Our server costs ~$56 per month to run. Please consider donating or becoming a Patron to help keep the site running. Help us gain new members by following us on Twitter and liking our page on Facebook!
I wasn't expecting to finish it tonight, but I felt driven to.
Chapter Two Death
I have made my peace with it. My parents, not so much. They became angry. Society has changed so drastically in such a short amount of time that it has been difficult for them to accept the new rules by which we are being governed. And naturally, as my parents, they are quite protective of me. They want what is best for me while others insist on knowing what is best for everyone else.
Even the teachers are mad, although their displeasure is due in great part to the fact that they are not qualified for their positions. As is the case for most people in the country right now. The best way for an ideology to maintain power is to remove all non-believers.
My parents are smart enough to still have their jobs, because they are good at faking adherence. None of the former teachers, and rightfully so, could bring themselves to lecture on that which is unacademic. The previous education system was not perfect, but it was preferable.
Now instead of learning anything constructive, we are simply expected to accept that we no longer have to exercise our brains via critical thinking. Because thinking, after all, has become the enemy of a new national order wrought with fallible faith.
"Jahl, are you paying attention?"
Not to your drivel. Aloud, I respectfully say, "Yes, Ma'am."
"Then you wouldn't mind answering the question."
Uh-oh, I think as I look up at a blank white board and then toward a similarly blank expression on a face caked with pasty foundation. She seems to be the only woman allowed to wear makeup, since it has been outlawed, and I wonder if her age has something to do with it. As elderly as she is, I suspect she was removed from a nursing home to fill a position at the school.
Knowing better, I say, "But I just did."
She blinks, again, then a third time before she moves her attention away from me and sweeps the class of students with her gaze. When she speaks again, she starts with something I am certain she was not talking about earlier.
When it is finally time to leave, I take a peek at the single paper Mrs. Westerly is always holding as though it is holier than scripture. Turns out, it is a seating chart. Which tracks with how she cannot do more than seem to be familiar with our names.
"Hey, Vajahl," calls an all too familiar voice in the hallway.
The v-a in the insult is supposed to represent the female reproductive organ. It is not very clever, but neither is the girl. I imagine her multiple inadequacies is why she is the premier bully at the school. Equal opportunity, I also suppose.
Using the usual method of escape, I slip into a crowd of students and then sneak into the rooftop access stairwell that is off limits to us. The teachers tend to use the roof for smoking, but not at this time of the day. They stink when they return to class as though they are unaware of the repugnant odor surrounding them.
Also, this stairwell does not seem to get cleaned. At least in the two years I have been here I have never seen the steps absent the dirty imprints of various shoe patterns. I have slipped a few times and probably would have fallen to a broken neck demise if the railing was not here.
The roof access is only available from the third floor. It is a short trip up a single flight and then a gust of fresh air slams into me when I open the door to the outside. Before the door closes behind me, I think I hear the clicking of the door down below being opened.
Unable to enjoy the calming mountain view, a loud metallic tearing sounds behind me. Spinning around, I duck just in time to avoid the door as it flies over me with a whoosh of air indicating the high velocity at which it must be traveling.
"Thought I wouldn't figure out where you've been disappearing to, didn't you?"
Remaining close to the ground, I raise my head to look at her. One never to be insulted with the typical patriarchal usage of petite, her size has given pause to grown men. It is uncertain where she gets the giantess physique, because both of her parents are little people. Being compared to such parents only ever fueled her anger whereby a bully persona was developed.
I have never understood her psychopathic interest in me, but I know better than to start a cliche dialogue with her. Maybe I just looked at her wrong one day in gym class. It is not as though we were ever friends for her to feel somehow betrayed by me.
Her anger is evident in the color of an otherwise perfect complexion. The unfortunate facial features are entirely out of place, something else that no doubt contributed to her self identity. At one point, I considered being friends with her. Not out of pity, but because she was not always the monster she allowed herself to become.
"It's time you pay for what you've done."
Oh, you are a loon, I think as I wonder if there is any way this can end in my favor.
As she rushes towards me, the only thought that comes to mind is how my parents are going to arrange my body in the coffin. This thought is more horrifying than the two hundred pounds rushing at me as though I am the singular infuriating pin to be knocked down in a game of bowling. Yet I am not troubled enough to use my smaller size and excess stamina to move clear of the threat.
I close my eyes and take a final calming breath before the impact that will likely cause me to lose consciousness. This is not how I want to be remembered in the yearbook, but there are certain instances in our lives that are always out of our control. Death happens to be one of these defining moments we cannot avoid.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
November 7, 2022 at 2:38 am (This post was last modified: November 7, 2022 at 3:23 am by Foxaèr.)
The writing bug bit me. Here is the next chapter.
Chapter Three
Being
"The sky darkened and filled with purple lightning. During these flashes, we saw you through the window as you fell from above. One of those purple bolts hit you midair."
Trying to listen to the wondrous tale of my survival, voices and memories that are not my own distract me from a sustainable concentration. It has only been a few short hours since I was pummeled by the she-bully, but the life changing event seems a lifetime ago.
Half the memories bombarding me are of earth while the other half is obviously quite alien. The four distinct voices keep talking over each other, but the purpose of the messages seems to be a tutelage of sorts. Somewhat unnoticeable, below the inner voices for now, is an unfamiliar hunger.
When they bring me food, I have the distinct feeling that I will not be able to consume it.
You can eat it, says a female voice. A stronger male voice intervenes and continues, But it will make you sick.
More than anything, these voices want me to leave. They are quite insistent on this one thing as their memories play in my mind. Yes, it is now clear the memories belong to them. But, still, who are they and why are they inside my head?
Did the lightning strike alter my neurology in a way that I am now schizophrenic?
Don't be absurd, says the more prominent male voice.
A less outspoken voice adds, And this is why humanity is not suited for us.
Oh, shush you, says the only female voice with which memories of a primitive earth are associated.
Since mirrors were not yet in existence for the female, and since the aliens seemed to have no requirement for the particular reflective object, only the intense male voice is associated with memories of his appearance. He is young and does not age through the centuries during which his memories span.
If you want it, says the female.
If you are strong enough, says one of the male aliens.
You can live just as long, or perhaps even longer, says the young male.
But it's not safe for you to stay here, they all simultaneously say.
"They're confused."
With the sound of his voice breaking through the mental intrusion I am experiencing, I attempt to refocus on my older brother. More handsome than I could ever hope to be, I have always looked up to him with a sort of envy I did not quite understand until recently.
"Mom and dad?" I ask as I stare into orange eyes that always remind me of the sweeping sands of the desert.
He shakes his head and momentarily looks away from me with a measurable sigh of the burden he is forced to bear regarding our new society. I can discern that he dislikes being the bearer of bad news.
Knowing that the authorities have intervened where they have no right to interfere, I whisper, "I see."
He looks at the machine to which I am connected by wires and then he meets my gaze. Clearing his throat, he says, "According to those, you're not alive."
Looking over at the silent machine, the streaming flat line alarms me. As does the zero pulse. How is this possible when I feel alive? I am breathing, am I not? It is such an involuntary exercise that I am rarely aware of it.
Placing my right hand on my chest, leaving it here for several seconds, I do not feel my chest rising as it should. Then I check for a pulse in my wrist and neck, but again nothing.
You are too vulnerable at this early stage, says the primary male voice.
Which is why you have to get out of here while you still can, says the female.
We didn't have to deal with this nonsense back home, says the alien who dislikes people.
"How are you feeling?" asks my brother.
"Alive, why?"
"Call me paranoid, but I think we should get you out of here."
I nod and think, But where will we go?
"My car's out front. Let's see if we can make it there before we decide on anything else. Can you walk?"
Wiggling my toes, I see them move beneath the sheet at the foot of the bed. With no heartbeat, no pulse to indicate a circulation of blood and oxygen, somehow I am presenting an outward appearance of being alive.
Sliding my legs to the side, I propel my upper body forward until I am in a sitting position at the edge of the bed. I reach for the wires attached to me, but I pause to look at my brother.
"Where is the nurse's station?"
He raises a fist and uses his thumb to indicate the direction behind him.
"We'll need to go left when we leave."
"There's a stairwell at the end of the hall," he adds.
Reaching beneath the gown, I pull the wires from my chest. I wince, thinking hair would have made it a more painful experience, and then I quickly remove the device attached to my left index finger. I imagine alarms might be going off at the nurse's station, which leaves no time for me to change into my clothes.
"Let's go," I say as I jump off the bed and rush for the door.
In the hallway, I lead the way. I figure anyone behind us will not see me if my bigger, taller brother is directly behind me. The stairwell brings back memories of the girl whom I have to thank for my current predicament. Once outside, the darkness is both a relief and somewhat surreal as I look to my brother for an indication of where his truck is parked.
"Your naked bum is something I can't unsee," he says while out of breath. "Thanks for that."
His labored breathing is a reminder that although I am not alive by scientific standards, I do not feel dead. How is an undead individual supposed to feel? Out of place? I have always felt like that.
Whatever has happened to me, I know that I am still me. Albeit not alive, being is something that I still am. I still exist, for whatever reason, and being is something I will continue to do in a society that no longer wants to accept me.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
I'm afraid a nurse thought me inept last night. I'm fairly good at reading social cues and determining what is going on with a person's thoughts by their actions and glances.
There was a resident who had a brown blowout, and of course the call light wasn't working in the hallway. (This was not my fault and not at all relevant except as a factual aspect of the evening). By time I got to him during the progression of my round (working overnight where the ratio is higher it can sometimes take a while to reach the resident), the family member who is always sitting there stated it had not been long since the call light initiation. Suffice it to state, it was a complete bed change which is an easy enough task for me.
The issue, at least from my perspective, was during the second round when I was informed by the nurse that the same guy had another explosive BM. He was next in the queue anyway, so that wasn't the issue. It was not a complete bed change that time, just the draw sheet, but there did appear to be a problem with his feeding tube whereby I'm guessing it was leaking. The plastic bag in which it was contained, wrapped in a towel, was soaked and full of liquid.
I stated aloud, so the family member could hear, that it appeared to me as something I couldn't touch (some things are out of the aide's scope of practice) and I mentioned that I would inform the nurse to take care of it.
I think the nurse was upset with me and she possibly discussed it with her morning relief, because maybe it was within my scope of practice to take care of it?
Whatever, compartmentalizing is a wonderful tool.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
