lila, who wound her arms around his neck and smiled dreamily up into his face.
"I need to see her," he murmured.
She froze. "Who?"
"The girl," he said, impatiently. "I need to go. I need to sleep, I need to see her."
"Why?" Lila's voice had become cold.
"I need to see her..."
It had never dawned on him that Lila may not understand. She removed her arms from his neck and blinked up at him, her ever-persistant smile stiffening. How was it that, as he watched the mirth slide from her eyes, that his own good feelings also diminished?
"I'm sorry," he said, mindlessly. "I need to see her, Lila. I'm sorry."
She stepped back, the fake smile still lingering on her lips. "See you later," was all she said, and then disappeared into the crowd of friends who had not noticed this encounter.
Relief spread over his body, and he left immediately.
Sleep would not come, though, as he lay in his bed, desperate to see the nameless girl's face again. His paintings taunted him, hanging on his ceiling, his walls, in every closet and rows of them covering every spare inch of the floor. His heart pounded unnecessarily loudly in his chest, and for a brief moment, he wondered why.
The hours slid by, and the fear that he would not be able to see her tonight grew steadily stronger. A small voice in his mind whispered that perhaps he was going insane... she was a dream, wasn't she? Another nagging voice joined the first... Lila.
Six in the morning and sleep had not come. He sat up in bed, holding his head in his hands. Something wasn't right; guilt crept over him, fear, anguish...
The day passed by miserably. Lila didn't call him. His paintings were blemished in his mind and incomplete.
That night, as he fell asleep, the girl was not walking. She had stopped delicately atop a stone and was staring directly into his eyes. Those green-gray eyes that were so unlike anything he had ever beheld before... she was cut, scars criss-crossing her arms, blood dripping slowly into the clear, poisonously grey waters below her. The blade she still held, holding it pointed directly at her heart. Her white, grave-light dress was stained a dark, deathly brownish-red. She smiled at him, and he felt cold, as if her smile was removing all emotion.
How long he stared at her, he did not know. He had a vague feeling that the dream should be ending soon, and she might keep walking, or perhaps drop the knife, or anything... fear bubbled up inside him, the panic that she would step into the water and he would never see her again...
And yet the dream did not end. She looked down at the water - he noticed that she had no reflection - and she bent down and touched the surface. Her fingers pressed against it as if it was solid; the waves moved underneath her hand, but she did not penetrate it. Her lips curved in a slight smile, and slowly she looked back up at him.
The slender blade in her other hand was trembling, the bright silver and red flashing in the pale light. Her hair fell over her face, and she gripped the knife tightly. Blood gushed out, and he opened his mouth to tell her to stop... to tell her to put it down, to tell her to keep walking, to tell her anything. His voice constricted.
She suddenly forced the blade down, into her chest, into her heart. He screamed, but she appeared not to have heard him. Water flowed out of the wound, and she smiled and opened her mouth and water came out of her mouth. Horrified, he watched as her fingers released the blade, and it fell down into the horrible waters. Water came from her eyes, from her hair... the only place where she bled was from the cuts on her arms. She laughed, the first time he had heard her voice, looked at him one last time, and fell into the water.
He awoke, soaked in sweat. His paintings had become dark and mishapen, the girl in each had been erased, and where she should have been, there was only water. The endless stretch of water. On every scrap of paper and every blank canvas, Lila's name had been painted ruthlessly across, in red and black.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Blueberry Picking
Life is such a finicky thing. One moment, you think you've got it all figured out, and you think you're cool, and you think that you can handle it, and you think you're going blueberry picking tomorrow. You think, take each moment as it goes. Don't rush anything. There's always tomorrow. The blueberries won't die overnight. We'll go blueberry picking tomorrow, and the sun will shine. Even if it doesn't, that's okay, because we're going blueberry picking.
And then suddenly, the sun doesn't shine anymore and you pass the blueberry field on the way to a great white building and fear turns into a solid rock of nausea, the kind you can't swallow or dissolve or even throw up. It stays there and it only has one name written on it, and it's not your name.
Life likes to let you take things for granted. The sun, for instance. Did you ever wake up in the morning, afraid that the sun wouldn't peep over the horizon? Did you ever feel like every ray of light was a pure miracle from heaven? The sun keeps the blueberries growing, but we don't really think about it. We never open our eyes and look at the blueberries and think, that's amazing. We just know they're there.
But now you're standing beside the bed and you're looking down onto the face of an angel and you're thinking about those blueberries. We were going to go blueberry picking today. You say that out loud, but there's no response and suddenly you see those blueberries turning into tears and coming out of your mind through the windows we call eyes.
We used to stand out by the lake and count the waves. What a silly thing to count. There will always, always be more waves, no matter how many come in and how many fall out. There will always be more waves. We take those for granted too; like the sun and the blueberries. We counted the waves, and when a particularly large one came along, we'd count it as two. There were always more waves.
Does infinity minus one make any sense? If one wave was missing from the ocean, of one ray of sunlight escaped your eyes, if one blueberry dropped from the bush, would you notice at all?
And now you're watching the one you love so much, and you're wondering why you never said anything before. It was always "tomorrow." The sun's going to rise another day. There will always be another day. I'll never miss just one blueberry...
Well, what if they never loved you back? What if you were just one of those friends, the ones that you said hi to when you saw them at the mall, the ones who belonged to the birthdays you never remembered. What if you weren't anything important? Well, then, you wouldn't miss that blueberry. But at least you'd know. You wish now that you had told them what you thought every day since you met them, ever since the day you first knew that they weren't just another wave on the ocean. It is a risk worth taking.
We were going to go blueberry picking today. You stand here trying not to cry, or perhaps trying so hard to let it out... let it out, keep holding on, don't let go. It seems like the sun will never rise again, and the ocean never produce another wave, and no more blueberries... we were supposed to go blueberry picking. And you're broken now.
You bend over. What can be appropriate to say?
"We were supposed to go blueberry picking today," you whisper. "And I always thought there'd be one more blueberry, one more wave, one more ray of sunshine. You know. And I'm sorry. I was wrong. You were the last blueberry, and I'm sorry I never told you I loved you. I ran out of waves."
And the light seems to dim a little, and perhaps the crashing of the lake is a little softer, and somewhere, you can hear a blueberry drop to the ground.
And then suddenly, the sun doesn't shine anymore and you pass the blueberry field on the way to a great white building and fear turns into a solid rock of nausea, the kind you can't swallow or dissolve or even throw up. It stays there and it only has one name written on it, and it's not your name.
Life likes to let you take things for granted. The sun, for instance. Did you ever wake up in the morning, afraid that the sun wouldn't peep over the horizon? Did you ever feel like every ray of light was a pure miracle from heaven? The sun keeps the blueberries growing, but we don't really think about it. We never open our eyes and look at the blueberries and think, that's amazing. We just know they're there.
But now you're standing beside the bed and you're looking down onto the face of an angel and you're thinking about those blueberries. We were going to go blueberry picking today. You say that out loud, but there's no response and suddenly you see those blueberries turning into tears and coming out of your mind through the windows we call eyes.
We used to stand out by the lake and count the waves. What a silly thing to count. There will always, always be more waves, no matter how many come in and how many fall out. There will always be more waves. We take those for granted too; like the sun and the blueberries. We counted the waves, and when a particularly large one came along, we'd count it as two. There were always more waves.
Does infinity minus one make any sense? If one wave was missing from the ocean, of one ray of sunlight escaped your eyes, if one blueberry dropped from the bush, would you notice at all?
And now you're watching the one you love so much, and you're wondering why you never said anything before. It was always "tomorrow." The sun's going to rise another day. There will always be another day. I'll never miss just one blueberry...
Well, what if they never loved you back? What if you were just one of those friends, the ones that you said hi to when you saw them at the mall, the ones who belonged to the birthdays you never remembered. What if you weren't anything important? Well, then, you wouldn't miss that blueberry. But at least you'd know. You wish now that you had told them what you thought every day since you met them, ever since the day you first knew that they weren't just another wave on the ocean. It is a risk worth taking.
We were going to go blueberry picking today. You stand here trying not to cry, or perhaps trying so hard to let it out... let it out, keep holding on, don't let go. It seems like the sun will never rise again, and the ocean never produce another wave, and no more blueberries... we were supposed to go blueberry picking. And you're broken now.
You bend over. What can be appropriate to say?
"We were supposed to go blueberry picking today," you whisper. "And I always thought there'd be one more blueberry, one more wave, one more ray of sunshine. You know. And I'm sorry. I was wrong. You were the last blueberry, and I'm sorry I never told you I loved you. I ran out of waves."
And the light seems to dim a little, and perhaps the crashing of the lake is a little softer, and somewhere, you can hear a blueberry drop to the ground.
Pin
"If you burn that, I'll kill you."
I watched as she came near me, looking tired and a little exasperated. In my hand trembled a lit match, and the flame burned closer and closer to my fingers, but I made no move to extinguish it. She glanced at it, sighed, and removed the paper from my hand.
She was Pin, a young girl with a mind far more mature than should have been at her age. I had known her as long as I could remember, and she was the only one I would talk to. Her seventeenth birthday had passed, barely a year after mine, but she said nothing about it, and I wondered if even she remembered. I had remembered.
I had to burn. That was why I was here, because I had burned. They had said I did not know the danger I caused. They had said fire was far more destructive than I had anticipated. I hit the first person who said that. I know exactly how destructive fire was. I had scars on my hands and arms and face from where I had let it go too far in my excitement. I told Pin this, and she touched my shoulder and told me not to tell anyone else that. I didn't ask her why, because I trusted her.
I did not know why Pin was here. I had never asked her. Pin was like a mystery, and sometimes I liked to keep her as a mystery. I was afraid that if I knew too much about her, she would evaporate before my eyes, and she would be gone.
What I had been about to burn today was a piece of paper that I had written on. Pin had been there when I wrote on it, and she had helped me. I wrote my name, because she told me to. I hated my name, I hated it when anyone said my name. Pin told me I used to threaten to burn people if they called me by my name. I didn't remember that. But she told me to write my name on the paper, so I did.
Today I was going to burn it.
Pin took the paper from me, folded it, and put it in her pocket. I watched her. She sat down next to me and looked at her hands.
I always waited for her to speak first.
"Jack," she said, and I winced at the sound. "It's just a name," she went on crossly. "Stop acting like I'm stabbing you."
I didn't say anything.
"How've you been today? Didn't see you much. Did you burn anything before I stopped you?"
I shook my head.
"I was talking to the other girls here today. We've got some new arrivals. Maybe you should talk to them, Jack, you never talk to anyone here, and I think it would be a good--"
"I talk to you," I mumbled. I hated the sound of my own voice.
"I know you do," Pin said kindly. "But maybe you should try to make some other friends. You might need them, you know, when I'm gone and everything..."
I blinked. "You're leaving?"
She smiled sadly. "Yes, Jack, I've told you. Remember?"
I shook my head. I didn't remember.
"It's all right. I'll tell you as many times as you need to. But like I was saying, you might need someone to talk to once I'm gone... it will make it easier."
"Where are you going?"
She smiled again, but sadder than ever. "I'm going," she said softly.
I shook my head again. I had practiced with denial for so long. "You can't leave, Pin."
"I can't stay here forever, Jack. I don't want to leave, but I don't have a choice."
"How soon are you going?"
I tried to keep my voice as manly as possible, but she must have heard it when it broke.
"Soon, Jack..." she sighed. I hadn't noticed how tired and worn she looked recently.
"Are you sick, Pin?"
She nodded wordlessly.
I looked at my hands and wished I could burn something.
The following morning, Pin found me sitting where I always did, playing with a box of matches. She sat down next to me, looking tired.
"Hello, Jack," she said, as brightly as she could.
"Hello, Pin," I replied.
She looked a little surprised. "How've you been? Didn't see you much today. Have you been burning?"
"No."
Again, she looked surprised, but she went on. "I've been talking to some of the other girls. We've got some new arrivals. Maybe you should talk to them, Jack, you never talk to anyone here, and I think it would be good..." She trailed off and looked at me.
"You're leaving," I said, hoarsely. "I remember."
She looked sad. "You remember?"
"Yes," I replied. Almost angrily. "You're sick, and you're going to die and leave me."
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said, in almost a whisper.
I didn't say anything. The match in my hand lit, and it must have been by habit, because I didn't remember. I watched it burn down the sliver of wood until it bit my fingers. The pain didn't cause me to extinguish the flame.
"Oh, stop it, Jack," cried Pin, and I was startled to hear tears in her voice. She reached over and covered the flame with her hand, and I knew it must have burned her before it went out. I looked up at her eyes and was silent. She was crying.
I didn't know what to do, so I put my arm around her shoulder and waited for her to speak.
"I want you to promise me," she said, after a moment. "I want you to promise me that when I'm gone, you won't kill yourself."
My insides constricted.
"Promise me, Jack."
"How did you know?..."
"Promise me!"
I looked at the burned out match in my fingers. "I promise."
Pin breathed a sigh of relief. "I have to go, Jack," she said, standing up. I looked up at her, wanting to say so many things, but afraid to speak. Suddenly she bent down, kissed my cheek, and ran away.
They called me into her room that night, at three in the morning. She had been asking for me. She looked so pale and sick and horrible, and I wondered how she had degraded so much in just a few hours.
"Hello, Jack," she said, weakly. But she smiled.
"Hello, Pin."
"Do you remember what I told you?"
"You're sick and you're going to die and leave me."
She reached out and touched my hand. "What did you promise me, Jack?"
I looked down.
"You promised."
"I won't kill myself."
"Thanks."
I was suddenly afraid I was going to cry. The match in my hand yearned to be burning. I felt her slide a piece of paper into my hand.
"Hey, Jack," came Pin's voice.
I looked at her anxiously.
"Hey, Jack..."
Pin died that night, at 4:26 am.
Sixteen years later, I lived with my wife Jillian, and our little daughter Pin. I worked as a firefighter, my wife as a nurse, and Pin played with dolls. I had told her about the first Pin, how I had tried for so long to trace down her family, how I had looked everywhere for any sign of where she had come from, but never found it. Pin was a mystery, just like she had been when I first met her.
I watched as she came near me, looking tired and a little exasperated. In my hand trembled a lit match, and the flame burned closer and closer to my fingers, but I made no move to extinguish it. She glanced at it, sighed, and removed the paper from my hand.
She was Pin, a young girl with a mind far more mature than should have been at her age. I had known her as long as I could remember, and she was the only one I would talk to. Her seventeenth birthday had passed, barely a year after mine, but she said nothing about it, and I wondered if even she remembered. I had remembered.
I had to burn. That was why I was here, because I had burned. They had said I did not know the danger I caused. They had said fire was far more destructive than I had anticipated. I hit the first person who said that. I know exactly how destructive fire was. I had scars on my hands and arms and face from where I had let it go too far in my excitement. I told Pin this, and she touched my shoulder and told me not to tell anyone else that. I didn't ask her why, because I trusted her.
I did not know why Pin was here. I had never asked her. Pin was like a mystery, and sometimes I liked to keep her as a mystery. I was afraid that if I knew too much about her, she would evaporate before my eyes, and she would be gone.
What I had been about to burn today was a piece of paper that I had written on. Pin had been there when I wrote on it, and she had helped me. I wrote my name, because she told me to. I hated my name, I hated it when anyone said my name. Pin told me I used to threaten to burn people if they called me by my name. I didn't remember that. But she told me to write my name on the paper, so I did.
Today I was going to burn it.
Pin took the paper from me, folded it, and put it in her pocket. I watched her. She sat down next to me and looked at her hands.
I always waited for her to speak first.
"Jack," she said, and I winced at the sound. "It's just a name," she went on crossly. "Stop acting like I'm stabbing you."
I didn't say anything.
"How've you been today? Didn't see you much. Did you burn anything before I stopped you?"
I shook my head.
"I was talking to the other girls here today. We've got some new arrivals. Maybe you should talk to them, Jack, you never talk to anyone here, and I think it would be a good--"
"I talk to you," I mumbled. I hated the sound of my own voice.
"I know you do," Pin said kindly. "But maybe you should try to make some other friends. You might need them, you know, when I'm gone and everything..."
I blinked. "You're leaving?"
She smiled sadly. "Yes, Jack, I've told you. Remember?"
I shook my head. I didn't remember.
"It's all right. I'll tell you as many times as you need to. But like I was saying, you might need someone to talk to once I'm gone... it will make it easier."
"Where are you going?"
She smiled again, but sadder than ever. "I'm going," she said softly.
I shook my head again. I had practiced with denial for so long. "You can't leave, Pin."
"I can't stay here forever, Jack. I don't want to leave, but I don't have a choice."
"How soon are you going?"
I tried to keep my voice as manly as possible, but she must have heard it when it broke.
"Soon, Jack..." she sighed. I hadn't noticed how tired and worn she looked recently.
"Are you sick, Pin?"
She nodded wordlessly.
I looked at my hands and wished I could burn something.
The following morning, Pin found me sitting where I always did, playing with a box of matches. She sat down next to me, looking tired.
"Hello, Jack," she said, as brightly as she could.
"Hello, Pin," I replied.
She looked a little surprised. "How've you been? Didn't see you much today. Have you been burning?"
"No."
Again, she looked surprised, but she went on. "I've been talking to some of the other girls. We've got some new arrivals. Maybe you should talk to them, Jack, you never talk to anyone here, and I think it would be good..." She trailed off and looked at me.
"You're leaving," I said, hoarsely. "I remember."
She looked sad. "You remember?"
"Yes," I replied. Almost angrily. "You're sick, and you're going to die and leave me."
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said, in almost a whisper.
I didn't say anything. The match in my hand lit, and it must have been by habit, because I didn't remember. I watched it burn down the sliver of wood until it bit my fingers. The pain didn't cause me to extinguish the flame.
"Oh, stop it, Jack," cried Pin, and I was startled to hear tears in her voice. She reached over and covered the flame with her hand, and I knew it must have burned her before it went out. I looked up at her eyes and was silent. She was crying.
I didn't know what to do, so I put my arm around her shoulder and waited for her to speak.
"I want you to promise me," she said, after a moment. "I want you to promise me that when I'm gone, you won't kill yourself."
My insides constricted.
"Promise me, Jack."
"How did you know?..."
"Promise me!"
I looked at the burned out match in my fingers. "I promise."
Pin breathed a sigh of relief. "I have to go, Jack," she said, standing up. I looked up at her, wanting to say so many things, but afraid to speak. Suddenly she bent down, kissed my cheek, and ran away.
They called me into her room that night, at three in the morning. She had been asking for me. She looked so pale and sick and horrible, and I wondered how she had degraded so much in just a few hours.
"Hello, Jack," she said, weakly. But she smiled.
"Hello, Pin."
"Do you remember what I told you?"
"You're sick and you're going to die and leave me."
She reached out and touched my hand. "What did you promise me, Jack?"
I looked down.
"You promised."
"I won't kill myself."
"Thanks."
I was suddenly afraid I was going to cry. The match in my hand yearned to be burning. I felt her slide a piece of paper into my hand.
"Hey, Jack," came Pin's voice.
I looked at her anxiously.
"Hey, Jack..."
Pin died that night, at 4:26 am.
Sixteen years later, I lived with my wife Jillian, and our little daughter Pin. I worked as a firefighter, my wife as a nurse, and Pin played with dolls. I had told her about the first Pin, how I had tried for so long to trace down her family, how I had looked everywhere for any sign of where she had come from, but never found it. Pin was a mystery, just like she had been when I first met her.
What Came After
"Hey, Ellie. Everything okay?"
The sun was shining just like any other old day, and the grass was just the same shade of mediocre green that it always had been, and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. I was stretched out under the biggest, oldest, sickliest tree on the hill, blinking in the relentless light. She was on her stomach, with a notepad and a green pencil, her eyes closed, biting her lip gently. Maybe she was thinking. It was so hard to get her to talk.
"Hey, Ellie."
She looked up at me, her pale green eyes wide and silent. A smile curved her lips, and I knew she was listening.
"What's wrong?"
She smiled again, but said nothing and wrote nothing. I missed her voice more than anything, more than I could express. It was as hard to get her to sing as it was to get her to talk. Or write. Or share anything of her curtained mind to me.
"Come on, Ellie."
Coaxing sometimes worked. I think she was lonely, and it felt good to her to have someone actually interested in her thoughts. Sometimes I wanted to take her by her shoulders and shake her and make her understand that she was still loved, she was still cared for, and nothing was going to change that. Nothing.
"Tell me what you're thinking about."
Her eyes blinked once, and then floated serenly down to focus on her paper. My heart jumped a little, metaphorically speaking, as I wondered hopefully whether or not she would start writing. I waited, but she simply gazed at her paper and made no other movement.
"Ellie, please. Talk to me."
The smile drifted from her eyes and she looked troubled, sad. Her pencil flew to the surface of the paper, and I knew she was going to talk. I watched her write, curiously, in her tiny, perfect handwriting. Her pretty face was set in determination. She handed me the paper and I read it eagerly.
"You don't want to hear it again," the green pencil had said. "You never want to hear what's wrong. Not when it's this."
I bit my lip. She was right, of course, I knew I didn't want to hear it. But at least if she was telling me, she was talking to me, and that was a step in the right direction. I handed the paper back to her.
"Tell me, Ellie. Please tell me."
She gazed at me sadly for a moment, and I thought of taking my words back and letting us just be happy together, before she left again. But no... reading her words was better than thinking of her in seclusion. She was scribbling again on the paper, writing faster.
"It's him again, of course," she had written, and already I was regretting my decision to listen to her. "I miss him so much. Sometimes I wonder if it's alright if I miss him. Maybe he doesn't miss me, maybe he's alright with never seeing me. Sometimes I'm so afraid of losing him, all I want to do is cry. But then again, it's such a relief to trust someone for once, and to believe that they love you and care for you even when they don't say anything."
I pretended to read this speech over several times, in order to disguise my discomfort. I wanted to tell her to forget about him, that I loved her, and I cared for her, and I could tell her any number of times during the day so she'd never have to worry. But every time I told her I loved her, she would smile sadly and say no, you don't. I wondered how she was so certain.
"I'm sorry," I said aloud, for lack of something better.
She was already writing again. I sighed and watched her eyes as she wrote. She had such pretty eyes. It was a pity they always looked so sad and lonely. She handed me the paper.
"Sometimes I do believe with my whole heart that he loves me. Sometimes it's harder, and I'm afraid he doesn't feel as strongly as he used to, and he wishes that he hadn't promised me what he did, and he wants to get away from me and do something else."
I spoke without thinking much. "Ellie, he's got you and you like him a ton. He's got no reason to be unhappy. And if he is unhappy, you don't deserve him." You deserve me, I went on in my head, but my next thought was that I didn't deserve her, and then I confused myself, so I stopped and watched her write some more.
"No one who knows me is going to be completely happy all the time. I can't make people happy for long. They say I do, but then they look sad when they walk away and I feel like a liar and a joke and I feel horrible."
I frowned when I read it over. The green pencil marks almost looked sad.
"You make me happy," I said, decidedly.
She smiled sadly again and didn't write any more.
"No, no," I said hurridly. "Go on. Tell me more. Is there more?"
She shook her head, still smiling that sad little smile.
"You're lying. Go on, Ellie, please."
She closed her eyes and rested her head down on her notepad. Her hair covered half her face, and I wondered if I had lost my chance to listen to her. I always blew it, it seemed. Maybe if I could keep my mouth shut about my own feelings, she would keep speaking and I could be in love in silence...
"Please, Ellie. I'll listen to anything you want to say. I don't mind if you talk about him. Keep going. It's alright."
She opened her eyes and looked at me, looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. I wanted to cry, but of course I was more manly than that, and I wouldn't do it in front of her anyway.
"Are you sure you never liked me, Ellie?" Sometimes, when she looked at me, I hoped that maybe she really did feel something for me, that she was getting over that annoying guy of hers. Maybe she just wouldn't tell me.
She sat up and took up her pencil, and my heart sank. Of course she was going to tell me off again.
"I can't like you. I love him, and I want to love him, and I'm not going to give that up. It doesn't work that way. The best I can do is to try to be your friend, but please stop bringing it up, because it just hurts me that I can't do anything about it. I wish you'd find someone else. I love him."
"Yeah, well, you could stop rubbing it in every chance you get," I snapped, letting my temper get ahead of my head. "It doesn't help me any, either. If you think it hurts you when you have to tell me again, what do you think it's doing to me?"
She looked like she was about to cry, and I felt horrible at once.
"I'm so miserably sorry," she wrote on her paper.
I sat back and closed my eyes and tried to think. I had already blundered, it was too late to try to cover it up and pretend I hadn't said anything. It was hard enough to keep anything from her for long, though. She got it out of me with a simple look; I was a slave to her powers.
"It's okay," I said gruffly. "I'm fine. It doesn't matter."
She still looked like she was going to cry, and I was positive she knew I was lying.
"You okay, Ellie?" I asked, suddenly afraid I had hurt her.
She smiled again, that strange, sad little smile, and shook her head.
"It's me now, isn't it? I'm sorry."
She shrugged and looked down at her paper. I waited for her to start writing, but she didn't, and I was afraid I had lost her.
"You're so beautiful," I said, in a quieter voice. "He should be happy he's got you."
"He is," she wrote.
I kind of doubted that, but I didn't say anything.
She went on writing. "You should find a better girl," the green pencil suggested. "Someone who likes you. You should give up on me, I'm not going to change my mind."
"I'm a dreamer," I said, somewhat bitterly.
She smiled. "Find someone better."
"No. There isn't anyone better."
"Yes, there is. Every girl in the world is better than the one sitting before you right now."
I gazed at her, but she wasn't looking at me. She kept writing.
"I'm better for someone else. Don't be so closed-minded. There's someone else for you."
"That's what you think," I began heatedly, but she kept writing as if I hadn't interrupted.
"You shouldn't keep chasing after me. I'm not going to stop rejecting you. If you're hoping I'll relent for pity's sake, think again. You don't want that, anyway, because it's not real. I'm just going to end up hurting you."
I didn't say anything, and she put her pencil down and looked me straight in the face. And waited. What was she waiting for?
"Everyone's going to hurt me," I insisted. "I just have to find the one worth hurting for."
She looked sad. "I'm not worth that," she wrote.
I swore. "You are so worth it."
"Don't say that," she wrote. "Don't swear at me. I'm not worth you hurting for. There's no reason behind it."
I gave up. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
She smiled.
"I have to go," I said, although I really didn't. I was tired of seeing her watch me and look sad and tell me about the guy she loved. The guy who wasn't me.
She just looked at me.
"Call me, okay?"
She shook her head and smiled.
"Okay. Whatever." Being tough was painful.
She smiled sadly.
"Yeah, it's fine. See you around."
"Goodbye," she said aloud. I was startled at the sound of her voice, but I always was. That was the only thing she ever said to me. It was pathetic, but I was over it.
"Bye," I said, and left her there on the hill, alone with her lovely thoughts of the guy who loved her, who was devoted to her, the guy I had never met. She wouldn't let me love her. Tomorrow we'd go through this same scene again, and the day after, and the day after. It had been going on for far too long now. Maybe it was time to move on. Just maybe.
The sun was shining just like any other old day, and the grass was just the same shade of mediocre green that it always had been, and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. I was stretched out under the biggest, oldest, sickliest tree on the hill, blinking in the relentless light. She was on her stomach, with a notepad and a green pencil, her eyes closed, biting her lip gently. Maybe she was thinking. It was so hard to get her to talk.
"Hey, Ellie."
She looked up at me, her pale green eyes wide and silent. A smile curved her lips, and I knew she was listening.
"What's wrong?"
She smiled again, but said nothing and wrote nothing. I missed her voice more than anything, more than I could express. It was as hard to get her to sing as it was to get her to talk. Or write. Or share anything of her curtained mind to me.
"Come on, Ellie."
Coaxing sometimes worked. I think she was lonely, and it felt good to her to have someone actually interested in her thoughts. Sometimes I wanted to take her by her shoulders and shake her and make her understand that she was still loved, she was still cared for, and nothing was going to change that. Nothing.
"Tell me what you're thinking about."
Her eyes blinked once, and then floated serenly down to focus on her paper. My heart jumped a little, metaphorically speaking, as I wondered hopefully whether or not she would start writing. I waited, but she simply gazed at her paper and made no other movement.
"Ellie, please. Talk to me."
The smile drifted from her eyes and she looked troubled, sad. Her pencil flew to the surface of the paper, and I knew she was going to talk. I watched her write, curiously, in her tiny, perfect handwriting. Her pretty face was set in determination. She handed me the paper and I read it eagerly.
"You don't want to hear it again," the green pencil had said. "You never want to hear what's wrong. Not when it's this."
I bit my lip. She was right, of course, I knew I didn't want to hear it. But at least if she was telling me, she was talking to me, and that was a step in the right direction. I handed the paper back to her.
"Tell me, Ellie. Please tell me."
She gazed at me sadly for a moment, and I thought of taking my words back and letting us just be happy together, before she left again. But no... reading her words was better than thinking of her in seclusion. She was scribbling again on the paper, writing faster.
"It's him again, of course," she had written, and already I was regretting my decision to listen to her. "I miss him so much. Sometimes I wonder if it's alright if I miss him. Maybe he doesn't miss me, maybe he's alright with never seeing me. Sometimes I'm so afraid of losing him, all I want to do is cry. But then again, it's such a relief to trust someone for once, and to believe that they love you and care for you even when they don't say anything."
I pretended to read this speech over several times, in order to disguise my discomfort. I wanted to tell her to forget about him, that I loved her, and I cared for her, and I could tell her any number of times during the day so she'd never have to worry. But every time I told her I loved her, she would smile sadly and say no, you don't. I wondered how she was so certain.
"I'm sorry," I said aloud, for lack of something better.
She was already writing again. I sighed and watched her eyes as she wrote. She had such pretty eyes. It was a pity they always looked so sad and lonely. She handed me the paper.
"Sometimes I do believe with my whole heart that he loves me. Sometimes it's harder, and I'm afraid he doesn't feel as strongly as he used to, and he wishes that he hadn't promised me what he did, and he wants to get away from me and do something else."
I spoke without thinking much. "Ellie, he's got you and you like him a ton. He's got no reason to be unhappy. And if he is unhappy, you don't deserve him." You deserve me, I went on in my head, but my next thought was that I didn't deserve her, and then I confused myself, so I stopped and watched her write some more.
"No one who knows me is going to be completely happy all the time. I can't make people happy for long. They say I do, but then they look sad when they walk away and I feel like a liar and a joke and I feel horrible."
I frowned when I read it over. The green pencil marks almost looked sad.
"You make me happy," I said, decidedly.
She smiled sadly again and didn't write any more.
"No, no," I said hurridly. "Go on. Tell me more. Is there more?"
She shook her head, still smiling that sad little smile.
"You're lying. Go on, Ellie, please."
She closed her eyes and rested her head down on her notepad. Her hair covered half her face, and I wondered if I had lost my chance to listen to her. I always blew it, it seemed. Maybe if I could keep my mouth shut about my own feelings, she would keep speaking and I could be in love in silence...
"Please, Ellie. I'll listen to anything you want to say. I don't mind if you talk about him. Keep going. It's alright."
She opened her eyes and looked at me, looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. I wanted to cry, but of course I was more manly than that, and I wouldn't do it in front of her anyway.
"Are you sure you never liked me, Ellie?" Sometimes, when she looked at me, I hoped that maybe she really did feel something for me, that she was getting over that annoying guy of hers. Maybe she just wouldn't tell me.
She sat up and took up her pencil, and my heart sank. Of course she was going to tell me off again.
"I can't like you. I love him, and I want to love him, and I'm not going to give that up. It doesn't work that way. The best I can do is to try to be your friend, but please stop bringing it up, because it just hurts me that I can't do anything about it. I wish you'd find someone else. I love him."
"Yeah, well, you could stop rubbing it in every chance you get," I snapped, letting my temper get ahead of my head. "It doesn't help me any, either. If you think it hurts you when you have to tell me again, what do you think it's doing to me?"
She looked like she was about to cry, and I felt horrible at once.
"I'm so miserably sorry," she wrote on her paper.
I sat back and closed my eyes and tried to think. I had already blundered, it was too late to try to cover it up and pretend I hadn't said anything. It was hard enough to keep anything from her for long, though. She got it out of me with a simple look; I was a slave to her powers.
"It's okay," I said gruffly. "I'm fine. It doesn't matter."
She still looked like she was going to cry, and I was positive she knew I was lying.
"You okay, Ellie?" I asked, suddenly afraid I had hurt her.
She smiled again, that strange, sad little smile, and shook her head.
"It's me now, isn't it? I'm sorry."
She shrugged and looked down at her paper. I waited for her to start writing, but she didn't, and I was afraid I had lost her.
"You're so beautiful," I said, in a quieter voice. "He should be happy he's got you."
"He is," she wrote.
I kind of doubted that, but I didn't say anything.
She went on writing. "You should find a better girl," the green pencil suggested. "Someone who likes you. You should give up on me, I'm not going to change my mind."
"I'm a dreamer," I said, somewhat bitterly.
She smiled. "Find someone better."
"No. There isn't anyone better."
"Yes, there is. Every girl in the world is better than the one sitting before you right now."
I gazed at her, but she wasn't looking at me. She kept writing.
"I'm better for someone else. Don't be so closed-minded. There's someone else for you."
"That's what you think," I began heatedly, but she kept writing as if I hadn't interrupted.
"You shouldn't keep chasing after me. I'm not going to stop rejecting you. If you're hoping I'll relent for pity's sake, think again. You don't want that, anyway, because it's not real. I'm just going to end up hurting you."
I didn't say anything, and she put her pencil down and looked me straight in the face. And waited. What was she waiting for?
"Everyone's going to hurt me," I insisted. "I just have to find the one worth hurting for."
She looked sad. "I'm not worth that," she wrote.
I swore. "You are so worth it."
"Don't say that," she wrote. "Don't swear at me. I'm not worth you hurting for. There's no reason behind it."
I gave up. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
She smiled.
"I have to go," I said, although I really didn't. I was tired of seeing her watch me and look sad and tell me about the guy she loved. The guy who wasn't me.
She just looked at me.
"Call me, okay?"
She shook her head and smiled.
"Okay. Whatever." Being tough was painful.
She smiled sadly.
"Yeah, it's fine. See you around."
"Goodbye," she said aloud. I was startled at the sound of her voice, but I always was. That was the only thing she ever said to me. It was pathetic, but I was over it.
"Bye," I said, and left her there on the hill, alone with her lovely thoughts of the guy who loved her, who was devoted to her, the guy I had never met. She wouldn't let me love her. Tomorrow we'd go through this same scene again, and the day after, and the day after. It had been going on for far too long now. Maybe it was time to move on. Just maybe.
Words of Gray and Ash
"I'm cold, James."
James glances over, coolly. "Run around," he says distantly, before returning to his book. He is not truly reading it; he checks the clock every 47 seconds, waiting impatiently for seven o'clock to arrive.
I sit crouched in front of the tired fire. It makes the room smell like smoke and old ash, and the low red light makes me feel demonic and possessed. At 7:00, James will leave, and leave me to struggle with myself until he returns.
"James," I say, in an attempt to gain his attention.
He looks at me irritatedly. "What is it, Silver?"
"What's her name tonight?"
I choose the right question, it seems. The annoyed look slides from his face, and a light pink glow captures his cheeks. He looks more handsome like this, I decide.
"Her name is Sylvia," he says, and there's a slight smile in his voice that I rarely hear.
"What's she like?"
He doesn't seem to realize I'm still in the room with him. "She's beautiful... the way she smiles when she sees something she likes... she's the kindest thing in the world, and so sweet." He throws another absent-minded glance my way. "She's also great at housework and organizing. Stop asking questions, Silver, I'm trying to read."
I let my hand slide back onto the carpet. It had been clutching the necklace that hung delicately around my neck. James turns his eyes back to his book, but I am certain now that he isn't taking in any of the words. I've pulled him out of my world and placed him on a planet where there were only two inhabitants.
He continues to look at the clock, more and more frequently. I haven't moved from my place by the fire; I am also counting down the seconds until he leaves me. His hand is playing idly with the keys to his car - his shiny clean car that he and I washed just this morning. It is a silver car, but he never took me in a ride for it.
The time turns slowly to seven, and James jumps up. "I'm leaving, Silver," he says, almost automatically. "I'll be back later. I'll bring you a present, okay? Be good and don't set the house aflame."
And he is gone. The red coals of the fire seem to leer at me, whispering the truths that even I won't admit.
* * *
"What's happened, James?"
His face is glowing a bright pink. He's busy, bustling around the room, cleaning in random ways that I have never seen him do before. He's smiling, that small, mysterious smile that I so very rarely see.
"It's nothing, Silver, you wouldn't understand," he says importantly.
My fingers touch the necklace around my throat. "James, tell me. I want to know."
He wants to tell me. Maybe not me, particularly, but he wants to tell someone, and I'm the only one here.
He pauses and looks at me. "It's Sylvia," he says. I contemplate how similar our names are.
"What about her?" I ask, careful not to say her name. I'm afraid it will come out as mine.
I think he is going to tell me, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his head. He stokes the fire, and then wanders into the other room, leaving me in solitude again. I wait until it is quiet, and then look at the piece of paper he's left on his desk. Someone's written on it; probably a woman, by the looks of the handwriting. Three words, and then his name. I stare at it for a long time, before slowly feeding it to the fire and watching it burn.
* * *
"Say hello, Silver."
James and his Sylvia are standing before me, expectantly. I've never seen him smile so very grandly. I make them wait while I look them over - James is handsome, dapper, completely and wonderfully happy. Sylvia is, admittedly, ridiculously pretty, in such a simple way that I wonder that she isn't taken already. She's smiling as well, her eyes light up in an incredible way. They seem to be sharing their happiness by the holding of hands, and my insides spike curiously.
"Hello," I say, sullenly.
James doesn't seem to notice my attitude. He has already begun telling Sylvia about his home, and where he bought it, and showing her the pictures on his desk. He skips over mine, but I forcedly assume it's because he's already introduced me, somewhat.
I am suddenly just a shadow, just a wallflower, just like that picture of me on his desk. He and Sylvia are distracted by each other, and they are laughing and talking as if life couldn't be better. They seem to assume that I'm perfectly happy with just watching them be happy.
I stare at the fire, which is burning brightly, warming me against my will.
* * *
"What's that, James?"
James is more and more distracted which each passing day. This time, he looks at me blankly for several seconds without speaking.
"What did you say, Silver?" he asks automatically, as he returns to writing on a piece of paper. I imagine that he is writing those three words and Sylvia's name along with them, and I bite my tongue moodily.
"What's that on your desk?"
He glances at it as if seeing it for the first time, but I know better. I saw him put it there last night when he thought I was sleeping.
"It's a ring," he says, absently. Almost absently. It's as if he's bursting to tell someone, but doesn't want to tell me.
I grow very cold inside. "A ring."
"Yes, Silver, a ring," he says, his tone growing impatient.
"A ring for who?"
"For Sylvia," he says, suddenly quiet. I hear that smile in his voice again.
I swallow. "Why are you giving her a ring?"
James looks at me, seeming amused. "Why do men give women rings, Silver?"
"James!"
"I'm going to ask Sylvia to marry me. Now shush. I'm writing."
I gaze angrily at the fire, willing it to die, to burn cold.
* * *
"You're leaving, James?"
James and Sylvia are sitting side by side on a couch in James's living room. I'm in front of the fire, horrified, as I listen to their plans.
James glances at me, a funny smile on his handsome face. "It's called a honeymoon, Silver."
"How long will you be gone?"
"We don't know yet," he says, and the word "we" stands out painfully obvious.
"We'll be back before you know, dear," coos Sylvia. I know it's supposed to be comforting, I know she's trying to be nice, but I despise the honey-sweet tone of her voice. I glare at her. The ring on her finger sparkles in the light of my fire.
* * *
"Love you, Silver."
I stare up at his face. He looks happy, he looks 18 again. I pretend, for a moment, that he's that happy because he loves me, but the illusion dies away cruelly.
"I love you," I whisper, holding on to those three amazing, beautiful words.
James smiles and pats my head. I think he's going to leave, but instead he sits beside me.
"Are you excited for tomorrow, Silver?"
I close my eyes and try to imagine feeling anything but spite the following day.
"Are you, James?"
"Yes," he says, and I am strangely disappointed that he didn't press the topic of my feelings.
"Why are you excited?"
He looks at me as if he can't comprehend why I would ever ask such a question.
"Because I love her, Silver."
* * *
"I'm cold, James."
He looks radiant; Sylvia is standing by his side, beautiful in her white dress. I have felt nothing but jealousy and betrayal all evening, and yet as I stand before them, thinking about the words, "James and Sylvia, husband and wife," I can't help but feel, just maybe, a little love. Can you feel love?
He looks me full in the face, and I think, unhappily, that he must be feeling so much affection at the moment that he's got a little to spare for me.
"Run around," he says, and I watch as he kisses Sylvia. I watch as he kisses his girl, his wife. I turn and walk away; they don't seem to notice me. More people are coming up to them to hug them, to congradulate them, to squeeze their hands and whisper, "God bless."
I find a piece of paper and a pen. I only know what to say, not what to do. Carefully, I write those three beautiful words, and then add his name to the end. And then I sit in front of the fire, and watch the flames, and wish so hard that my insides hurt.
James glances over, coolly. "Run around," he says distantly, before returning to his book. He is not truly reading it; he checks the clock every 47 seconds, waiting impatiently for seven o'clock to arrive.
I sit crouched in front of the tired fire. It makes the room smell like smoke and old ash, and the low red light makes me feel demonic and possessed. At 7:00, James will leave, and leave me to struggle with myself until he returns.
"James," I say, in an attempt to gain his attention.
He looks at me irritatedly. "What is it, Silver?"
"What's her name tonight?"
I choose the right question, it seems. The annoyed look slides from his face, and a light pink glow captures his cheeks. He looks more handsome like this, I decide.
"Her name is Sylvia," he says, and there's a slight smile in his voice that I rarely hear.
"What's she like?"
He doesn't seem to realize I'm still in the room with him. "She's beautiful... the way she smiles when she sees something she likes... she's the kindest thing in the world, and so sweet." He throws another absent-minded glance my way. "She's also great at housework and organizing. Stop asking questions, Silver, I'm trying to read."
I let my hand slide back onto the carpet. It had been clutching the necklace that hung delicately around my neck. James turns his eyes back to his book, but I am certain now that he isn't taking in any of the words. I've pulled him out of my world and placed him on a planet where there were only two inhabitants.
He continues to look at the clock, more and more frequently. I haven't moved from my place by the fire; I am also counting down the seconds until he leaves me. His hand is playing idly with the keys to his car - his shiny clean car that he and I washed just this morning. It is a silver car, but he never took me in a ride for it.
The time turns slowly to seven, and James jumps up. "I'm leaving, Silver," he says, almost automatically. "I'll be back later. I'll bring you a present, okay? Be good and don't set the house aflame."
And he is gone. The red coals of the fire seem to leer at me, whispering the truths that even I won't admit.
* * *
"What's happened, James?"
His face is glowing a bright pink. He's busy, bustling around the room, cleaning in random ways that I have never seen him do before. He's smiling, that small, mysterious smile that I so very rarely see.
"It's nothing, Silver, you wouldn't understand," he says importantly.
My fingers touch the necklace around my throat. "James, tell me. I want to know."
He wants to tell me. Maybe not me, particularly, but he wants to tell someone, and I'm the only one here.
He pauses and looks at me. "It's Sylvia," he says. I contemplate how similar our names are.
"What about her?" I ask, careful not to say her name. I'm afraid it will come out as mine.
I think he is going to tell me, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his head. He stokes the fire, and then wanders into the other room, leaving me in solitude again. I wait until it is quiet, and then look at the piece of paper he's left on his desk. Someone's written on it; probably a woman, by the looks of the handwriting. Three words, and then his name. I stare at it for a long time, before slowly feeding it to the fire and watching it burn.
* * *
"Say hello, Silver."
James and his Sylvia are standing before me, expectantly. I've never seen him smile so very grandly. I make them wait while I look them over - James is handsome, dapper, completely and wonderfully happy. Sylvia is, admittedly, ridiculously pretty, in such a simple way that I wonder that she isn't taken already. She's smiling as well, her eyes light up in an incredible way. They seem to be sharing their happiness by the holding of hands, and my insides spike curiously.
"Hello," I say, sullenly.
James doesn't seem to notice my attitude. He has already begun telling Sylvia about his home, and where he bought it, and showing her the pictures on his desk. He skips over mine, but I forcedly assume it's because he's already introduced me, somewhat.
I am suddenly just a shadow, just a wallflower, just like that picture of me on his desk. He and Sylvia are distracted by each other, and they are laughing and talking as if life couldn't be better. They seem to assume that I'm perfectly happy with just watching them be happy.
I stare at the fire, which is burning brightly, warming me against my will.
* * *
"What's that, James?"
James is more and more distracted which each passing day. This time, he looks at me blankly for several seconds without speaking.
"What did you say, Silver?" he asks automatically, as he returns to writing on a piece of paper. I imagine that he is writing those three words and Sylvia's name along with them, and I bite my tongue moodily.
"What's that on your desk?"
He glances at it as if seeing it for the first time, but I know better. I saw him put it there last night when he thought I was sleeping.
"It's a ring," he says, absently. Almost absently. It's as if he's bursting to tell someone, but doesn't want to tell me.
I grow very cold inside. "A ring."
"Yes, Silver, a ring," he says, his tone growing impatient.
"A ring for who?"
"For Sylvia," he says, suddenly quiet. I hear that smile in his voice again.
I swallow. "Why are you giving her a ring?"
James looks at me, seeming amused. "Why do men give women rings, Silver?"
"James!"
"I'm going to ask Sylvia to marry me. Now shush. I'm writing."
I gaze angrily at the fire, willing it to die, to burn cold.
* * *
"You're leaving, James?"
James and Sylvia are sitting side by side on a couch in James's living room. I'm in front of the fire, horrified, as I listen to their plans.
James glances at me, a funny smile on his handsome face. "It's called a honeymoon, Silver."
"How long will you be gone?"
"We don't know yet," he says, and the word "we" stands out painfully obvious.
"We'll be back before you know, dear," coos Sylvia. I know it's supposed to be comforting, I know she's trying to be nice, but I despise the honey-sweet tone of her voice. I glare at her. The ring on her finger sparkles in the light of my fire.
* * *
"Love you, Silver."
I stare up at his face. He looks happy, he looks 18 again. I pretend, for a moment, that he's that happy because he loves me, but the illusion dies away cruelly.
"I love you," I whisper, holding on to those three amazing, beautiful words.
James smiles and pats my head. I think he's going to leave, but instead he sits beside me.
"Are you excited for tomorrow, Silver?"
I close my eyes and try to imagine feeling anything but spite the following day.
"Are you, James?"
"Yes," he says, and I am strangely disappointed that he didn't press the topic of my feelings.
"Why are you excited?"
He looks at me as if he can't comprehend why I would ever ask such a question.
"Because I love her, Silver."
* * *
"I'm cold, James."
He looks radiant; Sylvia is standing by his side, beautiful in her white dress. I have felt nothing but jealousy and betrayal all evening, and yet as I stand before them, thinking about the words, "James and Sylvia, husband and wife," I can't help but feel, just maybe, a little love. Can you feel love?
He looks me full in the face, and I think, unhappily, that he must be feeling so much affection at the moment that he's got a little to spare for me.
"Run around," he says, and I watch as he kisses Sylvia. I watch as he kisses his girl, his wife. I turn and walk away; they don't seem to notice me. More people are coming up to them to hug them, to congradulate them, to squeeze their hands and whisper, "God bless."
I find a piece of paper and a pen. I only know what to say, not what to do. Carefully, I write those three beautiful words, and then add his name to the end. And then I sit in front of the fire, and watch the flames, and wish so hard that my insides hurt.
Crimson
How strange that I would hate the sun for shining, and the birds for singing, and the grass for being green, the sky for being blue, and everything else cliché. How strange that it would affect my mood, when everything was as perfect as perfect can be. It all seemed so fake, as if someone was mocking me and my hand-made misery. If a storm cloud would just pass over and cover that obnoxious, flaming orb in the sky, and if lighting could strike the grass and scorch it black... maybe then, I'd feel better.
The trees bend lazily in the breeze, the same breeze that taunts me, as if to say, "You decide your own peace of mind..." I'm angry at the wind, at the trees, at everything that exists outside of my mind. I'm locked in this would-be cozy, home-like room, with the pictures of smiling people who love each other decorating the walls, with the old play-things of former occupants, with the picturesque little writing desk, complete with a picturesque fountain pen. Perfection, it seems, it almost taken for granted.
I’ve always been a passionate person, but this almost wasn’t fair. They couldn’t take me out of the paradise I had been living in, and place me in this hell -- this perfect hell, with the smiling people on the wall and the sun that always shone. This wasn’t home, it wasn’t me.
Strange, though, how I had never been happy where I had been, until they removed me. I thought I hated it there, too -- all the rain, the darkness, the people who never smiled at me. The people who never loved me. Maybe they did, but they had funny ways of showing it. I had thought they were so pathetic. I felt like they were continuously either patronizing me, or treating me like I was special. How had that been comfort? That horrible feeling of loneliness, that feeling that there was hate that the others just barely suppressed. They never loved me.
And now I was here, and ideally, it would be perfect. I could start anew, make real friends, be happy. Yet as soon as they left me to my own design, I locked myself in the attic and wouldn’t come out. They had taken away my knives, my blades, everything possible that I might be able to injure myself with. I wore shorts and tank tops just so they could see the shining white scars. They had pretended not to notice, their painted smiles dragging on and on, their unblinking eyes watching my own, looking anywhere but the lines up and down my arms and legs. I dared them to give me my knives back.
I hated every person depicted on the walls. I hated their eyes, full of life and love and everything that I had never enjoyed. I hated that handsome young man with his arm around that pretty young woman. I hated the child that played on the beach, frozen forever in that smiling, joyful pose. I hated them.
They told me that here, I could find real love. They lied. They don't know me. They don't know that there is no human on the face of this planet who will really love me. I'm too different. I've got scars that tell a tale of neglect and fake affection, a story that winds on and on and on and on with no hope of an end in sight. And yet they look past the knife marks and tell me that someone will love me. No one is loving enough to love me. I've run too far, barred myself off, and all the false care you can give me won't be real love. Real love is a myth for me.
I've become so incredibly adept at smiling, that people don't know I'm lying blatantly to their face. They look at me; they see a rebellious, dark child. They smile and tell me I'll be happy here. I smiled back at first, saying no, I won't. But they took me anyway, and I won't smile for them anymore. They should know how utterly miserable I am in their perfect world of paradise.
My mother was never there for me, but when my first boyfriend broke up with me, she told me it was because I was hopeless. There was no way that any boy could find anything attractive in me. She pointed at my scars; I didn't bother to hide them when I was around her. "Look," she said, satisfied. "That's your mark. No one can look at you and say, 'there's someone I can love.'"
And she was right. I've had boyfriend after boyfriend, but they all break up with me in the end. I'm not enough to love. I've got marks.
The only thing I found comfort in was the fact that I was the one black spot on their wonderfully white canvas. I was the blemish, the deformity, the alien. This world wasn't so perfect anymore now that they brought me in.
My room was the one with the smiling people who loved, the obnoxious writing desk, the window overlooking the willow trees and tranquil river. I scoffed at the view at first. I was on the fourth floor; if I jumped, I could die. This was a comforting thought, I realize now. I open the window and peered down. Concrete below me.
The days dragged slowly forward, as if being forced by an unseen hand. I stayed in solitude, refusing meals, enjoying the hunger pains that stabbed my stomach. Going mad with starvation would surely be a pleasant change. When at last they forced me to take food, I accepted it, feigning gratefulness, and then disposed of the sustinance out the window. They knew, of course, but they said nothing.
I had taken to leaving my room between one in the morning and five in the morning. During these periods, I would wander the dark grounds, wishing to run and never return. I was in such a state that I knew I would pass out if I exerted myself too greatly, and if I did faint, someone would find me and take me back to that perfect little room and never let me leave.
So I stood by the river, and watched the black water rush by, and wished to drown myself.
"Which one is your oldest?"
I willed myself not to start. I hadn't heard this voice before. Turning, I saw a young man perhaps my age, watching me confidently from a few feet away. He was wearing all black, and he had long dark hair that covered one of his eyes.
"Get away," I snarled, instinctively watching for any signs of violence. A knife, perhaps. I was not used to not expecting some sort of danger wherever I went. A fight-thrill went through me, which surprised me.
The young man, instead of leaving, shrugged and took a step closer. "There's no where else to go, except back to bed. Which one is your oldest?"
He gestured to the shining white lines on my arms.
"Why do you care?" I asked, still viciously.
"This is my oldest," he said, revealing the back of his hand. A thin, almost invisible line ran from his knuckle to his wrist. "Did that one three years ago."
"I don't care."
"And these," he pulled up his sleeve to display a gruesome web of scars. "These are my newest. Three months ago."
"I don't care."
"Which one is your oldest?"
I glared at him suspiciously. "I don't tend to show them off," I spat.
"Yes, you do. You don't bother to cover them up, which means you want people to notice."
"That's a lie."
"It's what I do."
I still had not let down my guard. He shrugged at me and sat down by the stream.
"Which room is yours?" he asked, off-handedly. He didn't wait for a response. "They gave me the room with the baseball pictures. All the players, and their stupid smiles. And they took awake my knives."
I didn't reply.
He went on talking. "They thought I wouldn't be able to cut anymore, without knives." He smirked, a little sadly. "They were wrong. But I haven't done it in three months. They never tried to stop me, even when they knew I was. There were bloodstains on the floor every morning, and I left all day, and when I came back, my room was clean again. But they never told me to stop."
He was quiet, so I pointed to my calf. "That's my oldest," I said, spitefully. "I thought if I did it on my leg, I could pull off a lie that it was from some outside activity, some cat, some stray thorn bush. And I did. And this is my newest--" I gestured to a still-red pattern on my upper arm. "I did that two days ago."
He looked mildly interested. "What caused it? The first one."
"My mother told me I'd never be loved," I said angrily.
He nodded. "They say you'll be loved here."
"It's a lie," I said.
"That's what I thought."
"Well? Are you loved?"
He seemed to consider this for a moment. "No," he said, thoughtfully. "I'm not. They said I'd find love, they said they'd love me, but they don't. They just act like they do."
"What's the difference?" I asked bitterly.
"Real love is when you can feel it."
We were both quiet for awhile. I was still standing there, mentally refusing to give in and sit down.
"I wanted to die," I said finally.
"Gave up that fast?"
"No," I said. "I didn't want to live here."
"They didn't either, when they came."
I didn't ask what that meant.
"Sit down," he said, not cheerfully, but not unhappily.
I crouched warily beside him.
"Close enough. What's your name?"
I glanced at him briefly. He wasn't looking at me, it was almost as if he didn't care to know my name.
"I'm called Crimson," I said flatly.
"That's not what I asked. What's your name?"
I frowned. What was my name?
"I'm called Shade," he said, "but my name is James."
"What shall I call you?"
"Whatever you like."
I was quiet.
"Well, your name?"
"Jezebel," bitterly.
"Jezebel?" with surprise.
"Yes," I replied harshly, and swore.
"What shall I call you?"
"What you like. I don't care."
It was his turn to be quiet, and he looked surprised when I spoke again.
"Don't call me Crimson."
"Alright. Why not?"
I self-consciously glanced at an X-shaped scar on my wrist. "He gave it to me. My first boyfriend."
He smiled. "Have you had many?"
"None of your business."
"No, I would say not."
"I'm going to call you Shade."
"That's fine."
I half-expected him to tell me not to, because his first girlfriend had named him Shade. And then, for some reason, I was disappointed when I was allowed to call him Shade.
"How long have you been here?" I asked, suddenly.
He frowned. "A year," he said, distantly.
"Why did you have to come?"
He turned to me. I wondered fleetingly if his obstructed eye was a different color than the one I could see. "What sort of a name is Jezebel?" he asked, seriously.
I stood and left him.
For several nights, I didn't leave my room at night. I could see him, sitting there, from my window, but I never went down to talk to him. Part of me hated the fact that I was tempted to go talk to him. The smiling people on the wall mocked me with their happiness, their security. The young couple were so sickeningly in love. I could tell by their eyes. Even a photograph couldn't take away from that sense.
On the fifth night, I went down to the stream. He was already sitting there, staring at the water.
"Shade," I said, heatedly.
"Jezebel," he replied, evenly.
"I came here because I tried to commit suicide."
He didn't look at me. "I never asked why you came."
"But you were going to. I didn't want you to ask."
He lifted his half-gaze to my eyes. "My mother was stabbed," he said, simply. "I saw her. She died a few days later. That's when they brought me here."
He held out his left arm. A long, ugly scar ran up and down. "That one was an accident," he said, smiling mirthlessly. "I tried to stop the man who was stabbing her. He got my arm. But she died."
I waited.
"The doctors thought I had done it to myself, when they saw my other scars." There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "They wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't done it. And then she died. And then they brought me here."
He looked detached, as if reciting someone else's history. "I tried to kill myself so many times," he went on, quieter, this time. "I kept seeing the look on her face as the man stabbed her. I kept seeing her face, when she died. But I couldn't do it. Not here."
"Why not?" I asked, without meaning to.
He looked up at me. "It doesn't work," was all he said. It seemed to be enough.
We were quiet for a long time. I felt like I should say something comforting, and then wondered, angrily, why I should feel like comforting him. He had said it as if it was not his story. As if he neither expected nor would accept pity or sympathy.
"Jezebel," he said, very quietly. I glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at me. "My mother's name was Jezebel."
I stood. "I'm sorry," I burst out, and turned and left.
He wasn't at the stream for several days, but I went anyway. The black water ran, ever steadily, and I wished to stop it.
When next I saw him, he asked me if I had eaten recently. I had almost gotten used to the constant cramps in my stomach, and I lied and told him I ate as normally as any person would. He smiled. "You won't be able to starve yourself here," he told me. "You should eat, at least then you won't feel so miserable."
"I want to feel miserable," I snapped.
"I know," he said. "That's the Crimson side of you."
I left. Once I was alone, I wondered how he always managed to upset me.
I made him angry once. It was three in the morning, and we were sitting side by side next to the stream.
"Did your mother love you?" I asked.
He looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."
"Did you feel it?"
"I... I guess... I guess not."
"So... she just acted like she loved you?"
"No, Jezebel."
"Maybe she didn't love you. Maybe it was false love." I said this bitterly.
"I loved her."
"Did she feel it?"
He looked disconcerted. "How should I know?"
"I don't know. I've never loved anyone."
"Then don't ask me if she loved me."
"I wanted to know!" I was angry before he was.
"It's none of your business whether or not my mother loved me!"
"If you had really loved her, you wouldn't be here."
He froze. "What do you mean?"
"Love kills," I said, savagely. "Love protects, but it kills. You would have been able to protect her if you had really loved her. But you didn't. All you've got is a scar, while she's dead, you never really loved her--"
"Be quiet," he said darkly, his one visible eye flashing. "You don't know anything."
"You never loved her."
He got up and stood in front of me, and I thought he was going to strike me. Instead he said, "You're still Crimson." And he left.
I don't know why I wanted to make him angry. I wanted to see that he had hurt in his life, that he wasn't as wonderful as the rest of this world wanted him to be. I wanted to see his flaws, his weaknesses. I wanted him to be as human as I was.
We didn't talk to each other for several days. He fumed in righteous anger, and I struggled both with feelings of victory and feelings of guilt. At last, I tracked him down in the middle of a bright, warm, perfect day.
"Shade," I called. He was across the field, sitting against a tree, staring off with his arms crossed. He didn't respond.
I was coming nearer. "Shade," I said again, feeling irritated. I had been given the silent treatment far too often to care anymore. My mother rarely talked to me. My father was too drunk to think properly.
At last I was standing directly in front of him. He refused stubbornly to meet my eyes.
"Shade," I said, exasperated. He did not respond.
"James."
He suddenly fixed the one eye I could see on me. "Don't call me that."
"It's your name, isn't it?"
"It's what she called me."
"Well, it's your name, isn't it?"
"Shut up. You don't know anything."
"I want to know what it was like to be loved."
"She didn't love me."
"I think she did."
"I'm not going to talk to you."
"Staying mad at me won't help."
"Don't preach."
"I'll leave, if you like."
"Please do."
I glared at him, and he was gazing away from me determinedly. "I don't want to leave."
"Stay, then."
"Fine."
I sat down in the grass.
"I wish I hadn't met you," he muttered.
"Join the club," I said, bitterly.
He looked at me abruptly. "I didn't mean that."
I didn't respond.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, you aren't."
"I am sorry. If you don't believe me, that's your problem."
We were quiet. He wasn't looking at me. I realized vaugely that I had never before seen him in the daylight. I was hating the air again, hating how wonderful it felt, hating the sun for shining on me, hating the grass for being so soft and green, hating the sky for being so beautiful. I held out my arms and felt a cold thrill at the light glinting off the scars.
"Don't do that," he said, irritably.
I lowered my arms obligingly.
"I want to go home, Shade."
"You can't. Not yet."
"How long do I have to stay?"
He looked at me. "That depends on you."
The weeks went by. Sometimes, I almost thought I didn't mind the sun shining all the time, and maybe the grass wasn't so ridiculously perfect. Sometimes, I went outside in the day time, and stood there and stared at the sky, and wrapped my arms inside each other so the scars couldn't reflect the light.
"Did you stop?" he asked me once, upon finding me standing in the sun.
I covered my arms. "Yes," I replied.
"Are you glad?"
"I don't know."
"It never helps, Jezebel. The pain never helped."
After a few months, we never met at night anymore. We stood in the sun and talked, and it didn't bother me that the water wouldn't stop running, and the smiling people were smiling, and the desk looked too perfect. I started to laugh again. He and I would walk around and talk about the imperfections we found, and if I was clever, I could make him laugh.
"What's the color of your other eye?" I asked once.
He smirked. "Just the same as my other eye."
"Why do you cover it up?"
He brushed the dark hair away for a moment. His eye was normal. "I cover it up because it's who I am," he said, simply, as if that was all I needed.
They came and told me I could go, now, if I wanted. They said a lot of emotional, sentimental things that made me feel queasy, but in the end said I could go. I stood there, confused, until he wandered up.
"Leaving, Jezebel?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to stay?"
"Are you leaving?"
He smiled, but didn't say anything.
"Can you leave?"
"I could, if I wanted to."
"Why haven't you?"
He shrugged. "I'm good at lying. They let me go too soon."
I frowned. "You weren't ready... but you didn't leave?"
"No."
"Oh."
"So, are you going to leave, Jezebel?"
I thought, just maybe, that I saw a flicker of hope in his eye.
"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, firing up immediately.
"That depends," he smiled.
I spent the rest of the day on my bed, staring at the brown, sweet-smelling rafters. I had wanted to leave for so many months, and now I could... And yet I wasn't. I was waiting. I was still here. What was I waiting for?
The next day I found him, by the stream, as usual. "Hello, James," I said.
"Hello, Jezebel," he said, lazily.
"I'm going to leave," I said.
He glanced up at me. "You are?"
"If you come with me."
He smiled very, very slightly. "How do you know I'm ready?"
"I don't. Are you?"
"Have you found what you were looking for?"
"That's the only reason I haven't left right away."
He smiled and stood.
"I'm ready, Jezebel."
The trees bend lazily in the breeze, the same breeze that taunts me, as if to say, "You decide your own peace of mind..." I'm angry at the wind, at the trees, at everything that exists outside of my mind. I'm locked in this would-be cozy, home-like room, with the pictures of smiling people who love each other decorating the walls, with the old play-things of former occupants, with the picturesque little writing desk, complete with a picturesque fountain pen. Perfection, it seems, it almost taken for granted.
I’ve always been a passionate person, but this almost wasn’t fair. They couldn’t take me out of the paradise I had been living in, and place me in this hell -- this perfect hell, with the smiling people on the wall and the sun that always shone. This wasn’t home, it wasn’t me.
Strange, though, how I had never been happy where I had been, until they removed me. I thought I hated it there, too -- all the rain, the darkness, the people who never smiled at me. The people who never loved me. Maybe they did, but they had funny ways of showing it. I had thought they were so pathetic. I felt like they were continuously either patronizing me, or treating me like I was special. How had that been comfort? That horrible feeling of loneliness, that feeling that there was hate that the others just barely suppressed. They never loved me.
And now I was here, and ideally, it would be perfect. I could start anew, make real friends, be happy. Yet as soon as they left me to my own design, I locked myself in the attic and wouldn’t come out. They had taken away my knives, my blades, everything possible that I might be able to injure myself with. I wore shorts and tank tops just so they could see the shining white scars. They had pretended not to notice, their painted smiles dragging on and on, their unblinking eyes watching my own, looking anywhere but the lines up and down my arms and legs. I dared them to give me my knives back.
I hated every person depicted on the walls. I hated their eyes, full of life and love and everything that I had never enjoyed. I hated that handsome young man with his arm around that pretty young woman. I hated the child that played on the beach, frozen forever in that smiling, joyful pose. I hated them.
They told me that here, I could find real love. They lied. They don't know me. They don't know that there is no human on the face of this planet who will really love me. I'm too different. I've got scars that tell a tale of neglect and fake affection, a story that winds on and on and on and on with no hope of an end in sight. And yet they look past the knife marks and tell me that someone will love me. No one is loving enough to love me. I've run too far, barred myself off, and all the false care you can give me won't be real love. Real love is a myth for me.
I've become so incredibly adept at smiling, that people don't know I'm lying blatantly to their face. They look at me; they see a rebellious, dark child. They smile and tell me I'll be happy here. I smiled back at first, saying no, I won't. But they took me anyway, and I won't smile for them anymore. They should know how utterly miserable I am in their perfect world of paradise.
My mother was never there for me, but when my first boyfriend broke up with me, she told me it was because I was hopeless. There was no way that any boy could find anything attractive in me. She pointed at my scars; I didn't bother to hide them when I was around her. "Look," she said, satisfied. "That's your mark. No one can look at you and say, 'there's someone I can love.'"
And she was right. I've had boyfriend after boyfriend, but they all break up with me in the end. I'm not enough to love. I've got marks.
The only thing I found comfort in was the fact that I was the one black spot on their wonderfully white canvas. I was the blemish, the deformity, the alien. This world wasn't so perfect anymore now that they brought me in.
My room was the one with the smiling people who loved, the obnoxious writing desk, the window overlooking the willow trees and tranquil river. I scoffed at the view at first. I was on the fourth floor; if I jumped, I could die. This was a comforting thought, I realize now. I open the window and peered down. Concrete below me.
The days dragged slowly forward, as if being forced by an unseen hand. I stayed in solitude, refusing meals, enjoying the hunger pains that stabbed my stomach. Going mad with starvation would surely be a pleasant change. When at last they forced me to take food, I accepted it, feigning gratefulness, and then disposed of the sustinance out the window. They knew, of course, but they said nothing.
I had taken to leaving my room between one in the morning and five in the morning. During these periods, I would wander the dark grounds, wishing to run and never return. I was in such a state that I knew I would pass out if I exerted myself too greatly, and if I did faint, someone would find me and take me back to that perfect little room and never let me leave.
So I stood by the river, and watched the black water rush by, and wished to drown myself.
"Which one is your oldest?"
I willed myself not to start. I hadn't heard this voice before. Turning, I saw a young man perhaps my age, watching me confidently from a few feet away. He was wearing all black, and he had long dark hair that covered one of his eyes.
"Get away," I snarled, instinctively watching for any signs of violence. A knife, perhaps. I was not used to not expecting some sort of danger wherever I went. A fight-thrill went through me, which surprised me.
The young man, instead of leaving, shrugged and took a step closer. "There's no where else to go, except back to bed. Which one is your oldest?"
He gestured to the shining white lines on my arms.
"Why do you care?" I asked, still viciously.
"This is my oldest," he said, revealing the back of his hand. A thin, almost invisible line ran from his knuckle to his wrist. "Did that one three years ago."
"I don't care."
"And these," he pulled up his sleeve to display a gruesome web of scars. "These are my newest. Three months ago."
"I don't care."
"Which one is your oldest?"
I glared at him suspiciously. "I don't tend to show them off," I spat.
"Yes, you do. You don't bother to cover them up, which means you want people to notice."
"That's a lie."
"It's what I do."
I still had not let down my guard. He shrugged at me and sat down by the stream.
"Which room is yours?" he asked, off-handedly. He didn't wait for a response. "They gave me the room with the baseball pictures. All the players, and their stupid smiles. And they took awake my knives."
I didn't reply.
He went on talking. "They thought I wouldn't be able to cut anymore, without knives." He smirked, a little sadly. "They were wrong. But I haven't done it in three months. They never tried to stop me, even when they knew I was. There were bloodstains on the floor every morning, and I left all day, and when I came back, my room was clean again. But they never told me to stop."
He was quiet, so I pointed to my calf. "That's my oldest," I said, spitefully. "I thought if I did it on my leg, I could pull off a lie that it was from some outside activity, some cat, some stray thorn bush. And I did. And this is my newest--" I gestured to a still-red pattern on my upper arm. "I did that two days ago."
He looked mildly interested. "What caused it? The first one."
"My mother told me I'd never be loved," I said angrily.
He nodded. "They say you'll be loved here."
"It's a lie," I said.
"That's what I thought."
"Well? Are you loved?"
He seemed to consider this for a moment. "No," he said, thoughtfully. "I'm not. They said I'd find love, they said they'd love me, but they don't. They just act like they do."
"What's the difference?" I asked bitterly.
"Real love is when you can feel it."
We were both quiet for awhile. I was still standing there, mentally refusing to give in and sit down.
"I wanted to die," I said finally.
"Gave up that fast?"
"No," I said. "I didn't want to live here."
"They didn't either, when they came."
I didn't ask what that meant.
"Sit down," he said, not cheerfully, but not unhappily.
I crouched warily beside him.
"Close enough. What's your name?"
I glanced at him briefly. He wasn't looking at me, it was almost as if he didn't care to know my name.
"I'm called Crimson," I said flatly.
"That's not what I asked. What's your name?"
I frowned. What was my name?
"I'm called Shade," he said, "but my name is James."
"What shall I call you?"
"Whatever you like."
I was quiet.
"Well, your name?"
"Jezebel," bitterly.
"Jezebel?" with surprise.
"Yes," I replied harshly, and swore.
"What shall I call you?"
"What you like. I don't care."
It was his turn to be quiet, and he looked surprised when I spoke again.
"Don't call me Crimson."
"Alright. Why not?"
I self-consciously glanced at an X-shaped scar on my wrist. "He gave it to me. My first boyfriend."
He smiled. "Have you had many?"
"None of your business."
"No, I would say not."
"I'm going to call you Shade."
"That's fine."
I half-expected him to tell me not to, because his first girlfriend had named him Shade. And then, for some reason, I was disappointed when I was allowed to call him Shade.
"How long have you been here?" I asked, suddenly.
He frowned. "A year," he said, distantly.
"Why did you have to come?"
He turned to me. I wondered fleetingly if his obstructed eye was a different color than the one I could see. "What sort of a name is Jezebel?" he asked, seriously.
I stood and left him.
For several nights, I didn't leave my room at night. I could see him, sitting there, from my window, but I never went down to talk to him. Part of me hated the fact that I was tempted to go talk to him. The smiling people on the wall mocked me with their happiness, their security. The young couple were so sickeningly in love. I could tell by their eyes. Even a photograph couldn't take away from that sense.
On the fifth night, I went down to the stream. He was already sitting there, staring at the water.
"Shade," I said, heatedly.
"Jezebel," he replied, evenly.
"I came here because I tried to commit suicide."
He didn't look at me. "I never asked why you came."
"But you were going to. I didn't want you to ask."
He lifted his half-gaze to my eyes. "My mother was stabbed," he said, simply. "I saw her. She died a few days later. That's when they brought me here."
He held out his left arm. A long, ugly scar ran up and down. "That one was an accident," he said, smiling mirthlessly. "I tried to stop the man who was stabbing her. He got my arm. But she died."
I waited.
"The doctors thought I had done it to myself, when they saw my other scars." There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "They wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't done it. And then she died. And then they brought me here."
He looked detached, as if reciting someone else's history. "I tried to kill myself so many times," he went on, quieter, this time. "I kept seeing the look on her face as the man stabbed her. I kept seeing her face, when she died. But I couldn't do it. Not here."
"Why not?" I asked, without meaning to.
He looked up at me. "It doesn't work," was all he said. It seemed to be enough.
We were quiet for a long time. I felt like I should say something comforting, and then wondered, angrily, why I should feel like comforting him. He had said it as if it was not his story. As if he neither expected nor would accept pity or sympathy.
"Jezebel," he said, very quietly. I glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at me. "My mother's name was Jezebel."
I stood. "I'm sorry," I burst out, and turned and left.
He wasn't at the stream for several days, but I went anyway. The black water ran, ever steadily, and I wished to stop it.
When next I saw him, he asked me if I had eaten recently. I had almost gotten used to the constant cramps in my stomach, and I lied and told him I ate as normally as any person would. He smiled. "You won't be able to starve yourself here," he told me. "You should eat, at least then you won't feel so miserable."
"I want to feel miserable," I snapped.
"I know," he said. "That's the Crimson side of you."
I left. Once I was alone, I wondered how he always managed to upset me.
I made him angry once. It was three in the morning, and we were sitting side by side next to the stream.
"Did your mother love you?" I asked.
He looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."
"Did you feel it?"
"I... I guess... I guess not."
"So... she just acted like she loved you?"
"No, Jezebel."
"Maybe she didn't love you. Maybe it was false love." I said this bitterly.
"I loved her."
"Did she feel it?"
He looked disconcerted. "How should I know?"
"I don't know. I've never loved anyone."
"Then don't ask me if she loved me."
"I wanted to know!" I was angry before he was.
"It's none of your business whether or not my mother loved me!"
"If you had really loved her, you wouldn't be here."
He froze. "What do you mean?"
"Love kills," I said, savagely. "Love protects, but it kills. You would have been able to protect her if you had really loved her. But you didn't. All you've got is a scar, while she's dead, you never really loved her--"
"Be quiet," he said darkly, his one visible eye flashing. "You don't know anything."
"You never loved her."
He got up and stood in front of me, and I thought he was going to strike me. Instead he said, "You're still Crimson." And he left.
I don't know why I wanted to make him angry. I wanted to see that he had hurt in his life, that he wasn't as wonderful as the rest of this world wanted him to be. I wanted to see his flaws, his weaknesses. I wanted him to be as human as I was.
We didn't talk to each other for several days. He fumed in righteous anger, and I struggled both with feelings of victory and feelings of guilt. At last, I tracked him down in the middle of a bright, warm, perfect day.
"Shade," I called. He was across the field, sitting against a tree, staring off with his arms crossed. He didn't respond.
I was coming nearer. "Shade," I said again, feeling irritated. I had been given the silent treatment far too often to care anymore. My mother rarely talked to me. My father was too drunk to think properly.
At last I was standing directly in front of him. He refused stubbornly to meet my eyes.
"Shade," I said, exasperated. He did not respond.
"James."
He suddenly fixed the one eye I could see on me. "Don't call me that."
"It's your name, isn't it?"
"It's what she called me."
"Well, it's your name, isn't it?"
"Shut up. You don't know anything."
"I want to know what it was like to be loved."
"She didn't love me."
"I think she did."
"I'm not going to talk to you."
"Staying mad at me won't help."
"Don't preach."
"I'll leave, if you like."
"Please do."
I glared at him, and he was gazing away from me determinedly. "I don't want to leave."
"Stay, then."
"Fine."
I sat down in the grass.
"I wish I hadn't met you," he muttered.
"Join the club," I said, bitterly.
He looked at me abruptly. "I didn't mean that."
I didn't respond.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, you aren't."
"I am sorry. If you don't believe me, that's your problem."
We were quiet. He wasn't looking at me. I realized vaugely that I had never before seen him in the daylight. I was hating the air again, hating how wonderful it felt, hating the sun for shining on me, hating the grass for being so soft and green, hating the sky for being so beautiful. I held out my arms and felt a cold thrill at the light glinting off the scars.
"Don't do that," he said, irritably.
I lowered my arms obligingly.
"I want to go home, Shade."
"You can't. Not yet."
"How long do I have to stay?"
He looked at me. "That depends on you."
The weeks went by. Sometimes, I almost thought I didn't mind the sun shining all the time, and maybe the grass wasn't so ridiculously perfect. Sometimes, I went outside in the day time, and stood there and stared at the sky, and wrapped my arms inside each other so the scars couldn't reflect the light.
"Did you stop?" he asked me once, upon finding me standing in the sun.
I covered my arms. "Yes," I replied.
"Are you glad?"
"I don't know."
"It never helps, Jezebel. The pain never helped."
After a few months, we never met at night anymore. We stood in the sun and talked, and it didn't bother me that the water wouldn't stop running, and the smiling people were smiling, and the desk looked too perfect. I started to laugh again. He and I would walk around and talk about the imperfections we found, and if I was clever, I could make him laugh.
"What's the color of your other eye?" I asked once.
He smirked. "Just the same as my other eye."
"Why do you cover it up?"
He brushed the dark hair away for a moment. His eye was normal. "I cover it up because it's who I am," he said, simply, as if that was all I needed.
They came and told me I could go, now, if I wanted. They said a lot of emotional, sentimental things that made me feel queasy, but in the end said I could go. I stood there, confused, until he wandered up.
"Leaving, Jezebel?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to stay?"
"Are you leaving?"
He smiled, but didn't say anything.
"Can you leave?"
"I could, if I wanted to."
"Why haven't you?"
He shrugged. "I'm good at lying. They let me go too soon."
I frowned. "You weren't ready... but you didn't leave?"
"No."
"Oh."
"So, are you going to leave, Jezebel?"
I thought, just maybe, that I saw a flicker of hope in his eye.
"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, firing up immediately.
"That depends," he smiled.
I spent the rest of the day on my bed, staring at the brown, sweet-smelling rafters. I had wanted to leave for so many months, and now I could... And yet I wasn't. I was waiting. I was still here. What was I waiting for?
The next day I found him, by the stream, as usual. "Hello, James," I said.
"Hello, Jezebel," he said, lazily.
"I'm going to leave," I said.
He glanced up at me. "You are?"
"If you come with me."
He smiled very, very slightly. "How do you know I'm ready?"
"I don't. Are you?"
"Have you found what you were looking for?"
"That's the only reason I haven't left right away."
He smiled and stood.
"I'm ready, Jezebel."
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Beetles
"He kissed me today."
My left-handed ink bleeds into the paper, making little feathers, like electricity. I have to switch color every letter in order to keep the time and date indistinct. It was a strange feeling today, warm and yellow and orange and a very, very little bit of red. It left me feeling amazing and beautiful and lonely and cold.
I add this message to the shoebox beneath my bed. I try not to read the other ones, not yet. I'll read them a different day, when I wonder if I just dreamed everything that happened. It's sort of like a safe-guard, something to keep me tied to the ground, something to keep me flying. Counteracting all the things that have never happened is almost habit for me now. I've never wanted to kill myself, but I hide away all the knives and ask other people to get me medicine anyway. I've never truly wanted to run away, but I build it up worse so it doesn't seem so bad.
I hate beetles. I hate especially the small ones. I don't scream or giggle when I see them, because it's more of a loathing, not an attention-seeker. The sound of thousands of little feet and thousands of little exoskeletons rubbing together is amplified into my mind as soon as I catch sight of one of the hideous little demons. I have that on a piece of paper in my shoebox, somewhere. It doesn't really need to be there, because that's something I never need to be reminded of. I wrote it down and put it in anyway.
It's times like these when I have to get off the train and push it back on course. I think something is loose inside that mysterious black box which makes the wheels turn. I always end up thinking about beetles, when there are more important things in the making.
He kissed me today.
I can see the colors dancing back up to remind me, but I don't mind. Green, blue, pink, red, purple, repeat. That's how I wrote it. It had to be that way, or it would stand out too much and I might not be able to suppress it, if anything bad should happen.
Something bad has never happened with him, but as I have said before, I have a tendency to prepare for things that will never come to pass...
There's a beetle crawling across my ceiling.
I smile and roll onto my stomach. Maybe I'll go through that shoebox and read all my memories, just for kicks.
My left-handed ink bleeds into the paper, making little feathers, like electricity. I have to switch color every letter in order to keep the time and date indistinct. It was a strange feeling today, warm and yellow and orange and a very, very little bit of red. It left me feeling amazing and beautiful and lonely and cold.
I add this message to the shoebox beneath my bed. I try not to read the other ones, not yet. I'll read them a different day, when I wonder if I just dreamed everything that happened. It's sort of like a safe-guard, something to keep me tied to the ground, something to keep me flying. Counteracting all the things that have never happened is almost habit for me now. I've never wanted to kill myself, but I hide away all the knives and ask other people to get me medicine anyway. I've never truly wanted to run away, but I build it up worse so it doesn't seem so bad.
I hate beetles. I hate especially the small ones. I don't scream or giggle when I see them, because it's more of a loathing, not an attention-seeker. The sound of thousands of little feet and thousands of little exoskeletons rubbing together is amplified into my mind as soon as I catch sight of one of the hideous little demons. I have that on a piece of paper in my shoebox, somewhere. It doesn't really need to be there, because that's something I never need to be reminded of. I wrote it down and put it in anyway.
It's times like these when I have to get off the train and push it back on course. I think something is loose inside that mysterious black box which makes the wheels turn. I always end up thinking about beetles, when there are more important things in the making.
He kissed me today.
I can see the colors dancing back up to remind me, but I don't mind. Green, blue, pink, red, purple, repeat. That's how I wrote it. It had to be that way, or it would stand out too much and I might not be able to suppress it, if anything bad should happen.
Something bad has never happened with him, but as I have said before, I have a tendency to prepare for things that will never come to pass...
There's a beetle crawling across my ceiling.
I smile and roll onto my stomach. Maybe I'll go through that shoebox and read all my memories, just for kicks.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
System
It's like a computer system. A complicated machine that calculates and codes and decodes in the blink of an eye. Do you think we realize how much we depend on this articifial stystem? Most of us don't even realize it exists.
It's still dark, because I haven't opened my eyes yet. My mother is shouting at me from downstairs, I need to get up, I have things to do. The day's list is scrolling behind my eyes, in green text on a black vacuum. That's just how it works. The alarm is singing an annoying song in my mind, reminding me that music is encrypted into my system and will not leave unless I reboot.
I open my eyes and sit up. It helps to work like a computer: force the cold away, shower, get dressed, stomach what food I can. You tell a computer to multiply four hundred thirty-seven by one and a third, and it does it. No questions asked.
"There you are," says my mother, when I appear downstairs. Mechanical smile, make my eyes light up. It's automatic now, like wiggling the mouse to get the screen to light up. She smiles to see me smile, and hands me a glass of juice. My system falters for a moment; it has trouble handling unexpected affection. Just a bug. Just another something to work out. Again, the smile, and the words, "Thanks, Mom."
"I'm off to work," she goes on, her voice busy and and cheerful just as mechanized as mine. I don't think she notices, though. She depends heavily on her system now, ever since dad left. It's just easier that way.
"Okay," I say. Didn't even have to think about that one.
"See you later, sweetie." She kisses my forehead and she's gone.
The house is quiet, but I have long since learned to play my mind's music and block the silence. Carter will call in a bit. His system has a glitch in it, and sometimes it doesn't work at all, and he pretends it does. It makes me sad. I can tell when he's at a loss for words, when his smile is fake, when his eyes are troubled.
I don't realize I've been drawing on myself until I notice the parade of elephants and kangaroos up my arm and around my wrist. I frown. Distraction without knowing you're being distraction is a problem.
The phone rings. I glance at the clock. He's a bit early, but I will recover from the disturbance. My schedule rewrites itself as I pick up the phone.
"Hey."
"Hey," I say, studying the parade on my skin. This is an automated conversation, it requires little brain power.
"What's up?"
"Not much. You?"
"Bored."
"Mm."
We've covered everything to work us into a real coversation. Most of our coversations are automated now. It's easier on him and his faulty computer.
"You busy?" His voice sounds eager. Somewhere inside myself I allow a smile. He misses me.
"Of course not." Let the smile into my voice. It will cheer him up. I revel in this subtle touch. It's a new feature I just installed.
"Want to come meet me at the park?"
It's cliché, but that's alright. It's Carter, after all. "I'll be there in a bit. I have to walk, Mom took the car."
"Okay."
I hang up the phone and lean back against the couch. My battery is still recharging; I'll have to make Carter wait for a bit. I can't have it die on him. That's not fair.
Semi-consciously, I fix my hair and makeup. When you look good, people don't necessarily notice what's wrong about you. They compliment you first, and if your system is running well, then you can cover anything you like. Their systems will do the same thing: they will cover anything wrong about you. If you look sad, they will rewrite that and feed the code back: you're just tired. If you're irritated, they will translate it and tell themselves you're stressed with school. It's amazing.
I walk the distance to the park, the music still playing gently in my mind. I nod to the people who recognize me, enthusiastically hug the girls who enthusiastically scream my name, help the little old ladies across the street. It's automatic. My computer doesn't fail often.
There's Carter. I smile without my computer telling me to when I see him. He's flat on his back, his arms and legs spread out in a haphazard manner, staring at the sky. I've never fully understood him. Maybe that's why I like him so much.
"Hey," I call. Green text falls into place before my eyes. Break into a jog. Smile. You're happy to see him. The last one makes me uncomfortable because the truth isn't in my computer system.
He sits up. And smiles. Again I feel uncomfortable because I don't know if he smiled because he's glad to see me, or because his computer told him to.
"Hello."
We wander around the park, holding hands. This is always when my system begins to break down, when I can feel the affection pass between us and suddenly I feel guilt that didn't come from this complicated web of wires and signals.
He stops suddenly, and glances down at me. "Everything alright?" he asks, and his voice holds a tone that the system can't account for. I am nervous that I am failing, and I brighten my face and smile at him. The choice flashes briefly before my eyes, a green scar, but I don't even bother to debate.
"Just fine," I say, convincingly. He looks relieved, and for a very short moment I feel that guilt again, burning against the back of my conscience. I don't like to trick him.
"Let's go this way," he says, and tightens his hold on my hand. We move off the path into the woods, and my computer says laugh, so I do.
"Why in here?" My voice is bubbly and tinny, proper and expected.
He grins. "Why not?"
We push through the woods and accumulate a collections of cuts and scratches. The river is on the other side, which is where I assume we're going. We're both laughing. It feels good, and I forget about the all-too-easy lie that I told and have been telling him. My computer can take care of it.
The anti-virus walls I've put up always start to crumble when I'm with him. Sometimes I don't even want to follow my stone-code of smiling, happy me. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really being fair to him, or if I'm cheating him out of something he needs to know as someone who cares for me.
We sit on the bank the river and catch our breath. When we were younger, we toted out two huge boulders to sit on so we couldn't get muddy. They were still there, but someone had installed a bench, and so we tended to chose the bench over the rocks.
I lean against his shoulder comfortably. He puts his arm around me and my system suffers a fatal failure, and I suddenly want to cry.
He notices, somehow. Frowning, he asks me about it. "What's wrong?"
The green letters burst into my vision. They ask me the question, they give me the choice. Should I lie to him again? I don't want to hurt him by being sad after spending an afternoon with him. Why do I want to cry anyway?
I chose the the letters fade away. I look up at his eyes; his eyes are worried. I feel sick inside but I reboot my system and smile.
"I'm perfect."
***
It's still dark, only because I haven't opened my eyes yet. My mother is shouting at me from downstairs, and the green list plays behind my eyes. I type in the mental numbers and get out of bed. Calculators don't ask questions. Calculators are blind slaves. Calculators just do what they are told.
"See you later, sweetie." She kisses me on the forehead and is out the door.
Carter will call in a bit.
The parade of elephants grows. The other one blurred in the shower.
The phone rings. He's a bit early, but my schedule will rewrite without me telling it to.
As I touch the phone, I realize he's been early the past three weeks. I wonder why I hadn't noticed before.
"Hey."
I walk to the park to see him. I smile when I first catch sight of him. And then I wonder why. There was no reason to smile. No one to impress. I wrinkle my nose, knowing my computer didn't tell me to smile. I smiled. I did.
He turns around and he smiles too.
We walk on the path down to the river this time. We hold hands, and I feel my system already starting to strain. He hasn't asked me how I am yet. We are talking about school, jobs, important things. Sobering things. Computer things.
We sit down on the bench and he puts his arm around me. The green letters shake before my eyes and I can see the error lights blinking.
He looks at me. "What's wrong?"
The choice again. I bite my lip. The red lights are still flashing, but I can fix the system in a minute, with just the simple lie. The green letters beg me.
Carter waits.
I close my eyes and dismiss the system. I say no. I turn off the code, I turn off the computer, the error lights go away. It shuts down. A tear slides down my cheek, and I pull a painfully real breath.
He knows. He holds me and doesn't tell me not to cry.
And somehow, everything's alright.
It's still dark, because I haven't opened my eyes yet. My mother is shouting at me from downstairs, I need to get up, I have things to do. The day's list is scrolling behind my eyes, in green text on a black vacuum. That's just how it works. The alarm is singing an annoying song in my mind, reminding me that music is encrypted into my system and will not leave unless I reboot.
I open my eyes and sit up. It helps to work like a computer: force the cold away, shower, get dressed, stomach what food I can. You tell a computer to multiply four hundred thirty-seven by one and a third, and it does it. No questions asked.
"There you are," says my mother, when I appear downstairs. Mechanical smile, make my eyes light up. It's automatic now, like wiggling the mouse to get the screen to light up. She smiles to see me smile, and hands me a glass of juice. My system falters for a moment; it has trouble handling unexpected affection. Just a bug. Just another something to work out. Again, the smile, and the words, "Thanks, Mom."
"I'm off to work," she goes on, her voice busy and and cheerful just as mechanized as mine. I don't think she notices, though. She depends heavily on her system now, ever since dad left. It's just easier that way.
"Okay," I say. Didn't even have to think about that one.
"See you later, sweetie." She kisses my forehead and she's gone.
The house is quiet, but I have long since learned to play my mind's music and block the silence. Carter will call in a bit. His system has a glitch in it, and sometimes it doesn't work at all, and he pretends it does. It makes me sad. I can tell when he's at a loss for words, when his smile is fake, when his eyes are troubled.
I don't realize I've been drawing on myself until I notice the parade of elephants and kangaroos up my arm and around my wrist. I frown. Distraction without knowing you're being distraction is a problem.
The phone rings. I glance at the clock. He's a bit early, but I will recover from the disturbance. My schedule rewrites itself as I pick up the phone.
"Hey."
"Hey," I say, studying the parade on my skin. This is an automated conversation, it requires little brain power.
"What's up?"
"Not much. You?"
"Bored."
"Mm."
We've covered everything to work us into a real coversation. Most of our coversations are automated now. It's easier on him and his faulty computer.
"You busy?" His voice sounds eager. Somewhere inside myself I allow a smile. He misses me.
"Of course not." Let the smile into my voice. It will cheer him up. I revel in this subtle touch. It's a new feature I just installed.
"Want to come meet me at the park?"
It's cliché, but that's alright. It's Carter, after all. "I'll be there in a bit. I have to walk, Mom took the car."
"Okay."
I hang up the phone and lean back against the couch. My battery is still recharging; I'll have to make Carter wait for a bit. I can't have it die on him. That's not fair.
Semi-consciously, I fix my hair and makeup. When you look good, people don't necessarily notice what's wrong about you. They compliment you first, and if your system is running well, then you can cover anything you like. Their systems will do the same thing: they will cover anything wrong about you. If you look sad, they will rewrite that and feed the code back: you're just tired. If you're irritated, they will translate it and tell themselves you're stressed with school. It's amazing.
I walk the distance to the park, the music still playing gently in my mind. I nod to the people who recognize me, enthusiastically hug the girls who enthusiastically scream my name, help the little old ladies across the street. It's automatic. My computer doesn't fail often.
There's Carter. I smile without my computer telling me to when I see him. He's flat on his back, his arms and legs spread out in a haphazard manner, staring at the sky. I've never fully understood him. Maybe that's why I like him so much.
"Hey," I call. Green text falls into place before my eyes. Break into a jog. Smile. You're happy to see him. The last one makes me uncomfortable because the truth isn't in my computer system.
He sits up. And smiles. Again I feel uncomfortable because I don't know if he smiled because he's glad to see me, or because his computer told him to.
"Hello."
We wander around the park, holding hands. This is always when my system begins to break down, when I can feel the affection pass between us and suddenly I feel guilt that didn't come from this complicated web of wires and signals.
He stops suddenly, and glances down at me. "Everything alright?" he asks, and his voice holds a tone that the system can't account for. I am nervous that I am failing, and I brighten my face and smile at him. The choice flashes briefly before my eyes, a green scar, but I don't even bother to debate.
"Just fine," I say, convincingly. He looks relieved, and for a very short moment I feel that guilt again, burning against the back of my conscience. I don't like to trick him.
"Let's go this way," he says, and tightens his hold on my hand. We move off the path into the woods, and my computer says laugh, so I do.
"Why in here?" My voice is bubbly and tinny, proper and expected.
He grins. "Why not?"
We push through the woods and accumulate a collections of cuts and scratches. The river is on the other side, which is where I assume we're going. We're both laughing. It feels good, and I forget about the all-too-easy lie that I told and have been telling him. My computer can take care of it.
The anti-virus walls I've put up always start to crumble when I'm with him. Sometimes I don't even want to follow my stone-code of smiling, happy me. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really being fair to him, or if I'm cheating him out of something he needs to know as someone who cares for me.
We sit on the bank the river and catch our breath. When we were younger, we toted out two huge boulders to sit on so we couldn't get muddy. They were still there, but someone had installed a bench, and so we tended to chose the bench over the rocks.
I lean against his shoulder comfortably. He puts his arm around me and my system suffers a fatal failure, and I suddenly want to cry.
He notices, somehow. Frowning, he asks me about it. "What's wrong?"
The green letters burst into my vision. They ask me the question, they give me the choice. Should I lie to him again? I don't want to hurt him by being sad after spending an afternoon with him. Why do I want to cry anyway?
I chose the the letters fade away. I look up at his eyes; his eyes are worried. I feel sick inside but I reboot my system and smile.
"I'm perfect."
***
It's still dark, only because I haven't opened my eyes yet. My mother is shouting at me from downstairs, and the green list plays behind my eyes. I type in the mental numbers and get out of bed. Calculators don't ask questions. Calculators are blind slaves. Calculators just do what they are told.
"See you later, sweetie." She kisses me on the forehead and is out the door.
Carter will call in a bit.
The parade of elephants grows. The other one blurred in the shower.
The phone rings. He's a bit early, but my schedule will rewrite without me telling it to.
As I touch the phone, I realize he's been early the past three weeks. I wonder why I hadn't noticed before.
"Hey."
I walk to the park to see him. I smile when I first catch sight of him. And then I wonder why. There was no reason to smile. No one to impress. I wrinkle my nose, knowing my computer didn't tell me to smile. I smiled. I did.
He turns around and he smiles too.
We walk on the path down to the river this time. We hold hands, and I feel my system already starting to strain. He hasn't asked me how I am yet. We are talking about school, jobs, important things. Sobering things. Computer things.
We sit down on the bench and he puts his arm around me. The green letters shake before my eyes and I can see the error lights blinking.
He looks at me. "What's wrong?"
The choice again. I bite my lip. The red lights are still flashing, but I can fix the system in a minute, with just the simple lie. The green letters beg me.
Carter waits.
I close my eyes and dismiss the system. I say no. I turn off the code, I turn off the computer, the error lights go away. It shuts down. A tear slides down my cheek, and I pull a painfully real breath.
He knows. He holds me and doesn't tell me not to cry.
And somehow, everything's alright.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Merry-Go-Round
It squeaked, and it bothered me.
Everything was a blur, though, and I could see him spinning around like a stationery rocket. His red shirt blended in with the trees and I thought of fire, but I didn't say anything.
"It's squeaking," I shouted.
He laughed but didn't say anything.
I slowed to a stop and fell off. The world kept spinning around me and I wondered if I could fall up if I spun fast enough.
"You okay?"
I squinted at his face above me. He looked like he was laughing, which was a little rude of him.
"You're spinning."
"Sorry." He held out his hand.
I grasped it and my world settled down a bit. He pulled me up and I waited until I could focus again. It sqeaked in the background, begging me to go around again.
"Up for another one?"
I stared at him until his face became clear, and he was still laughing.
"I'm dizzy," I replied.
"I know."
Somewhere from the sky, I could hear music. It was always the same song. Always the same song... and it squeaked. It sqeaked like a dying mouse. I didn't like that part.
"Okay."
I climbed back on and sat in the middle, and he spun it again and the music faded in and out, and it sqeaked and squeaked. I fell off while it was still going fast, and I closed my eyes and my brain kept going around and around, in circles.
"Stand up!" He said. He was still laughing. Again he pulled me up and then held me still while the air slowed to a gentle stop. Like an airplane.
"I have to go again," I said, and tried to pull away from him.
"Why?"
"I keep falling off..."
"You don't have to go again." His eyes smiled.
I struggled with this thought. "I have to," I said, uncertainly.
"No."
I tried to go back; he held me still.
"You don't have to go again."
"I keep falling. I have to stay on."
"You don't have to stay on."
I shook my head and listened to the music, off in the clouds, the same song repeating. "I don't have to stay on?"
He smiled. "No."
I looked back at it; it spun lazily. He was still smiling, still waiting.
When I walked away, I think I heard the music skip, stop, and change.
Everything was a blur, though, and I could see him spinning around like a stationery rocket. His red shirt blended in with the trees and I thought of fire, but I didn't say anything.
"It's squeaking," I shouted.
He laughed but didn't say anything.
I slowed to a stop and fell off. The world kept spinning around me and I wondered if I could fall up if I spun fast enough.
"You okay?"
I squinted at his face above me. He looked like he was laughing, which was a little rude of him.
"You're spinning."
"Sorry." He held out his hand.
I grasped it and my world settled down a bit. He pulled me up and I waited until I could focus again. It sqeaked in the background, begging me to go around again.
"Up for another one?"
I stared at him until his face became clear, and he was still laughing.
"I'm dizzy," I replied.
"I know."
Somewhere from the sky, I could hear music. It was always the same song. Always the same song... and it squeaked. It sqeaked like a dying mouse. I didn't like that part.
"Okay."
I climbed back on and sat in the middle, and he spun it again and the music faded in and out, and it sqeaked and squeaked. I fell off while it was still going fast, and I closed my eyes and my brain kept going around and around, in circles.
"Stand up!" He said. He was still laughing. Again he pulled me up and then held me still while the air slowed to a gentle stop. Like an airplane.
"I have to go again," I said, and tried to pull away from him.
"Why?"
"I keep falling off..."
"You don't have to go again." His eyes smiled.
I struggled with this thought. "I have to," I said, uncertainly.
"No."
I tried to go back; he held me still.
"You don't have to go again."
"I keep falling. I have to stay on."
"You don't have to stay on."
I shook my head and listened to the music, off in the clouds, the same song repeating. "I don't have to stay on?"
He smiled. "No."
I looked back at it; it spun lazily. He was still smiling, still waiting.
When I walked away, I think I heard the music skip, stop, and change.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Picture
When I was young -- young enough to still cry, but old enough to wish I could stop getting older -- I was given a framed picture. It showed a girl, a very pretty girl, and people told me that we shared a strong resemblance.
At first, I hung the picture in my living room, because I liked it. The girl was sweet and beautiful, her mouth curved in a half-smile, and her wide brown eyes had just the faintest squint. She looked like she was about to tell you a thousand wonderful things.
When people came to visit me, they would always ask me to explain the picture. They would stand with their noses very close to the girl's chin (for I had hung it high on purpose, in order to feel that she was taller than me) and ask me questions. Where did I get it? Why did I display it? Who is she? "She looks very much like you," they would say, as if to compliment me.
Their questions confused me. They seemed shallow questions, questions not meant for enlightenment but for imformation. They were questions that I had already asked myself. I would answer, and tell them I received it when I was younger, and I displayed it because I liked it, and I didn't know who she was. And they would nod and smile and say something about the weather.
Once, a young man came to visit me, and he noticed the picture. He stood across the room and gazed at it, and he didn't ask me where it came from or why I displayed it.
"She looks like you," he said, as if it were a statement, not a compliment. "Her eyes do. They look like they can see. They look like they know everything." And then he turned to me, with a half-smile, and said, "She is very pretty."
Her eyes began to frighten me. At first I told myself that it was just the unusual color of her eyes, and I wasn't used to it. They were gray, but brown around the iris, and they looked deep and understanding. I reluctantly confessed to myself that I felt they were watching me.
People continued to come, and they began to study the painting more than they paid attention to me. They told me she was beautiful, they told me they especially liked her eyes. I started to ask them questions about it: did they think she was watching them? Why do you think she was smiling? Why were her eyes the color they were?
No one knew.
I grew to loath and fear the picture. I took it down and put it in the closest in my bedroom, and never went in. I tried to forget about it, and everyone else lost memories of it quicker than I would have liked. Part of me wanted them to remember it, so I could ask them about it safely, when the girl wasn't watching me.
One night I was violently sick, and in my delirium imagined I could hear scratches and whispers from the closet. I stumbled to the door and threw it open. The girl in the picture blinked at me, her eyes black in the shadows, her mouth uncurved and set hard. Her fingers were at the edge of the frame, and long scratch marks now decorated the once-smooth cover. I shut the door, vomitted, and fell asleep.
When I was at last recovered, I opened the closet door in a moment of fearless bravery. What was there to be afraid of? A silly picture, sodden with the silly memories of a girl watching me.
There she was, as she had always been, her lips curved mysteriously, her eyes wide and beautiful. And all around the edge, there were scratch marks.
I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want anyone to tell me I was different, I was special, I scratched at a stupid painting that I used to think watched me. I didn't want to be sent to a counselor. I didn't want to be put on medication. I didn't want that.
There would be times in the middle of the night where I could hear the girl screaming from inside the picture. I would be on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, in complete dark, sobbing. I was afraid. As many of us are aware, all common sense and reasoning skills vanish at night. Dreams become reality. Noises become monsters.
She began to call the names of the people who had come and watched her, and asked me questions about her. She called for the young man who told me that he felt the picture could see and know everything. But most of all, she called for me.
The picture was more and more disfigured every morning. I could check it, just to make sure she was still safely inside her frame. I was terrified that she would say something when I opened the door, but she never did. She stared straight ahead, her lips curved, her beautiful hair perfect in every way. But the picture was scratched horribly, and the frame was splintered.
One night, close to three in the morning, I couldn't take it anymore. I opened the closet and turned on the light. There she was, her hand stretched through a tear in the paper, her eyes glinting, her mouth open and panting.
"Let me out," she whispered hoarsely.
I have never before wanted anything more than for her to get out of the picture.
I licked my lips. "How?"
Her eyes were locked with mine, and I felt small and unimportant. All that mattered was her and her escape.
"Let me out," she said again.
I took hold of the frame and made to pull it from the wall. Thousands of fragments of wood pierced my hands, but I didn't care yet. She screamed as if in great pain.
I let go of the frame. My face was wet; I was crying.
"Let me out!"
I grabbed the paper that was peeling away from where her hand reached out. I ripped it back, trying to ignore her screams. My blood splattered the walls and the paper, but all that mattered was the girl in the picture getting out.
She stretched out her arms and I took hold of them. I had cuts up and down my arms, and I could tell that my face was bleeding, but I didn't care how that happened. Her eyes were on mine. I dragged her through the frame until we both fell on the floor. She stood up; I didn't have the energy. I coughed and blood choked my lungs.
She knelt beside me. "It's alright," she said, softly. She looked tired now. Her eyes didn't look so strange and amazing.
I was cold. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. My lungs wouldn't fill, and my face felt warm and wet. It was so dark. So cold...
***
The blood had disappeared with the body. I felt better about this; I worried that I would have to explain to the police what had happened. The ripped picture I had burned, along with the frame.
People looked at me now like I was something different that was very, very familiar to them. Most of all they commented on my eyes; had they always been that strange shade of gray? I always smiled later. It's incredible how much people can overlook about you, even when they claim to know you like their sister.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Time to Go
The gentle mix of words and voices was a comforting blanket in the bitter September air. Everyone was with a friend, and each friend had three to go around, and silence was unwanted. There stood Peter, talking to two of his friends, and Catie was beside him, with a friend of her own. It was of mutual knowledge that Peter and Catie were together, but they never talked about it and no one said anything, but they knew. It was a sort of thing that they'd smile about in private when Catie was seen speaking to Peter, and later tease her about.
It was a simple, cliche, predictable night. We will watch Catie, for she was a pretty girl and had a quick tongue. She spoke contentedly to a friend, her bright eyes dancing back and forth between said friend and Peter.
Her eyes darted to somewhere off behind her friend, and widened momentarily. Suddenly she spun around and faced Peter. He looked at her, with a mild amount of surprise on his face. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.
He looked stunned; she slid her hands from his shoulders and grasped his hands. "I love you," she said, her voice catching strangely. "I love you, Peter. I love you. I love you."
"Catie, what--"
A loud and sharp noise shatters the atmosphere, and Catie's body shudders violently. Peter catches her, her back already warm and crimson, and some unnamed person screams. Catie is still mumbling into Peter's chest, her lips leaving bloody traces as her life seeps from her mouth.
"I love... I love you... you..."
***
The hospital is stark and white, and seems to be in a constant state of calm shock. We will move to Catie's room, where she is laying on a bed, her eyes closed and her face as pale as the walls around her. Peter is by her side, for he has not left since they arrived. It is a day and a half later, and there is no hope for the girl.
"Why, Catie?" Peter asks, his voice unmanfully shaking with a controlled sob. "Why?"
She smiles weakly. "He needed me, Peter. God said it's time to go."
It was a simple, cliche, predictable night. We will watch Catie, for she was a pretty girl and had a quick tongue. She spoke contentedly to a friend, her bright eyes dancing back and forth between said friend and Peter.
Her eyes darted to somewhere off behind her friend, and widened momentarily. Suddenly she spun around and faced Peter. He looked at her, with a mild amount of surprise on his face. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.
He looked stunned; she slid her hands from his shoulders and grasped his hands. "I love you," she said, her voice catching strangely. "I love you, Peter. I love you. I love you."
"Catie, what--"
A loud and sharp noise shatters the atmosphere, and Catie's body shudders violently. Peter catches her, her back already warm and crimson, and some unnamed person screams. Catie is still mumbling into Peter's chest, her lips leaving bloody traces as her life seeps from her mouth.
"I love... I love you... you..."
***
The hospital is stark and white, and seems to be in a constant state of calm shock. We will move to Catie's room, where she is laying on a bed, her eyes closed and her face as pale as the walls around her. Peter is by her side, for he has not left since they arrived. It is a day and a half later, and there is no hope for the girl.
"Why, Catie?" Peter asks, his voice unmanfully shaking with a controlled sob. "Why?"
She smiles weakly. "He needed me, Peter. God said it's time to go."
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