by Amanda Miga
So this is natural beauty.
Her arms cross over her chest like she's not used to dressing in tank tops. She can't hide that cleavage anyway—she shouldn't.
The music fades suddenly. I can now focus on the jackpot—her thoughts.
"Are you looking for Alex?" I sip my beer. She's older, but a soft glow to her fair skin makes her look younger along with her big brown eyes which suddenly shrink to a suspicious stare.
"Yes. You know him?" She's aggravated and somehow she knows I'm Alex.
"No. Do you know what he looks like?" I eye her lips.
"No." She seems willing to play the game, but I don't see why if she’s irritated. How does she know I'm him if Jake didn’t tell her?
"I need to talk to him. I need his help."
"Maybe I can help?" I can't tear away from her dark eyes. There's something innocent there. Something I want to ruin so badly.
"Only if you can read minds?" She tilts her head.
"Maybe I can, Violet." Saying her name is so sweet in my lips I can only imagine what she must really taste like.
Her forehead wrinkles. She's not impressed. "Can we not play anymore? I really need your help. Red sent me."
So that guy is real? I remember Red from the weird dream, but the details are fuzzy. Her face is all I really stands out. Staring at her now, it's like I'm dreaming again. Jake's house fades away until all I can see is her standing before me. I feel lighter than air and then I realize all the other sounds are gone; only her thoughts are audible. A moment of bliss in one head, finally. What triggered this? Her thoughts hover around a dominating emotion—worry. What is she worried about?
The music interrupts the quiet like a fire alarm, forcing me to resurface out my focus. It feels like my temple will burst.
"Are you alright?" She steps a closer. Her hand hovers close to my shoulder. "Maybe we should go outside. You don't look so good. Come on.” She takes my arm. Hot blood rushes to my face. A teasing sensation tickles my groin. I crush my beer can from the sudden wave of unidentifiable emotions washing over me.
"I'm sorry, Alex.” Violet drops my arm and the sensation subsides. She steps away, but the air around me seems to be pushing me towards her. “Please, let’s go outside. It’s kind of noisy in here.”
I look around the room and spot Jake and Pete raising their beers, mouthing the word 'score'. Violet heads for the door and my body is leashed along like a dog. Maybe it's the alcohol but it's the same piss water I drink at every party and getting hit like it's the good stuff has never happened before. We step outside and Violet walks away from the house. "We're outside. Are you going tell me how you know me?" I attempt to close the space between us.
"Your dream with Red.” She backs away. “He sent me to get you. Red can help you with your telepathy. There's a lot you can control, Alex."
“Control?” I'd like to lose control on top of that perfect body.
“Red told me you can’t control what you hear. You must be hearing everything all the time. How can you stand it?”
I feel the cord between us fizzle away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” I look away from her and at the guys on the porch who are getting louder. I don't want to talk about that.
“Alex?”
Her voice is muddied with the voices of others and the filter is gone. The music isn’t loud enough to focus and the voices are causing my head to throb. I rub my forehead, but there's no relief. “What?”
“Alex…” Violet’s voice fades and my eyes blur. My stomach feels awful. The urge to vomit is so overwhelming I lean over the bushes beside me and lets it all up. How embarrassing. I never vomit.
“I don't know why you do this to yourself. This place has too many people, Alex."
"Music," I wipe my mouth. "The music drowns everything. Sometimes I can just do one person, but it's rare."
"Red can help, but you need to come with me. I can use your help.”
I glance at Jake's front door. Pete and Jake are still watching, but they're not as excited as before. They saw me puke. I never leave parties early, but she is no ordinary girl and I'm no ordinary guy. Jake will have other parties and maybe I'll have a better story to tell about tonight. I want to go with her. This is odd because there's someone named Red involved. If he's real, then what does he have to do with Violet? Even if they are involved, it won't stop me from trying to hook-up with her.
"Alex, I'm asking you to come with me. You don't have to, but I know Red can help you. He needs your help and he must have chosen you for a good reason."
There is something inside of me that is making me gravitate toward her. Not her words, not her looks—something else. Maybe it's something Red had said in the dream. Why can't I remember? Either way it doesn’t make sense. I have a migraine developing. I need to get into the party to refocus on the music that's getting away from me or leave for somewhere quieter.
"I'm drunk. You're hot—let’s get out of here.” I pop a mint into his mouth.
As soon as we across the street, the voices fade, leaving my mind to dive into Violet's.
"One more stop, then my place."
I like the sound of that.
“We can take my car—" I immediately picks up disturbing images. Someone else is nearby; someone awful to cause my stomach to churn again. I've never experienced thoughts like these before. My food comes up again as the vile images continue to infiltrate my mind. Hands on flesh; ripping and tearing of clothes; someone is applying too much pressure around someone's neck; blood; someone is sobbing; the flashing images and sounds are like clips from a horror movie with a close up of the nasty parts. A feeling of despair along with them is so sickening I lose my grip and vomit again.
"Alex, are you ok?" Violet is at my side, but she keeps a noticeable distance between us.
The strange thoughts continue. Misery has never made me feel so sick. It doesn't seem like normal thoughts, but things that had happened in the past. It's repulsive.
"I'm… okay."
I've never vomited twice in one night. I compose myself and refocus on her troubled face. Girls usually squeal and runaway when someone pukes. Violet doesn't seem disgusted at all, but sincerely concerned. It's rather comforting.
A kid, probably a grade or two under me, stands up from the curb. His dark hair and dark clothes make him look like a shadow that's come off the ground. The only thing that stands out are his eyes which sparkle from the reflection of a street lamp.
"Alex, this is Gabriel Black. Gabriel, Alex Aisling. Gabriel's special too."
I back away as the images that made me lose my dinner replay again in my head. It's from the strange kid. Gabriel's eyes look to the ground like he's being punished. Did he do those things or did someone do those things to him?
"It's okay Alex, just stay away from him, okay?"
"Stay away? Does he bite?" I cringe. "Holy shit."
"No—"
"I bite." Gabriel interrupts Violet.
I glare at him. Gabriel pulls his hood over his head. The kid definitely bites. He's also been bitten as a child. The haunting things I see in him are a history of torture. He's a victim, but he's also dangerous.
I don't quite understand it. Violet and Gabriel's thoughts are wide open; more shit filters through than anyone else I've read. Honing in on each of them is easier than it's ever been with anyone. I've never had a connection this strong before.
Violet called me special like them. Maybe that's the reason for the intense telepathy. There's something strange about Gabriel that warns me to never touch him. What I've seen him do is disturbing and what had been done to him is tragic. I pull out of Gabriel's head before I puke again.
Violet puts on sweat shirt that hides her body. If it weren't for her face, I probably wouldn't look twice. Her mind is riddled with holes, no past just recent history. She possesses something that's gotten her in trouble. From what I can tell it has to do with touch. She's been alone for a while. Only now she's seekin
g the help she needs. All under the direction of the person she's seeking—the shopkeeper—Red.
Chapter Eleven
Dash
The sunlight captures my full attention as it absorbs the pen lines on my drawing. Staring at the sketch paper's blaring white surface blinds my retinas. The disappearance of my art is temporary as the sun makes its way across the late morning sky. Nature produces the most fascinating anomalies. It’s an honor to witness such a moment where the sun prevents me from drawing.
It won't be long before the sun will pass the classroom window so that I can resume my sketch. Freeing my eyes away from the light, I've forgotten I'm in Algebra II. I don't bother listening to Mr. Brown talk about polynomials. Instead, I take interest in watching the sun eclipse my work.
A kick in the back of my seat startles me. Paper is being handed to me from the classmate in front of me.
“Dude, you mind?” The one who kicked my chair is impatient.
I take the papers rattling in front of me; take one for myself and pass the rest back.
It’s last year’s test to use as a study reference for the upcoming one next month. It’s completely unnecessary since I've never studied in my life. I shove it under my textbook to resume my sun gazing. During wasted seconds when I was rudely interrupted, the sun receded from the corner of the paper. The best part of watching is the shade gaining back its domain.
My eyes rest upon the faces around me. Half of them are asleep or bored to death at the monotonous voice of Mr. Brown.
I wonder if life will be like this forever; just waiting for something to happen. There is so much I want to do, so much I want to express, but no time, no energy, no power to do it in this lifetime. Choose one college, one major, one career path and be one person. I can't do that. To choose one path sounds crazy. 'You can be anything'—they say it to everyone. Well, grant me everlasting life and I will be anything. I smirk as I shade the eyes of my Great Horned owl drawing. I'd fly away.
"Mr. Carver, since you've been paying so much attention why don't you find the solution." Mr. Brown shoves a marker in my face.
I hate being put on the spot. The things expected of me are a waste of time. I just want to experience life my way. These things will just keep me from my own plans. I want out, but there is no way out, only to follow—what a mundane life.
I take the marker and walk up to the dry erase board in the front of the classroom. I roll my eyes. This problem is too easy.
I write out the work Mr. Brown would be expecting and walk away with my head down. My answer is correct of course. Making an example of me won't work. Mr. Brown is just a fool, but I'm not paying attention. I know this stuff, like one would easily know what day of the week it is. Mr. Brown goes on explaining how I had found the answer—at least how he thought I found it. I never solved it—it was always there. I wrote out work that was expected of me. There is more than one path to a solution. Everything there is to know I can see in plain sight when it comes to math. Like a mother breast feeding a child, it’s just comes naturally. I still had to learn math like a normal child. Once the basic knowledge of a subject took root, it grew into its own dynamic form.
I look up at the clock. There’s still time left. School is a joke. Sitting through every class is time wasted. Everything I'm told I need to know I already memorized permanently. The work is boring. The teachers are uninspiring. Curriculum is not challenging enough. I could've been placed differently. College courses and various advance placement programs, but the same amount of time is wasted. The end result is the same.
The sun has completely passed my desk revealing my life-like owl peering back at me. The creature’s hooded eyes drill into mine. I can imagine him circling the classroom creating a much needed disturbance.
I turn a page in my drawing pad and decide to draw my Goddess. She's beautiful, of course; not like the cookie cutter females around me. I sketch the outline of her round face; hinting the areas for her brow, nose and lips. I pencils in the dark tendrils for her hair. I envision her smiling, playing shy violet with me. She's soft when I fantasize touching her. Her lips taste like strawberries. I visualize taking her small hand into mine. A Goddess of my own creation is real in my world; my queen in a world without limits.
I smile as I imagine our first kiss. I've imagined kissing before but with this drawing I can almost taste her.
I wince at her eyes. I have to use an eraser for them. I try not to whenever possible but I never make mistakes like this. Her eyes are all wrong, and I can't seem to get them right whenever I draw her.
"Mr. Carver?" A hand swipes my pad away as the pencil skims across the paper, leaving a scar that destroys her face.
Mr. Brown's forehead wrinkles. "There are classes for this, Mr. Carver. I'm afraid this isn't one of them."
The class giggles and hits a nerve. My back sinks down into the seat as my face heats up like kindling. The boring lesson suddenly has excitement—unfortunately it revolves around me.
Mr. Brown takes the pad and places it on my desk, flipping through my private work before continuing his nonsensical teaching.
The line across her face—she's ruined—the nerve of that guy. My fingers curl tightly. I snap my pencil in half with my thumb. I watch Mr. Brown now occupying the board while the classes' eyes are still on me. It makes me incredibly anxious. My peripheral vision is blurring. All I can focus on is my drawing pad. Would he keep it? I needed it. I needed it now. Looking at the clock, there's fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes is too long without my sketchbook.
Too many eyes on me. Eyes touching me.
Mr. Brown turns from the board to face the class.
"Is there still a problem, Mr. Carver?"
Everyone turns their heads.
My chest is ready to cave in. My hands shake so I place them under my legs.
There's more giggling.
It's not funny.
Shut up.
Why is he calling attention to me?
Stop looking at me.
I shut my eyes. Brick after anxious brick, I imagine a wall to divide me from this classroom. The whispering begins. I open my eyes to see Mr. Brown staring. The kids in front of me turn around and gawk.
Don't look at me.
"Hey, you have asthma or something?" The kid next to me chuckles.
"Leave him alone!" The blond girl in front of him says. "He's freaking out."
Freaking out? Am I freaking out?
"Mr. Carver, do you need to use the restroom?"
The class burst out laughing.
I grind my teeth. The lights go out for a moment. I can't tear my eyes away from my drawing pad.
How dare he look at my private sketches. He ruined my work.
The clock's minute hand spins faster and faster. The lights flicker again. Mr. Brown and the class look around and whispering voices becomes a heavier burden to my ears.
"Settle down it's probably an energy surge," Mr. Brown sighs.
There‘s a loud crack from one of the windows. The glass explodes sending it's shards inward, raining over the classroom.
I get up and snatch my drawing pad and leave the classroom. I walk down the hall as quickly as I possibly can to my locker. The commotion continues behind me with doors swing open and students flooding the halls. My anxiety does this. The anger I hold inside still needs to be released. Crying in school will only show how weak I really am.
My lock rips itself away from my locker like soft taffy and hits the floor. The locker swings open violently before my hand reaches to open it. Loading my back pack with other drawing materials I start to feel overwhelmingly explosive. The water at the edge of my eyes begins to flood my vision. My heart is drumming like death metal music.
Too many eyes on me.
I head to the exit as quickly as I can before someone sees me crying. I head home. Holding back the real tears I'm so close to letting go—but not yet; no one can see me like this.
They know it was me. He didn't have to ta
ke it away. I think ahead to what the next day would be like. Mr. Brown stole Dash's pervy drawings. The weird kid freaked out. They wouldn't have known it was me who blew the windows out, would they?
I run into my house, still holding back what fiercely wants to come out. I pass my mom feeding my two younger siblings.
"Dash, are you alright?"
"Feel sick," I barely manage to say it without a shaky voice. The closer to my bedroom I get, the more painful my throat feels.
Closing the door and I let go.
I sob because I'm angry. My self-worth shrinks into a microscopic nothing; reminding me of how alien I really am; a piece that does not fit. Reaction was never my strong suit. Knowing how to act, what to say, what to really feel, isn't part of me. People are expectant of me, too cruel to understand and too in-with-the-crowd to empathize with an alien like me.
I punch the wall making a fist size hole. I stare at it, listening to my shallow breathing. My head is still pounding. I look around my room for something—anything to break. It has to be something I love. I look at the computer, I would shove it off the desk but it’s isn't good enough. My telescope—I would throw it out the window, but it's not enough to really hurt. I want the pain to punish myself for being this way; for being weak.
My backpack. I rip it open, snapping the zipper off its track. The drawing pad, I'll rip each page out. Tear each one in half.
That will hurt.
I sob uncontrollable as I await my own punishment for being so different. Opening the pad I rip the first page out. The beautiful scenery I've worked on for days is torn in half in seconds. The sound makes my hands shake. The next page again, and it hurts my chest to do it. I break with every rip and tear. My head throbs as I do the next page and the next. This is what I get for being this way.
