Well, I didn't say I was done with my dark-themed kick.
They were twins.
That was immediately apparent. The twin on her left had bright orange hair, and the twin on her right had on a blue jacket. The twin on her left was speaking loudly, and the twin on her right was using wide hand motions. The problem, she concluded, was that everything that was true about the twin on the left was true about the twin on the right, and everything that was true about the twin on the right was true about the twin on the left.
She looked from one to the other, studying now their hair, now their clothes, now their gestures, and she could not find the differences between them. There were always six differences between two seemingly identical things, and she could always find them within three minutes. The last one was always the hardest, of course, but in this case she could not even find the first one. They even moved the same way. It was infuriating.
Calmly, she picked up her fork, turned to the twin on the left, and brought the sharp tines down decisively into his arm. All loud talk and wide hand gestures stopped, and the twin on the right (the twin without the gash in his arm) grabbed his brother by the shoulders and stared at the bloody wound. Now she could see the differences.
1. The one with the gash in his arm had tears welling up in his eyes, and the one without the gash in his arm did not.
2. The one with the gash was holding his arm and staring at the welling blood in horror, but the one without the gash was staring at her, with a different sort of horror in his eyes.
3. The one with the gash looked very pale, and his freckles stood out on his cheeks clearly. His brother’s cheeks, on the other hand, were growing redder, obscuring his freckles to dim outlines.
4. The twin with the gash in his arm was stumblingly trying to get up from the bench seat, but his brother had already stood and was helping him up.
5. The twin with the gash in his arm could barely walk, so distraught and wounded was he. His brother, in contrast, was supporting him as he helped him walk away.
6. The twin with the gash was focused solely on his wound, but the twin without the gash looked back at her once, twice, three times before she was out of sight.
She smiled each time he looked back, and once they were gone she turned with relief to the two lunches she had bought. Each tray had a slice of pizza, tater tots, a yogurt cup, and a water glass. At first glance they seemed identical, but she was confident she could find the differences between them in under three minutes.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
This one's a bit... dark.
Whew. This is quite a bit darker than the last one. I might have to rate it PG-13, but only for "dark themes and some suggestion of violence." Don't worry, this is me we're talking about. I can't stand anything worse than vaguely creepy and off-screen gore. I'm a wimp, and proud of it.
Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:
When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.
Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.
It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.
This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.
I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.
I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.
I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.
Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.
I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.
I knew it was time.
That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.
The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.
I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.
I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.
The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,
“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”
There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.
I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.
I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.
Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:
When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.
Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.
It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.
This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.
I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.
I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.
I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.
Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.
I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.
I knew it was time.
That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.
The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.
I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.
I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.
The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,
“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”
There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.
I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.
I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.
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