Hello! It's been a while, and for that I'm sorry. Truly. But if it eases any hard feelings, I'm going to be blogging every week, at least once. They aren't going to be as long as my previous ones, but I'm still going to write them, and a lot more often than I have been. I made a deal about writing my blog, and I've been terrible about keeping it up.
On another note, only six more weeks left of school! I've gotten through a week and a half after Spring Break, and it's been the longest week and a half ever. Soon I'll be home again, sneezing with my cats and picking toddlers off my legs.
This week is Spirit Week, so each day has been themed. Monday was superhero day, and, having no legit costume, I wore my Cookie Monster shirt. Tuesday was pajama day-- how fitting, because on Tuesdays, I go up to my room at about 1:30, and sleep. That was pretty great. Today, Wednesday, was genderbender day. I think I made a pretty good boy, and it was certainly amusing to see the failures (most of them were failures). A wig and some high heels just aren't enough sometimes. But unfortunately it snowed and rained, so today was too cold for a lot of the guys to wear their dresses. Tomorrow is twin's day, but I didn't have the energy to come up with a matching set of clothes with any of my friends. Friday is Idyllwild day-- wear our Idyllwild shirts (we all got free shirts at the beginning of the year) and other items. Fun fun.
So, to make up for lost time, I'm going to not give you an excerpt, but a whole story! That's right, folks. I'd appreciate comments...? Thanks! I'm going to be getting to homework now. Good luck with your troubles, and remember, YOLO (you only live once (unless you believe in reincarnation, in which case you've lived billions of lives))!!!!!!
Love,
Callie
P.S. It's not a finished story yet. I'm still working on my third or fourth draft. Forgive errors?
Thought Process
He is small and pink, with a tuft of black hair and brilliant blue eyes, wrapped in a bundle of blankets, and given to his mother. She looks at him and smiles proudly, because eight months ago this tiny little thing had stolen her heart, and now he’s stolen it again.
Thank you, she tells the doctors, and they tell her that he is healthy and lively and will prosper, and she says thank you, thank you.
Sean cries when they leave the hospital, and he cries the whole way home. His mother tries to soothe him, and his father steps on the gas, explaining to little Cynthia that yes, the baby will cry a lot and yes, Mommy will be busier now.
He cheers up when they get home, and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Cynthia asks to hold him, and her mother says to wait until he is bigger. She doesn’t know why, but she does know that she can stare at him and make silly faces.
The child is only seven months old when he starts calling for Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Dad, Daaaaad.
There is a party, and he cries, cries, cries nonstop, cannot stand being near people, squirms from those who scare him, cries, cries, cries nonstop.
At night, he knows when his mother has had a nightmare, and when she bolts upright out of bed, he begins to cry.
Then one day: No!
The babysitter puts her phone down and smiles at the two children, asks them what’s wrong, and he says no, no, no, and she tells Sean he is too young for that to be his favorite word.
Cynthia is too old for that word to be her favorite, says the little girl proudly. She has barely even begun.
Three years old, acts like he’s seven. Older than his sister already, older mentally by two years at least, but she doesn’t cry, not really. He acts as if the world is screaming at him, and the world is screaming at him, and he cries at the noise, cries in the silence.
I wonder what’s for lunch today, he hears Cynthia muse. He says, same as yesterday, same as the day before, same as before. How do you know? she asks. Because Momma told me.
He goes off to school and comes home sadder than ever before. Momma, what’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with me?
You’re too young for that kind of question. There is nothing wrong with you, Sean, she says. Mom, what’s wrong with me? You are perfect; everyone is different. Momma, Momma, you don’t understand. Maybe I don’t.
After third grade he never raises his hand. When the teacher chooses him out of the crowd, he knows the answer. Raise your hand more, she says. Nobody else knows this shit.
Shut up, Cynthia! he yells. I didn’t even say anything! Do your homework! I am! No you’re not! You’re so stupid!
Oh my god, why do they fight? Kids, keep it down, their mother says. Stop fighting, nothing good will come of it.
Middle school is the worst time of Sean’s life. He can’t concentrate in school, everyone is so loud, so frustrated, his friends aren’t his friends and no one can relate.
I can reeead your miiiind, says Harold, poking his arm.
Yeah right. What am I thinking?
Bacon! Harold laughs.
Sean turns away bitterly.
A little bird told him that a girl has a crush on him. She’s crying now, school is over, and he can talk to her.
Are you okay?
No, no, no... Yeah, it’s nothing.
Are you sure?
Maybe he knows. Yeah, I’m sure, Sean, I’m fine.
You know you can talk to me.
You wouldn’t understand. I know.
Really, Eva.
Okay, then, I’ll tell him. Oh my god. Sean.
He smiles at her then. Okay, he replies. When you’re ready you can tell me, I guess. She agrees, the sadness in her thoughts hidden from his ears.
In a week he knows that she will tell him out loud. Eva walks over to him. She says hello, how are you, I’m good, do you have math today?
That last question was obviously a spontaneous one, and he raises an eyebrow at her. No, I have math tomorrow, he says.
Oh.
What’s up? he asks.
Not much. I was studying all last night. Should I tell him?
Sounds exciting. He laughs. Good luck on the test.
Thanks.
He does not think it’s a big deal, but she does. Despite what she thought before, he knows she will not speak about it today.
Well, see you later.
See you.
Dad? Do I have to go to school tomorrow? I feel kind of sick.
Classic, son, his father says, and laughs.
In high school, he becomes conceited. Hardly anyone has a bad thing to say about him; the girls think he is cute and the guys admire his athletic abilities.
His sister hears him crying at night, and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t ask him, so he doesn’t tell her. He wants to tell someone. Someone. Anyone. Who would believe it?
The psychology books help him calm down. They explain the way brains work, and although he does not find out what is wrong with him, he is still able to dump some weight from his weary shoulders. Such a heavy heavy weight.
Mom, what’s wrong with me?
She smiles at him. You forgot to clean the dishes, she tells him, and he walks away, unamused.
Tomorrow is another day, Cynthia says. Maybe you’ll be able to do it tomorrow.
Thanks, Cynthia. Thanks. But his gratitude is insincere, but she doesn’t know, but she does know, but she doesn’t say anything, but she says it clearly.
Momma, what’s wrong with me? He hears his mother choke back a sob and wonder why, why he asked when he was five, and why he asked when he was sixteen... and why does he think something is wrong with him? Nothing is wrong with him. Sean is an angel. He is. He is!
He shakes his head and looks back at the television. That woman does not understand a thing.
Wow, Sean is kind of a freak if I think about it.
He’s soooo cute but he’s weird...
Maaan, all he’s good for is soccer.
Why do you say such awful things? he asks, looking at Michael squarely in the eyes. Michael shakes his head. What are you talking about, man? If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t think it at all. You’re weird. Michael laughs jokingly, but it is not a joke.
Mom. There’s something wrong with me.
Don’t be silly, she says. Maybe he should see a psychia-- a counselor.
Maybe I should see a psychiatrist.
Honey, if it’s that important to you, why won’t you talk to me?
I can’t talk to you, Mom, you don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to think. Please, Mom, please.
She looks at him sadly, a thousand words going through her mind. Sean’s head erupts into a pulsing pain and three little girls with a red wagon walk outside the house.
Sweetie, I only want to help you. Of course.
Thank you, Mom, he replies. He does not expect anything to happen, but despite his doubts he hears about a meeting in two weeks-- she doesn’t tell him for a while, but it is marked on her calendar in a pink marker.
It snows, and it snows, and it snows for a while. Sean looks into the sky. He has seen a doctor four times. Four. In five weeks. There is another meeting tomorrow, and he wonders if something good will come out of this one. His parents are losing money. The only things the meetings bring are useless questions and Sean’s lies.
In class, for the seventh time this year, his teacher scorns a student who used the word retarded. Guys, don’t say that word, my wife works with them, there’s nothing wrong with being challenged.
Sean hears it faintly, but it’s there, a whisper: I bet he’s mentally challenged or something...
Seventeen years old and he has never kissed a girl. There have been opportunities, but he can’t stop thinking-- he can never stop thinking, stop listening. He’s left his instincts in the dust.
Eighteen, he is legal. He got his driver’s license last year, but he’s still afraid to drive. Elections are months away. He is going to vote.
In college-- well, it’s college. He does everything, but he does refuse alcohol. The thought of losing his mind is not pleasing.
He is going to snap.
What’s up with Sean? He hears it again.
What’s up with Sean?
What’s up with Sean?
It’s weird, his roommate thinks, that Sean still cries every night, but he’s the one who gets all the girls.
Is it weird?
Is what weird?
Nothing, Sean sighs.
He stares at a baby in the elevator, raises his eyebrows at it, cocks his head, smiles hugely and sticks his tongue out. The child sees colors, a color for each change, a rainbow of emotions and a whirlwind of thought.
He likes kids. They are not terrible.
By the time he can go to a bar and drink legally, his friends insist that he do so. College parties were full of alcohol, the one thing he didn’t experience.
The drinking is glorified-- and when he is drunk, he wants to kill everyone. He wants to take the bottle of beer and smash it in a head and watch the blood drip drip drip and he holds back but he wants to, he wants to, there is too much noise. He wants to throw it on their faces and watch glass shatter and see the red and the everything, he wants death and destruction, for the first time in his life he feels something so intense--
But in the morning, it’s just another headache.
He vows to never drink again.
Annabel, Annabel-- more beautiful than gold, on the inside and out.
I do.
I do.
Next year, there is another life. He fears for it-- will it be the same as him? Is it genetic? He remembers no history of insanity in the family. The baby is sweet. Its thoughts are blurred images of something Sean can’t remember knowing.
He watches as his wife dreams-- the soft curve of her face curtained by dark brown curls. The even rise and fall of her chest. The gentle Cupid bow of her lips. The content sighs of her fantasies. It’s amazing, he reflects, how peaceful one can be.
It’s hard living with another person. His wife sleeps lightly, wakes at the slightest stir, ready to comfort the child in her arms, ready to sing soft lullabies. He cannot cry when they are together (always), even though it hurts so much he wants to scream. He holds it back forever.
The mind of a child is a funny place. He lets her get away with things, even when he knows she is lying. She’s cute. Blond curls (where did that gene come from?) and light hazel eyes, the tiniest nose and the laughter of bells. The English language suddenly becomes the most interesting thing to Sean as he watches his daughter grow. It’s like a spiderweb, the quilt of Mother Nature; an intricate system of patterns that settle in the brain over time.
He knows when she is sad, he knows when she is happy-- he knows just how to help. The small girl, Chloe, relies on her father for everything. She goes to him when she has trouble, and he always helps, always.
Sean wonders what that kind of childhood would be like, to experience a best friend.
When he comes in to work with her classmates, he remembers why he hated school. But Chloe loves it; she aches to go back all the time. Weekends aren’t as fun for her as they are to most children. She craves school.
Even as a teenager, he never shouts at her. Annabel does, though-- the mother-daughter relationship is difficult. How does he do it? she wonders. How does he know what she thinks?
Dad, what’s it like to drink? Chloe asks, even though she has never seen him consume alcohol in her life.
Sean shakes his head. Terrible. Terrible, I only did it once-- it was the scariest thing I have ever experienced.
She frowns. He’s probably just throwing me off... but that’s not like Dad...
It starts to get worse.
Even without alcohol, he has this... desire. Only two people are perfect. Even his sister, even Cynthia, his role model, even she is scum.
If he tells someone (he wants to tell someone, he wants it more than anything (except one thing)), they will take him away. Chloe will be alone. He cannot do that. He shouldn’t have married after... that night. He shouldn’t have had a baby. He shouldn’t have been good to her. She shouldn’t have been so perfect. She shouldn’t rely on him.
Sometimes, in the office, he glances at a pen and wonders how it would look drilled in between his neighbor’s eyes.
Chloe asks him what’s wrong.
Nothing.
He’s lying. I don’t believe you.
...Can you keep a secret?
Oh god, it’s something bad! I shouldn’t have asked-- Yeah. I can keep a secret.
Sean takes a deep breath. He looks his daughter right in the eye-- hers hazel, his blue-- and says, flat out, what is wrong with him.
Several years later (she is seventeen now) he cannot hold it in anymore.
I need to kill, I need to kill, he tells her, tears flowing from both of them.
You need help, Dad--
No, I need to kill-- I-I need to die.
She falls to the floor desperately. No, Dad, no. Please don’t do this, please please no.
But Chloe doesn’t tell Annabel.
The best choice for suicide is a gun to the head. He would stop thinking. He would be in quiet.
He does not own a gun.
She tries to stop him. Chloe goes out of her way to protect him. But she can’t do it forever. Her father is already gone, anyway.
He’s not dead when she gets home.
Dad? I’m hoooome...... Dad?
Dumdumdumdum, up the stairs, past the pictures of a happy family painted on a wall. Forever happy.
Dad?
Knockknockknock.
Dad, oh my god, open the door.
Nothing.
She opens the door for herself.
He is not dead, but he looks it. The thoughts going through her head are too terrible and fast and complicated. They are too sad and lonely and insane. She is heartbroken. She is pathetic. She’s sorry.
By the time she reaches him, he is dead.
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