View Single Post
Old September 23 2009, 11:03 PM   #2
Robert Maxwell
Not Your Toy
 
Robert Maxwell's Avatar
 
Location: A broken roof
View Robert Maxwell's Twitter Profile Send a message via ICQ to Robert Maxwell Send a message via AIM to Robert Maxwell Send a message via Windows Live Messenger to Robert Maxwell Send a message via Yahoo to Robert Maxwell
Re: Smoke, Fire, and Ash

April 17

As if I didn't have enough problems, some crazy guy started talking riddles to me yesterday. It sounds like he's stalking me. He really creeped me out. I don't know what to do. Something weird is going on with me. Stuff passes through me like I'm not even there. He told me I wasn't dead but I feel like a ghost. I feel like I'm just wandering through this world and no one notices I'm here.

Is this what it's like to be dead? Am I really even writing anything in this journal? Or is it a fake, too? Am I a dead kid imagining I'm doing things, but I just won't let go? If that was true, could I even realize it? I wish someone had answers. I think that guy did, but he wouldn't tell me. He said I couldn't be told. Whatever it is, I just want it to happen. I can't stand waiting, wondering what it's all leading up to.

I just realized, I didn't black out last night. What does that mean? Am I done? Then why do I feel worse than before?


Evan set out the next morning for school, eyes cast downward at the sidewalk as he took even steps, his thumbs hooked into the straps of his backpack. He barely noticed a chilly morning breeze, the last gasp of the previous night's rain shower, the delicate fingers of a cold front pulling away from the area. A distant dog barked. Evan sighed, not watching up ahead, having the route to school memorized for some time now. Six streets down, left turn, two streets down. He'd made this walk since he was eight, never with a problem, except for his recent blackout. His parents suggested driving him to school in the morning, just to make sure he got there in time, but they didn't protest when he insisted on walking himself. He wondered if that was because they didn't want to smother him, or because they resented him and didn't care if he never came home.

He wrapped himself up so deeply in these thoughts, he never saw the cherry red Acura round the corner where he was crossing. The driver never saw him, either. Evan just stopped dead when he saw the bumper cross into him, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. A black powder formed at the point of impact, just above his knees. He expected to fall over and smack into the hood, but instead he had the sensation of floating, his body disintegrating as the car passed through it. No blood, no cracking bones, not even any sprains, just a dark dust spiraling out from the bottom of his torso. He made eye contact with the driver as his face came up toward the windshield, and then he became a being more of touch and tingle than sight and sound. He could no longer see, but he remained aware of his surroundings. The breeze he'd so easily ignored before became a part of him, wisps of air and mist entangling with gray particles, dancing through the sky. He felt himself moving up, up into the air, high above the car, above the trees and houses, until they were all distant dots without form or function.

And then he came back down, quickly and deliberately, making an arc toward the roof of the school, coming up fast, and he felt his own substance again, his feet smacking into the concrete, and his body tumbling end-over-end across the roof. He gasped for air, landing on his side, clutching his backpack tighter than before, somewhat dazed but vaguely aware of what had transpired.

He still remained somewhat uncertain, and the last thing he wanted was to be found on the roof of the school again. They'd lock me up for sure this time. So, he stepped toward the back of the building, climbing up to the edge, facing outward to the playground--empty and quiet. He sucked in a deep breath, prepared to believe it was his last, held his arms out at his sides, and let himself fall forward. He saw the ground approach, faster and faster, and at the last second realized he didn't want to see himself hit, so he squeezed his eyes shut.

That feeling came again, the blissful nothingness, the wind carrying him away from everything, and he realized what he could do, finally. Thoughts formed in the particulate mass dancing through the sky. Dust. Ash. Something. I'm something.

April 18

Mom and Dad,

I'm sorry I always made you worry so much. Things are going to be so much better from now on, I promise. I'll be the son you always wished you had. I'll be something special. I am something special.

I love you.
__________________
It's all false love and affection
The Journeyman - Buy it now! Maybe?
My world simulation project!
My blog
Robert Maxwell is online now   Reply With Quote