FicWad

I'm awake again, trying not to lose those precious lines; they hold potential and I plan to put them to paper for a later time.


I feel the dullest sense of hunger, where you're almost too empty to eat. It's at the point where my mind would like to convince me that food would be too un-fulfilling, and if I weren't so coherent, I'd start to believe it.


A jittery, nearly sugary feeling coats the back of my throat. Like the feeling you get when you drink soda before a nap. I want so desperately for the taste to go away, and so I head to the kitchen and seek out a bottle of water to quench the heavy thirst that's behind this wretched taste. Afterwards, I skim through each cabinet until my gaze lands on a bag of unopened chips. I pluck them from their place on the shelf and hold them down at my side.


It's too quiet for anyone else to be in the house, so I look around for a note of some kind. When I see none, I realize they're probably still at the cemetery, so I settle into the idea of having the house to myself for an indefinite amount of time, and the freedom brings a comfort I've never once denied.


I sit on the living room couch for the first time in what has to be months, and tediously flip through the TV channels until I land on a comedy show that should keep my attention for a little while at least. I absentmindedly munch on the potato chips, finding it nice to lick the salt from my upper lip after every few bites. Through the curtains, I can see the last few slips of sunlight slowly creep through the blinds and rest until the specific lapse of time will drive them away and bring the moon into full reign for another night. It's at this point of the evening that I find myself wishing for the liberty to walk around as I pleased; to sleep wherever I wanted to and not be tied down by the authority of my parents.


The thirty minute show slinks by without my noticing, and I realize it's completely pointless to be sitting here, when my focus is farthest from the television in front of me. On tired feet, I stand and walk over to the screened-in porch. As I slide the glass door open and walk outside, I'm met with the slight stench of stale pollen and a musky odor most probably coming from the gutter on the nearest side of the house.


I close the door back and make sure the latch is still up before taking a seat on the hand-built swing my father made. It's still sturdy after all these years, and it brings on a wave of pleasant memories, where he'd try to share the interests that a father and son should have. Looking back, I can remember turning him down every time. Usually when he'd want to take me fishing or to the golf course, and I'd much rather stay in and watch movies or draw in whatever sketchbook I had on-hand. A part of me wishes that I'd just humored him; maybe then he would be able to look at me without feeling so disappointed.


I strain my eyes to see through the dirty screen, and focus on the pile of logs in the back yard. Every so often, I'll help cut and stack them. That's about as much bonding as I fit in a year.


Among the deafening sound of crickets, I can hear several children playing in their respective yards. Most likely making plans to build a clubhouse, or renovate a spot in the yard that they've always hung out at. I remember small sparks of time where I'd have those type of discussions with friends. The memories make me long to have something as simple as that back in my life.


After sitting a while longer, I grow disgusted with myself for whining the day away. Nostalgia makes a body bitter, but I won't allow myself to dwell on it for as long as I have been. It's unhealthy and as self-destructive as I may be, I won't let my mind turn to mush for having nothing better to do than to think about what could have been or to miss the instances in time that I'll never have back.


A car door slams shut in our driveway around the corner, and I decide to make a quick getaway for my room before I'm forced to actually make conversation with whichever one of my parents is home.


x-x-x-x-x


As I make my way through the classroom door to sit down for Fiber Optic Art, I notice Gerard sitting quietly at his designated spot. Maybe if I just talked to h - No. I won't stand by and let my thoughts make a fool of myself. He can't possibly be much different than the rest of them, or at least that's what I'll be constantly telling myself in order to fight away the urge of making polite conversation.


"Okay, students. I'm going to need you all to form groups of two. This next project we'll be doing is sort of a tribute to whatever comes to mind. As you can see, I have five chairs next to my desk. You guys are to take a chair for the both of you and paint whatever your heart desires on every square inch of that sucker." the teacher says with a cute smile. I nod dutifully and rise to walk over and pick up a chair.


Wait. She said partners. Partners.


Suddenly, I'm not so sure about this project, and before I can control myself, my brain has thought of about three different excuses that would instantly get me out of a situation like this. All of them being lies, of course.


I look around to see everyone scramble around to join hands with their best friend, and a part of me feels left out, while another feels disgusted. I throw a questioning glance over to the facilitator and her only response is a subtle gesture over to the boy sitting a few feet away.


I clear my throat and wish I'd never been born.


"H-hey. I'm Frank, remember?" I say to Gerard, much like the squeamish boy that I am. He looks up at me and I'm stricken by the intensity of those damned eyes. They just look so irreversably shattered.


"Yeah." he whispers hoarsely, like he's been screaming for hours.


Without another word, I watch as he stands and makes his way over to the stack of wooden chairs in front of us. Without meaning to, I observe how he inspects each of them before picking the one he takes back to the table. It's perfect and smooth; much like a new canvas. Creativity takes over, and suddenly I'm making huge plans, all of striking detail. My mind has always been notorious for thinking up things I could never put to the test. I lack the application and patience it takes to really create something beautiful. I almost always settle for mediocre.


"So, what are a few of your ideas?" Gerard says, causing me to jump out of my skin. Our surroundings have all disappeared in my head, and for a moment it was just me thinking about a chair.


"On the legs, we could do something floral. Well, maybe like vines, actually." I say, still in deep consideration. I see him shrug in my peripheral vision. "Well, do you have anything else to add, then?" I ask, trying to crack his shell for only a moment - just long enough to get an honest opinion out of him.


"I think we should paint them brown. And then at the bottom, make a base with grey lines leading upwards, so it looks like a string instrument." Gerard pipes in, his voice nothing louder than a whisper.


I look at the chair and picture his idea until I can all but see it right in front of me. His suggestion blows mine out of the water, and for a moment the only emotion I can experience is confused jealously. After that wears away, I look back to him and give him the most genuine smile I can pull off.


"That might work."


We use the rest of the art period up, just drawing different designs and either setting them aside for future use or throwing them out. Gerard's composure is unnerving, and causes me to think and re-think about everything that comes out of my mouth before I say it. He's the kind of person I'd rather die than mess up in front of, but he doesn't seem to notice.


Later on throughout the day, it's all sped up and fuzzy. My head is still back at that work area, just desperate to continue our conversation forever. Because no matter how much I'd like to think so, Gerard's not like the other kids. His brain... it just doesn't work the same.


I'm baffled and slightly scared. I definitely shouldn't be thinking this way, and about a guy no less.


Am I really so alone that I'm starting to find perfection in strangers? The thought makes my stomach jolt uncomfortably, and I realize that my fear has been confirmed.


There's bound to be a secret or two. Something he's hiding that would make him less than desirable as anything but a distant classmate. I'm going to find those qualities, and use them as a reminder. I don't need friends, I have myself. Friends make you a slob; like you're unable to meet the standards of anyone new in your life. I'll teach that part of me -the part so starved for attention- and then I'll be able to go on with the rest of my life.


Starting tomorrow, that is.