Chapter 35: Why Are You Upset?

I always knew I wasn't the smartest person in the world. I know I struggled with quite a few subjects--mainly mathematics. But I try hard. Really hard. I was on the honor roll with a 3.5 and higher for 3 years in college. I admit, I'm not doing that well here in Texas (we've had this discussion before) but don't say things like "So you're stupid" to my face. Especially since you don't know.
I was at work (I'm not allowed to say where) doing my duty when a coworker came up to me and said, "You have a double chin. You're fat. Haha, just kidding. But no, you do." Need I say WTF? Just so you know, I'm not over weight. I'm not slim or muscular, but I'm not chunky either. Heck, I'm a belly dancer. I got angry, ignored him and went about my chores. An hour or less later, my other coworker began to work next to me and we start talking. We discussed school and I confessed that I don't test well on certain subjects. I went on to explain that I understand one class but my tests aren't that good. I sighed and said, "It's just not a subject I can test well in, but I get it." He smirked and said, "I hate it when people say they don't test well. Just means you don't know the material." I tried to explain that that may not be the case for every one. You can understand something without knowing every minute detail. But be he laughed again and said, "So you're just stupid."
It wasn't a question.
I stared back, my eyes not wide betraying my shock at his rudeness. I don't know what it is about being called stupid (perhaps how I was treated my whole life?), but I cannot stand it. Not in the least.
Somehow, I mustered the strength, smiled and said, "Yeah, something like that."
I cried the whole drive home from work. That stung really badly. I hate him now and that didn't change today either.
I was working with him again. In my head I had forgiven him and we were chatting again. I'm too nice. I'm a very kind and forgiving person. Not any more. I thought maybe he wouldn't do anything so stupid again. But no. We're talking about paranoia and I said something about being paranoid. Obviously, not forgetting what he said the other night he says, "Nah, you're not. Paranoid people are people who know all the facts. So that rules you out," he sayed pointedly, looking right into my eyes.
I wanted to take the pen in my hand and plunge it in his face. He did it again.
Fine, you want a confession? You want to know how stupid I am? I'm so stupid that I worked as a college writing tutor for two+ years. So stupid that I had an essay and a poem published in college magazines. So stupid that I teach Korean children English. So stupid that I maintained a higher GPA than he has probably ever had. So stupid that I learned to play almost 5 instruments and write music. THAT...is how stupid I am, mister.
I'm sorry to be so vindictive, but I am finished with being forgiving and  kind. I was the sweet little goth girl at my job and I'm done with that. I am not speaking to him any more no matter how miserable I will be at work now. I'm used to work sucking.
But I will not let this infect my relationships with the others or who I am. Who am I right now? I am a woman who is happy with her looks, her hard life and the magical times I create just to get buy. I am God's personal dancer, worshiper, goth girl and servant. I am a child of the earth and seeker of all things beautiful. I am who I am. And to this jerk...I am his worst nightmare.

Chapter 34: Danse Magique, danse!

Getting through is tough, but afterwards you feel great for a bit. I watched "Your Highness" with my sister on Halloween night to try and save myself. Worked, hu? But this is all behind me and I don't want to talk about it any more...

Started reading "The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod" and I love it. Is it literary genius? No. Is it a good story with lovable characters? Yup!
Got a B on my most recent Psychology test. I was a 4.0 back in KC, but that's been slipping ever since moving to Texas. My theories are ringing true. Help, my IQ is dropping! The sad part is that that B was a step up. I'm not going to talk about my other grades any more though, it's too depressing. But because I did ok on my recent tests, I bough myself a Moorish scimitar to dance my solo with. It's a long way away, but will be here soon! I'm very excited to have it. Also, I got a lot of Rachel Brice DVDs to practice with when I have time (hahaha...) since I can't make it to class recently. Their really good in the yoga sections, which no other belly dancer seems to think is important to the dance. Duh...
Tokio Hotel won the MTV Music awards! My sister and I voted every day and it paid off for them. We were very happy.
So now I have tons of French homework to do and I should get to it before I run out of time. I have a test tomorrow and that means lots of freak out. I have my cell phone set up to sound an alarm every time it's time for me to switch to a new homeowork subject and that will be soon. I need to do. Been Frenching for more than an hour and feel like I haven't gotten anything done. TTYL!

Chapter 33: If anything....

I haven’t been in this emotional state for years. The state where your own house feels alien and your bed room, once your sanctuary suddenly feels so fragile and temporary. Emotions are charged but not cluttered. My mind is queenly selfish; all I can think about is myself right now. I cannot succeed at life. Why do things when others can do them better? Why go on with school when grades are suffering and may never get better? Why go to work when all one does is spend the money again? School is killing me. It’s going to destroy my life. I can’t do it. I’m failing.

This feeling of being alien in your own home I mentioned happens when time drifts into nonexistence and you can’t—and won’t—count it any more. It doesn’t matter because you made your mind: All these questions don’t need to be answered because it’s going to end. YOU are going to end it. Why try and cheer up when it’s going to come back? This lose, failure, destruction, lameness…it’s all going to come back and drag you back down. You spend more time down than anything else. No one is thinking of you  (lack of internet social interactivity is proof enough), no one is texting you, calling you, needing you…You are a waste of space on this earth, getting bad grades. It’s time to leave. You will never have the love you want, the man of your dreams. Your depression is too strong for you. For me. I can’t stand it. What good am I? I had plans, but it’s all determined by this stupid school. They killed my dreams and hope. I have nothing left.

Bad grades cannot be fixed, parents who despise and will never respect you are just that. The only thing you have is yourself and you are letting you down. You cannot fix any of this. Nothing is good any more. It never was, I was just under the illusion it was.

Why don’t I do it now? Not because I secretly think it will get better, I know it won’t. Or if it does, it just gets worse again. What do I have to live for? Nothing. I don’t do it because I’m afraid. Not of the Afterlife, just afraid. I could do it. I know so many simple ways. But I’m too much of a coward to take the cowards way out.

I am nothing. I am an empty shell with nothing left to give. I gave and gave and gave. I helped other people, inspired them to do things, worked for them, slaved for them, bowed under their feet, been used and abused by them. What have I gotten back? Plans of nothingness and bad grades to ruin my life. I’m a stranger now on this planet. I want to go home.    

If anything, dear God, let me dance the Macabre tonight. Please. 

Chapter 32: I Can't Speak French

I was at a loss for the first chapter title in weeks. Months? It's true though. I'm taking French at the University and it's so hard. It was simple at first and I loved it. Then we started conjugating verbs and it was all down hill. Apparently, that's all you do in French so I've having to work super-duper-extra-chocolaty-fudge-covered hard at it. About 6 hours a week just on French. But it will be worth it. I want to speak it fluently. And then teach English in France. There is a chance for second year French students to live in Angers for 5 weeks this summer, but it is far too expensive for me. Sad considering Angers is only an hour from Paris and my tower. I would so love to see it. I started crying in class when we were being told about it. I must visit my France someday. Why do I love it so much? I promise it's not for the normal, shallow and uninteresting reasons of every other female in the world, and because I claim that, I cannot explain it any more. I just love it. Some of my ancestors are from there and spoke the language. The Scottish ones. Hahah, that makes sense. But it's part of me and I want to know it.
It's also raining. For the first time in more than a year, it has rained for more than five minutes. It's October and finally it is cloudy, grey and raining. How marvelous! I need the grey and gloom. I haven't been able to write a single inspired word since moving to Texas. With ten months of pure Summer and some odd back and forth months, there is no change in the seasons and so the people hear never get to change. They laps into this ugly, humid rut and their brains start to decay and become useless. Now it's happening to me! My imagination, thought and cleverness are melting away. With no reason to change and deal with Mother Nature, the Texan man has become useless!
I could go on, but I've exhausted this speech with my acquaintances here.
I've also been on the search for a good cemetery for photography and haven't had any luck yet. Sigh...
Life is changing for me. Not the weather though. It's hard to meet new things and make something amazing out of them when your brain and soul are now dormant, inanimate objects!

Chapter 31: How Great Is Our God?

Yes, how great? Is He great enough to bring my brother home? Great enough to make sure he was not on that helicopter that was shot down? Great enough to let his wife know he's ok? Great enough to let my brother fly all over the world at 30,000+ feet at hundreds of miles per hour protecting our country? Great enough to make sure he is invisible while behind enemy lines doing his secret jobs for America?
I have to believe that the answer is yes. If I don't, I die from worry and panic--my constant companions in life already. Ever times the news comes on in the morning, I listen. I have to. Normally it's nothing to worry about. But every once in a while, a detail is given that makes my heart flutter, halt, then pound like a pagan war drum. M head spins and I can't breath for moment when they mention something about the Air Force. Or other things. Anything that means him. My brave, crazy brother. I trust in his wisdom, smarts, skills and all that he had been taught and figured out on his own...but God? Can I trust God to protect him? Can I give my brother to God? I have given over so many men to Him and, as of yet, nothing has come of it. That I can see...
To day and everyday, I need to be reminded how great our God is. Why do I need to be reminded? Because I am human. I have no freakin' clue how great He is. I need to start looking and find out.

Tag, You're Dead

A short story that muscled its way into "The Rebel's Rules". I left it out for so long, but it came out better than I thought. Especially for a first draft. I'll clean it up later, but for now here it is!

                                    Tag, You’re Dead

                                                     

The sound of rain from inside a raincoat with the hood up is different from any other kind. Rain on the roof doesn’t sound the same. Rain in a tent is similar, but still not quite like the rattling of rain just on top of your head, covered by only a layer of plastic rubber. It’s close, personal; you can hear every drop.

His hands were cold. This rain was cold. The thunder was far off and seemed to roll over the length of the sky, the sound growing closer. His breath was rising in thick, steady clouds of white exhaust. Around his feet, the water was puddling, clear at first then when the blood reached it, it smoked red like you’ve seen blood do in water. The fingers that were once clutching the gun’s handle were now slack and frozen, the metal of the body and barrel freezing. His mind was just as frozen. He could only feel like he was moving by watching the red swirls jig and jag in the puddle as the raindrops hit it one after the other. It was something to do. He had to do something. Any moment now, a car would drive by and see what he had done. He half wanted one to. Wanted someone or something to see what he had done and do something about it…or to him in return.

His eyes followed the red stream that was leaking into the clear puddle up to the body the red was coming from. It was on its back, backpack by its side, black jeans soaking wet, eyeliner running down its pale face. He considered the body’s style of dress with disinterest like he had done before. All of this, the grey t-shirt, black hair in the face and the black and white striped hoodie were something he had come to loath. He took one step towards the body and bent down. He waited in this position for another five minutes as if he expected the body to jump up and drag him to the ground. It didn’t move. He reached out and snatched the silver and black iPod out of the wet street and put it into his own jacket pocket.

The deed was done now. The spoils collected. He stood back up and looked once again at the body. It was so thin. Another thing to hate about it. He watched the rain make new patterns out of the leaking eyeliner on its pale face. This got boring. It was time to go. But where?

He turned away from the body and began to walk down the cold, deserted Detroit street. Everyone was inside watching TV or eating dinner like a nice, normal, happy family. Detroit-normal anyway. Family? He jerked around to stare at the corpse one more time as if daring it to say “I’ll tell my big brother and he’ll beat you up!” but it didn’t move. With that thought, he gripped the gun more tightly and gnashed his teeth. Older brothers weren’t a problem when they went to the same high school. Even if he was seventeen. Age didn’t matter.

He took out his school ID and read it out loud as if to convince himself that he was the boy looking up so happily out of the high school lunch card.

“Coen Dillard. Detroit. Junior. Age: 15.”

That was all it took. He was once again a smiling, happy, innocent fifteen-year-old boy. He performed this spell whenever he felt the need, which wasn’t often; because often, he was a good boy. He was a good black boy, people would say. He was a gentleman at the grocery store when he would help old ladies with their bags. High grades at school were good and he was the captain of the hockey team. He was going to be locked away in the family vault as the family’s prize golden boy. So to him this action was low. But no matter, it had to be done. He hated sinking to his incriminated brother’s level, but someone had to get rid of that one person.

He walked back over to the body, suddenly unsure, as these people are, if he had killed the right person. He hesitated for another five minutes before he bent down to the corpse’s level. He knew he wouldn’t have to touch it though. The ID card was in the backpack. He found it and read it too:

“Noland Clark. Detroit. Sophomore. Age: 16.”

Yes, it was the right person. And now he was dead. The rain had stopped, but the blood had flowed all the way down to the nearest stop sign. That was a long way for a dead boy to travel.

Detroit was known for its crime rate so it was no surprise when the next day at the breakfast table, the little sister, Sara, ran into the kitchen and said, “Mama, someone’s got died on the TV. I think there was a shootin’ at Coen’s school!”

No one cared. Murder was common enough in Detroit. Someone would die that day too and the next. And Coen would see to it. Someone would have to die again. And it would be as simple as last time. Noland had an older brother who would be after him in a hurry as soon as he figured out who it was who shot his little brother. And this older brother was smart. It wouldn’t take long.

Morning classes were canceled for a small memorial service. It was raining again. Coen sat in the back of the bus as it drove him and twenty other students to the memorial site. It was almost considered extra credit if you went to enough school memorial services in a year. In the back, hair in his face, earbuds in his ears like his brother, sat Noland’s older brother. Coen could watch him without wincing or a drop of guilt. Inside his backpack the silvery gun waited again. But these things never work out the way most people hope they will. All day he was around the older brother of his first victim and he never could get a moment where he thought he could shoot. So he waited.

The bus dropped a handful of the kids off at a single stop and Coen got off too. He stood long enough at the stop sign to watch where his target walked to. He went down the street then turned left. Coen dashed after him when he turned and ran until he came to the same corner. It was an alley way. The boy was walking down it at a fast pace. Did he know he was being followed? No, he couldn’t. He walked to the end of the alley way and crossed the street then stopped and waited. He turned around and began to look left and right as though he were waiting for someone.

Coen ducked behind a large, smelly green dumpster and peered over the top. Close to the edge of the lid his eyes saw over, was a small ant crawling at lightning speed as though it wanted to leave the scene of the crime. He watched the bug for what felt like many long minutes. It crawled then stopped to try and pick at a piece of gum that was attached to the side. When it couldn’t get it up, it began to run again. It ran very fast. When Coen looked up, he saw a car slowing down at the spot where the other boy was. He swore in his head then stood up to take the shot. He aimed, someone opened the door of the driver’s side of the car, he fired and they stood up blocking his shot.

The boys’ mother fell to the ground, a silver bullet through her skull causing her brains to splatter over the car and the street. Coen didn’t flinch as he watched. He had always wanted to know what real live human brains looked like. He watched the elegant white lady fall, her handbag spilling its guts out as it hit the ground too. The other boy ran to his mother’s side, his own makeup smeared down his face, just like his dead brother’s, as he fell to his knees next to her crying with her blood on his white face. Crying was weak, Coen thought. So he cried and grew just a little stronger from this miss fire. Oh well, the tougher they come the harder they fall. This was all for the better. Besides, he thought, what mother wants to live in a world where both her sons are dead. This accident was a favor to her.

Sirens split the air with an unexpected shriek. There must have been cops around the corner. The only thing was this: Coen’s brother always told him “Screw up once, you can fix it, screw up twice and you deserve to die”. There was no more messing up. Only the boys were supposed to die. Only the boys needed to die. Deep inside, Coen wondered if this was a sad thing or just something that had to happen. Like Noland’s death. It had to happen. Someone had to kill him. It was all he could think about for days. For months the boy had bothered him.

As he watched the ambulance whisk the body away, he wondered if he should feel guilty. But that thought would have to wait. The police decided that the shot had to have come from his direction because of how the bullet had entered her head and were coming his way. He needed to get home and out of sight. He was safe though, this wasn’t even really his bus stop. No one would know.  

But they did. What Coen had thought was Noland’s iPod was a phone as well and the tracking in it lead the police to his house. The little killer saw the cars outside before his mom did. She would break if cops came banging on her door for a second time. So he told her.

“Mamma,” he said, looking up at her as she lay on her bed, “I killed a boy.”

Little Sara was in the room watching cartoons on the TV and was now captivated by what her brother was saying.

“I’m leaving.”

No one stopped him as he ran out the back door just as the front buzzer sounded. His mother’s eyes were glazed as she watched her last son dash out the door. There was still a chance, she thought, for her to get off unknown.

“Sara, hide in the attic, please,” her mother ordered calmly. She had imagined this day for a long time. Just like this. She scooped up her silken white robe and threw it on over her lingerie and went the front door of her condo.

“My I help you, officer,” she said, sighing and leaning against the door frame.

The officer was taken aback by the tall, white woman standing skimpily clad in front of him. He vaguely composed himself and asked, “Excuse me ma’am, I don’t mean to bother you, but we’re wondering if we might have a word with your son Coen. We understand he attends the same school where Noland Clark was shot and we’re asking all the kids if they know anything or have any information.”

Mrs. Dillard stretched now, flexing her lithe limbs. “I’m a new resident, officer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not my business if some little black kid gets in trouble.”

The officer averted his eyes, cleared his through and said, “Noland Clark was a white boy, ma’am. However, Coen Dillard is black.” He looked at Mrs. Dillard again, obviously taking in her ivory skin and yellow hair. “Forgive me, ma’am, we won’t be bothering you no more.”

Mrs. Dillard watched the policeman walk down the steps of one of the only upper class area in all of Detroit. Coen had just gone and done what all the other boys his age were going to at some point or another in their lives. Would she him again? Did she care?

Coen didn’t think he could stand living outside the house, but something inside him drove him  not give up. He couldn’t figure out if it was fear and guilt or even something as simple as laziness. Sometimes, he wanted to sit in an alley and cry. He wanted his mother with him, he wanted his home; but those things weren’t an option now.

After almost a month of stealing from stores and pedestrians for food and going into super markets for warmth from the cold Detroit winter, the little murderer found himself taking out Noland Clark’s photo I.D. and staring at it for hours at a time. Noland Clark’s dark eyes seemed to had changed since his death. In this picture where once they were bored, glazed and uninterested in the word, they were not unseeing, dark, vacant and melancholy. They had seemed live and now they were very dead.

Coen wondered what Noland Clark would have gone on to do in his life. Nothing good for society, he told himself, staring into the ever darkening eyes. If he believed that Noland Clark was not going to do anything great, then it made his death far less mysterious and not so much of a burden. Even though Coen had told himself that feeling remorse was for losers, he did feel it every once in a while. The burden was there, hidden in his heart, but there all the same. Perhaps, Coen told his reflection in a puddle of oil and gutter water, you are no good for society either.

But he would never believe that.

On the last day of his life, Coen was trudging down a particularly dirty and smelly street when the sound of a gun being cocked came to his ears. He turned expecting to see who the person standing at the other end of the ally.

Noland Clark’s older brother, with his hand wrapped tightly around the glistening handle of a gun, eyes blazing with fury, glared across at Coen. Coen made no move, sign or gesture that he was afraid that Noland Clark’s brother could see, but in Coen’s heart, he was screaming for his life.

Don’t kill me, he whispered in his mind.

“You’re taking away my chance to make it right,” Coen said out loud. The silver gun didn’t even twitch.

“What about my brother’s last chance?” the one holding the gun screamed in reply. “You can’t make it right!”

I can take away your pain, was the mental reply.

Coen didn’t say anything for a long time. He gazed at the figure in front of him. In an instant he knew. He knew Noland Clark’s brother was not going to kill him. Why not? Why let him live? The anger that suddenly boiled up Coen surprised even him. Fiery rage engulfed him at the thought of having to live on in this blackly guilty way. He wanted the guilt gone, but he did not want to have to pay for it.

“I won’t pay for what I did to Noland Clark,” he spat. “You want revenge? You’ll have to kill me. Kill me!” he shouted.

Noland Clark’s brother was gripped with the fear that Coen had dashed aside before when he pulled the gun on Noland Clark. Coen remembered the fear of actually holding a weapon to a boy’s head. His eyes had widened and he had gasped from fright at his decision just before he pulled the trigger. The it was over. If he had hesitated for more second, like Noland Clark’s brother was doing now, then Noland Clark will still have been alive. But something in Coen had made him cast away the fear and thrill of the kill was pumping venomous desire though his veins at the sight of the blood. The kick of the shot had pulled the gun from his hand and made a splashing noise when it landed in the puddle.

When Coen’s eyes refocused from his memories, he saw Noland Clark’s brother vanish around a corner, the gun lying on the concrete. The numbness of having a flashback did not fade away as Coen walked toward the gun like a limp puppet. He fell onto his backside next to the gun and picked it up with his gloved hand. Like a windup toy, as though he had imagined this moment for years, he put the head of the gun in his mouth. He waited for that moment—that gasp—to come, but it never did. He heard the gun go off before he felt it. For just a moment the world tipped, then it swam, then the evanescence of this world faded into a black nothing as he slipped into the next life to await his judgment. Fear gripped his heart in its last few, feeble, guilty beats of life before it stopped like a clock out of wind.  

Chapter 30: My World, His World

I bought a journal again to try to keep myself into writing about myself. And writing in general. It's working with somethings...new music is up on the youtube account so don't forget to check that out! Also, I put together my solo music for my dance debut (whenever that is!) and I'm pretty proud of it. I'm saving up for a white costume now and (maybe) two Moorish scimitars and a white veil. It's going to be pretty epic. I also have my drum solo music picked out, which I will probably choreograph first. It's much easier.

NOTE: The guy from Chapter 29 is totally gone, just so you know. And I love it. Did he go back on his word and not be a friend when I needed one? Yes, but that's ok. Men do that.

I have these awesome fake nails on (trimmed them, painted them and glued them myself!) so it’s hard to type and therefore this may be shorter than normal because I can hardly stand the frustration of typing with long nails.

While on my way home from teaching the other day, I was thinking about God. Duh…I’ve been thinking about how I’m kind of cutting Him out of my life. Not on purpose, just not getting into the word and spending much time praying. Thought I did give a person in my life to God recently. But I don’t think He’s going to do anything until I change up a bit. So any way, what I was thinking is simple.

I created Celroth Do’non. That is the world in my Generations series of fantasy novels (it’s been years since I’ve typed that name…). I love Glenn, my chosen hero, and his brothers. And all the people I picked to help him out. They are mine and (strange as it may sound) they love me. Glenn has been with me for years.

So this is my world. A world I love, have nurtured, adored, devastate, rebuilt, taken hope from, given hope to. It’s all mine and I love them. Now, how would I feel if someone else came up, stole my manuscript, changed it around and turned it into something it was not? I would scream and be furious. I would want to kill them. Someone else coming in and taking over MY world. Making MY people do what they said! Argh, how that would burn me. My people forgetting me and listening to someone else.

Hello, God, does this sound familiar?

I would want my people back, but more than that—if they could—I would want them to want ME back. If they did—and if I could see that they did—of course I would help them come back. I can’t just go and take them back. They have to want to come back. Then it would be all the more precious. I would do what I could to bring them back, remind them who they really belong to, but it would be up to them to make the choice. I love them and cannot make them to anything they don’t want to.

Am I getting close, God?

This is our world. What I have just described is earth. We were the Creator’s and now we have been stolen…and almost no one is listening for His call. We’re all too busy worrying about our nonexistent love life, or money, school and job. Shove those and move on with your REAL life! God is calling you back to Him. That’s what I learned. Now I just have to get it right. He is calling me and I need to respond. I just wrote my personal fantasy peace “The Eternal”. The knight had to leave his family and worldly things just like Christ commanded. We need to too. I worry so much about finding a man to heal my broken heart and sooth my soul. I need to stop that. Only God can save me that way. I worry about money for school. If God wants me there—yes, I need to work for it—but He will provide. He will. He wants you to do what He wants you to do so He will make it happen.

Look at me preaching….I’m so good at theory. Let’s see how it plays out in real life. But these are things I’ve learned again and again. I hope it sticks this time. I took one step. I gave a boy I like to God. It feels good to not have him on my mind all the time. Why did I have to give him to God? Because he doesn’t know God like I do. He’s off limits. So all I can do is be a witness an pray.

That was side tracking, but whatever! I’ve learned a lot since my last devastating entry thanks to the two wise women of my life: my best friend and my sister-in-law. I am blessed, but I am blind.