The Last Hurrah

Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn seventeen at 1:27 AM, Eastern Canada time.
I'm afraid that I'm going to die in the night.
And I don't really know how to say goodbye.
Just in case.

I love you.

Edit: I lived.

Skins and retaliation

I feel like I've spent the day breathing in, as my mother calls it, other peoples' dirty laundry.
On the radio this morning one of the hosts was in tears because of a dispute with her boss. They brought the boss on the air to argue with him. They usually play music or read the news or talk about happy things. I still don't know what it was really about.
We had an assembly about conduct this morning. It was an awful lot of words to say be respectful and don't litter. The lady in charge wouldn't stop talking about her tip to Africa. I don't begrudge her it, but it really didn't seem like the time. Maybe I'm just tired.
Our Lit teacher wasted half an hour complaining about her father and things people drew on the chalkboard. My group mates for a project complained I wasn't pulling my weight. They were completely right to; I've had things on my plate and on my mind, so I'd put it to the absolute back of the pile. I wasn't being fair to them. I need to get my shit together.
Went to a presentation for Carleton University. Generic university stuff, no real deciding factors.
I'm not going on the Bio field trip. I feel it would be a waste of time. I have things that need doing. The new unit promises lots of long and complex terminology to learn.
English presentations are going slower and slower. One handsome young man - clearly the teacher's favorite - seems to be doing half the talking. I know discussion is encouraged, and I know his points are valid, but we do need to be moving on. Sometimes I have things to say, too. I don't often get the opportunity.
My head hurts. My limbs ache from Kendo. I've got an image looping in my head of a girl vomiting blood. I feel completely swamped in other peoples' lives.
I wonder if this is how I make people feel.

Week of Apathy

Things happened. Somehow I can't be bothered. I have no energy...

Continuum

Went to Kendo today. First lesson. Well, more of an introductory thingy. There wasn't much time for a beginner class because history was being made. For the first time ever, three different clubs were gathered in one place to train together, led by three fifth degree black belts. It's the beginning of a revolution for the sport. Unlike most other martial arts it never branched apart; Kendo is almost exactly the same no matter where you go. Mostly seems to involve bashing people over the head with a sword. Now, all the different clubs are coming together. It's kind of a big deal. Anyways, I got to practice a bit with a bamboo sword, although I wasn't allowed to take the plastic wrap off. They make you wait awhile before you can buy your own sword; I guess they get a lot of early dropouts. We thought it was for 16+, but there were a lot of little kids there. Strange. It was fun, though, and I might come to enjoy it long-term. We'll see.

Went to my youth group the other day. Nice to see everyone again. Made me feel like shit, though. The message is always something about "you have to be a better person" and I just feel guilty and awful. It's all that about how God chooses the lowest of the low to do his work, because it's just that much more amazing when they do - like that quadriplegic evangelist, or the biblical Moses, who hated public speaking before the burning bush incident. Well, I'm pretty low. So that just puts more pressure on me to stand up and do something great. I see people around me living noble lives, going on mission trips and whatnot. Where does that put me? It's a miracle I can even function. I'm more likely to rip someone's head off at the moment than change their life in a beautiful way. So I'm just waiting for me to buckle up and improve myself. There's no reason I can't be perfect, after all. In theory. It's just motions, just words. Geh. I just want to sleep.

Jasmine invited me to her place to watch a movie. That sounds more intimate than it was; there were like six of us. Conveniently enough, this year I'm trying to get a social life. The movie was The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, about concentration camps. I confess I was half-asleep the whole evening. My mum fretted a bit, of course, since I never go out (anywhere, ever) but it turned out all right.
Jasmine is important. Or will be, someday. I'm not certain why.

I was reading our giant huge Lit textbook about the history of literature the world over. The topic I've ended up covering is the history of literature in India. Very ancient historical texts. There was a picture there of one of the Hindu gods carved from clay, a dancing woman with three arms. Something about it set something loose in my mind, but it was hours before it clicked. A creature grotesque yet elegant, beautiful yet surreal and deathlike, with too many limbs. The Orange Man. Possibilities blossomed; the Orange Man is one of many who might fit that description. It's maddening to think that people will worship anything that appears to be greater than them.
I wonder if there are those who worship Grandfather.
(I curse my habits but it's getting harder to refer to him by any other name. He is no father of mine.)

Considering it

Last night my brother went shopping for movies. Came back with some real charmers: Jaws 2, Diary of the Dead, Alien Apocalypse. He insisted that we watch The Butterfly Effect. He seemed certain that I would like it.
Afterwards I gave a few thoughts, wished everyone goodnight, then locked myself in the bathroom so I could cry.
Well, I say cry. I don't actually cry any more. What approximates crying for me. I don't actually remember most of it. Pacing back and forth, breathing fast, scratching at my neck and pulling at my hair, sobbing painful words until my legs buckle beneath me. When I woke up half an hour had passed. I was so weak I could barely stand. I did not sleep that night.
To be expected, I guess. Ten minutes in I'd started to feel sick. A film about suppressed childhood memories, what did you think would happen? Parts of it touched me deeply, in the sense of punching an open wound. I love my brother but sometimes he's painfully insensitive.

Yeggs

Day two. Big times.

Through another hiccup Tasha and I have been put in all three classes together. A year ago that might have bothered me. It's kind of ironic. I used to envy her for being able to move on with her life so easily, while I still hurt whenever I looked at her. Eventually I got used to the pain. Eventually it stopped hurting. Now I'm fine and she still refuses to look at me. Strange world.
Now that I've been so long without a girlfriend/boyfriend, I think I can see myself surviving. It was nice to have someone in love with me, but I'm living without it. It's not like I'm alone. I have friends. I have people to talk to, should things go flipside. I'm not looking for someone to love at the moment, not in that way. Maybe in ten years or so I'll find someone. Maybe by then I'll be ready. We'll see.
I think a lot of it might be my warping physicality and sexuality. Something broke in me awhile back, I'm not sure when, and since then I've become more and more sensitive to touch. It used to be that I didn't like people touching my back. Now just brushing against someone can make me flinch. I'm not certain I could stand to be close to someone. I hope I'm not that far gone. In consequence of this, my sexual identity is a bit twisted. My teenage hormones and animal desire for sex seems to exactly match my fear and loathing of it, leaving me in a kind of awkward, solitary purgatory. I'm going to choose to accept this as a good thing.

I'm procrastinating again. Uh-oh.
There's an old project I need to dig out and work upon. I will do that. I need to keep myself busy or I'll slip into something terrible again.

People don't talk to me

First day of school. Grade 12. Big times.

Through some scheduling hiccup I've ended up with a free first period. No, sorry, it's not a free, it's a study period. Big difference. Evidently there are just about no grade 12 courses first thing, because about half of everyone has that period free. I spent most of the time wandering. For the first time in years, I had class time and absolutely nothing to do. Didn't really know what to make of it. Talked to some people, caught up a bit. I'm constantly reminded that I have nothing in common with these people. Well, not much. There are some things, of course.

New Lit teacher. She seems a bit of a loose cannon, from what I've heard. She seems nice enough. I'm sure we'll get on fine, and I hope she doesn't think I'm too crazy. In the past she's been openly against people putting anything out that's pushing boundaries; the graveyard incident springs to mind. We'd put up little paper gravestones on the wall in the Lit Lab for the people who'd left the class (and a ghost for one who just never turned up) and she... well, to be honest, I don't remember it as being her, but people are saying it was and they're more likely to know than I am. But anyways, it didn't end well for us. Something about being offensive. I hope she's not going to hit the wall about everything like that.

Biology and English look promising. Nice teachers. Should be a laugh.

The first day of the first grade, I just up and disappeared. My teacher and I did not like one another. At the end of the day I wandered off, and no one knew where I was. Eventually I turned up. Of course, I don't remember this myself. The first grade is an oddity in that I have no recollection of it at all, not even a tiny flash. It's just... gone. I wonder why.

I'll be starting Kendo soon, Sundays with my da. The fine Japanese art of hitting people with bamboo sticks. Sounds like a laugh. I think I'll do more baking, too.

Slight

I've been going into strange moods. I'm not sure why.

The whole manipulation thing is coming up again. The idea is that since I hide my true self from people, showing only what I need to show to maintain a healthy outward appearance, none of the emotions other people feel for me are real. People love Alex, not Nine. Basically it's that again but more complex. I see myself as the equivocator, teller of half-truths and imagined tales, letting them draw their own conclusions but steering them the wrong way. I'm not real so they're not real and that's where it all falls apart.
I can't suddenly show myself to the world without destroying my life. I'll take it slow for now. I know I'll get over this eventually, but I can't help clinging to the nagging thought that I do actually have a point...

I've started watching Dollhouse. In many ways it's not what it could be - a lot of the acting seems pretty forced, though Eliza Dushku is amazing, and the pacing is sometimes noticeably off, and this that and the other as well, blah blah - but the central concept is so powerful it more than makes up for it. I find it triggering sometimes. Some of the characters in their doll states remind me of The Dead One. It... bothers me. But I like the series so far.
There's something else about it, but my brain isn't telling me what.

Some Stuff I Wrote at Camp

I find it difficult to kill mosquitoes.
By this I don't mean that the thought of their tiny, mangled corpses upsets me. If I ever did find such images to be bothersome, the time has long since passed. Instead, my hand simply seems ill-suited to killing the flying parasites. Something about its shape or the way it curves allows the mosquitoes to slip beneath my palm or between my knuckles. If I do make contact, it will be with a fingertip to knock them harmlessly to one side. It's only when they actually land on my bare skin that I get an occasional lucky blow. For whatever reason the mosquitoes have decided that this means I am a friend to them, albeit one who does not appreciate being bitten, and will maintain a respectful distance (about an inch) from me while I flail my arms ineffectually to get their whining drone away from my head.

Giant's Eyes

She's young, about fifteen. Her hair is long and brown and a little shiny. Her clothes are dark with comical skulls stitched on to them, as close to "goth" as her parents will let her dress. Her black and studded bag is full of brightly-coloured binders and half-eaten ham sandwiches made by her mother this morning. Around her friends she acted aloof, sullen, what she thought of as cool. Alone, she practically skips down the street. She hums to herself cheerily. She'll be home soon. I know. I've been following her for the past week.
I step out into the road.
The girl tenses up. She doesn't see me yet, she doesn't dare turn around yet, but she can feel me plain as day. My eyes burn into her pale, slender neck. She slows, perhaps telling herself she's imagining things, berating herself for being silly. Eventually she stops and hesitantly glances over her shoulder.
She sees me. I walk towards her.
The girl is frightened. She won't admit it but she is. She faces forward and walks faster. I quickly catch up with her. She's muttering to herself silently, saying things she knows she doesn't believe. I get a little closer. She feels the tremors of my footsteps and breaks into a shambling run. Her backpack bounces against her side.
She's nearly home. She's not out of shape. But I'm so much bigger than her. She just might make it, though, if she only dropped her bag. She can't run with it. She knows this. But...
But what then? She'd arrive home with no books, no homework, no half-eaten sandwich. Her parents would want to know why. They'd be angry. She's not a good enough liar to come up with an excuse, but she can't tell them the truth. She doesn't want any more sad, understanding looks. She doesn't want her mother to call her crazy or fucked up the way she did the last time she got drunk. Bad things happen to crazy people in this world. Her friends still think she's normal, and she doesn't want to let go of that.
I pick her up in one lumpy hand. She doesn't even have time to scream.
Someone will find her soon, a neighbor perhaps. She'll wake up in a hospital bed in a few hours. Or maybe not. Some of them never wake up. Some of them can't bear to save themselves. They're not strong enough to let go.

Emily the Island Girl

We stopped for lunch one tripping day
On island big and round,
I found a girl beneath some branches
Laid upon the ground.

Her dress was blue, her hair was white,
Her skin was sickly grey,
So I knelt down beside her
And I asked, "Are you okay?"

She said, "My name is Emily,
I've been here ninety years.
My father left me on this rock
To drown in my own tears.

Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.

Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of ocean blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.

I heard some howls from further on,
She called, "Don't go that way.
I'm not the only lonely soul
Who's living here today."

I said to her, "Sweet Emily,
Why don't you come with me?
There must be somewhere better
Than this place for you to be."

She said, "I can't thank you enough,
You really are too kind.
No, no one else can see me
But I don't think that you mind."

Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.

Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of river blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.

I took her hand, (twas cold as ice,)
And led her to the lake,
But as we neared the water
Her small legs began to quake.

She said, "I'll never leave this place,
I'm too afraid I'll drown,
For if I touch that water
Then those waves will drag me down."

I stared at her, she stared at me,
Then she began to cry.
She wrapped her arms around me
And the girl kissed me goodbye.

Emily the island girl
Don't have to be alone,
Don't make that tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.

I never saw that girl again,
I hope I never do
But wherever you are, Emily,
My heart goes out to you.

Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of shining blue,
My Emily the island girl,
My heart goes out to
you.

Vertical Dreams

The sun comes up.

There's no one here. They've left me all alone. This annoys me. I find some little red berries growing on some trees nearby. I'm starving so I eat them. I don't think much of it.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

I find a life jacket tangled in the branches of a tree. This is convenient as the one I'm wearing has become torn. There's a rash growing on my foot but I try to ignore it.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

I find a man sleeping standing straight up in the middle of the forest. No amount of poking or hollering can wake up him. Then an ant crawls out of his nose. I don't think I've run that fast in a long time.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

I find it difficult to wake up. It takes several minutes for me to peel my eyes open, and it's even longer before I can take a step. The rash on my foot is spreading up my leg. The skin is rough and peeling, but it doesn't itch. Not at all.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

It's particularly sunny today. I stay rooted to the spot all day to enjoy it.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

I try to wash my hair. It's growing stiff and crusty. The water does next to nothing but the mud soothes my legs and feet. The rash keeps spreading. I'm afraid to look at it.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

It's very pretty out here. I never noticed that before.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

I don't feel hungry any more.

The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.

There are some little red bumps growing on my arms. I don't think much of it.

The sun goes down.
I dream vertical dreams.

Did anyone notice I was gone?

On the seventh day, I predicted when they would find me.
I'd used the Chi spheres only a couple times before, to look into the past and distant future. A few memories. My daughter's face. This was different. This was... testable. I started the usual way, focusing my energies into a spherical shape. I stared into it, pondering. "Show me how they find me," I commanded. Images began to blur. Perhaps this is where the idea for crystal balls came from, as a conduit. Then stolen and misinterpreted. I really don't know.
I saw a river. A bend, a left turn. Trees. Watching faces from the trees.
I saw us turning left, nearing land. Getting closer and closer. Hands reaching.
It was a long time before I could confirm it, but I should have recognized them right away. The red eyes. The catching hands. Daggers. Devil's Stalkers.

On the eleventh day, I found a pair of girl's underwear in the mud near our cabins.
Connor tells me this is a sign that someone is having sex. I am full of hate. As in, it physically sickens me. I think most horrible things.

Later on the eleventh day, it rains. After lunch, because no one wants to go back outside, they play music. Some people start dancing. More join them. That's when I see it. Something hanging from the ceiling, tentacles reaching down, grabbing. Stinging. I get out of there before panic takes me.
Out in the rain, something clicks in me. I've finally worked it out. I've seen those floating things before - mostly at dances - and I know what they are. I know what that thing was stabbing and eating the people below. Nan-Kak. Kakanger. Seedling. Whatever you want to call it, it's a child.
They start as seeds, drifting through people and on the winds of music, until they find a place where food gathers. Lodges, dances, pubs... schools. Many remain small, feeding when they can, whenever groups get caught up in an emotional event. But others find a rich place, where they can feed year round, with large numbers of people. These grow and sprout and flower into their adult forms. I've only ever seen two. Grav-Kak. Giant Death Flower.
The way they move, the way they feed, it reminds me too much of my own tendrils. Maybe I'm a flower, waiting to find a place of my own. Maybe it's us who spread their seeds. Maybe things in their world just evolve the same, the same as ours. I don't know.
I walked back in the rain.

On the fourteenth day, we left on trip.
It's a different world out there. Phantom birds flitter from tree to tree. Great shapes shimmer and ripple beneath the surface of the lake before disappearing. Blue Bears sit on tiny islands and munch on ferns. Island Watchers stare forlornly out over the lake. There's plenty of solid life, too. Hawks, herons, eagles, lots of fish. We even saw a couple beavers. Lots of quiet contemplation.

On the sixteenth day, I met a girl. I think she was dead.
We stopped for lunch on a decent-sized island. Some guys were trying to catch an irritated bird. I strayed a bit away, singing quietly to myself, when I stopped. I saw two trees standing tall nearby and I felt compelled to go between them. Beyond was a small clearing. I saw a thin dirt path leading to a dark, tree-covered area. But curled up at the base of a tree nearby was a girl. She looked perhaps a little younger than I am, wearing a blue dress. She wasn't like the other non-solid things I see. Things may fade in and out depending on my view, but she could be clear as solid one minute and completely gone the next. I approached her. It looked like she'd been crying. She looked at me with a mix of fear and amazement, perhaps astonished that I could see her. She vanished for a second. I looked to the side, back to the dark path. She shook her head wildly. "Don't," she said. At least, she mouthed the word. I'm not certain if I heard her. Slowly I reached out a hand. She took it, her fingers sliding invisibly into mine. I led her to the boats. As we left she tried to get in, she tried, and for ten seconds it seemed she was in the boat with me. But in the end we paddled away as she watched me sadly from the shore.
It was a long time before I could talk after that.

On the twenty-first day we reached rapids.

On the twenty-fourth day they found me.
Not exactly as predicted. The above mentioned was the same - the bend, the river, etc. - but the lighting, the angle, were wrong. Perhaps my mind generated arbitrary details just to form an image. I don't know.
They followed me for a few days before making their move on the twenty-fifth. Many times I was reminded of the Jabberwock. Devil's Stalkers travel in packs of six. They're more dagger than cloak. Hissing, spitting, catching from the sides with their claws. They don't dare touch the water, I note. When the time finally came, I was a bit sick of them.
Funny thing. They work through fear and intimidation. They left it too long; by the time they finally touched me I'd made up my mind not to be afraid. From behind they're dangerous, but stare them down and they're helpless as rabbits in headlights. Long story short, I laughed in their faces and walked away.

On the twenty-fifth day we returned from trip. That night there was a hurricane warning.

On the twenty-sixth day they came for me.
I saw the fire in the sky about half an hour before they arrived. I stayed with a group. They tend not to come near if I'm around people. The giant stopped some distance away from me, watching. It seemed shorter than others. I realized with some humor that it was bending down beneath a tree. I can't say why this amused me. I watched it. It watched me. Once or twice it reached for me, but I backed away.
I wonder if it's possible to get used to staring into the face of death. Slowly the fear bled out of me, leaving only an icy calmness; the stillness of the clouds above the storm. So wrapped up was I in my thoughts of this that the next time I looked it was gone. I turned my back. Stupid, stupid.
I've noticed that each wound affects my solid body more and more. Pain shoots through my spine. My headaches are getting worse. All the energy left me and I stood, trembling, on the spot, afraid that if I took a step my legs would fold up underneath me.
I survived. Nothing came of it.

On the twenty-eighth day I came home.