Why is the Sky Sad?
Dracula
James wished he could be normal, like the boys who played basketball in the park right around ten every night, or better yet, the professor that woke up at the crack of dawn each morning, running the two mile track that encircled the small city. He wished he could be them, he wished he could be everyone, anyone. Anyone except himself. James was sick of being ‘special’, of being alone constantly. He hated it almost as much as he hated being around people.
At moments like this James felt lower than low, not suicidal but not far from it. He hated everything about himself, his looks, his personality. He couldn’t think of one redeeming quality, not a single one. He was too down in the dumps to even look to his books for comfort, and all the food the maids had brought up tasted stale, like cardboard. So James was left alone with his thoughts, a deed that made him sink lower into his chair. His mind analyzed every feature, every flaw and before he could stop, James felt worse.
There was no mirror near by but he could see himself just as clearly if there had been one. The black hair, the crooked teeth, the disgusting blackheads that always seemed to appear beneath his bangs. James sighed, clearly distressed, but he did not let a single tear fall.
He was fine, he was a man, and he couldn’t help it as something wet, salty, slippery slid down his cheek, connecting with the red covered book in a small explosion. He stared at the fallen tear, speechless, and he watched as many more joined the first. He could hear the stomping of feet that echoed across the narrow halls below him and the voices that called out to one another. James used to be part of that, a part of them. And then life happened and he became nervous, scared and cursed to live a life in utter solitude.
James could feel the heavy emotions start to overwhelm him, the heavy emotions that caused him to keep to himself and sit day after day in his room, only the hero’s of the many novels to keep him company. What James didn’t know was that as these emotions were just as strong, they weren’t the same. He wasn’t sent into a complete moad of panic, and he didn’t shake vigorously. He just felt empty, like there was a big, gaping hole right through the center of his gut. His teeth automatically snapped shut but he could breath fine. James wasn’t having a panic attack. James was just lonely.
He fell back into the blue cushions, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The soft velvet felt course beneath his fingers, just like the heat radiating from the fireplace felt wrong, different, sticky. Ignoring all of these, James tried to get some rest, thinking he’d feel better after a few hours of shut-eye. Beneath his eyelids he didn’t see far away lands, brave princes or scary dragons like normal. Nothing but nightmares flashed through his mind, playing like a horror movie on the big screen. But unlike movies these nightmares weren’t made up in some creeps mind. These nightmares, his nightmares were true.
The boy looked around and took a calming breath. He was sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair and rehearsing the lines he was to say in just a few minutes. He was nervous; he never liked speaking in front of crowds. He had told his teacher this numerous of times, even bursting into tears at one point. But she didn’t care; she just chalked it up to a bad case of stage fright. In her mind stage fight needed to be taken care of at an early age. James would thank her one-day.
He sighed, fidgeting and running a pudgy hand through his dark locks before realizing it was a stupid move. When his bangs weren’t covering his forehead, he was showing off his widow’s peak. Dirk Jameson, a third grader that had a thick neck and eyes like a bird, told James that his widow’s peak made him look like Dracula. James did not know who this Dracula character was but Dirk said that girls were afraid of him. He went and got bangs two hours after he’d finished that conversation.
He slowly removed his hand, glancing around nervously, hoping none of the pretty girl’s saw. Especially not Emma, he definitely wouldn’t want Emma seeing his widow’s peak. He breathed a sigh of relief; every girl except Joanna Jones was turned away from him, peaking through the curtains of the stage and watching as their principal spoke. Joanna Jones was too busy stuffing her sweaty, overweight fingers into her pug-like nose. He wouldn’t care if Joanna Jones saw his widow’s peak. In fact, he thought, as she used her other hand to wave, he’d prefer if she saw it. Then she’d be afraid of him and never speak to him again.
James heard the audience clap, and he knew he’d have to speak soon and so all thoughts about Joanna Jones instantly disappeared. He instead decided to spend his energy thinking about his lines, his three sentence, twenty-five word speech that he’d be forced to deliver in just seconds. James felt like he was going to puke as he pictured the sea of faces he’d see, including the rest of the school and all the parents of his friends. His mom and dad were, thankfully, not going to make it. His dad was in the States, working on another movie and his mom was at her sewing club. He felt sick, faint. But he had do to it. There wasn’t any other choice.
James heard his cue, and taking one last deep breath, he walked past his classmates, through the curtain that reminded him of how much he felt like puking, and onto the wooden stage. He closed the distance between him and the microphone playing with the hem of his blue polo. He grabbed the mike, and turned to the bony principal with a look of pure misery on his face. She smiled encouragingly and motioned for him to start.
James turned to face the crowd, looking over each person’s expression. Eventually his gaze landed on Dirk’s mocking one, and he froze, his lips in the midst of forming the first W. He kept his eyes on the third-grader, watching at he mouthed the word ‘Dracula.’ And staring horrified, as he and the few other thick-necked kids broke into a fit of cruel, awful, taunting laughter.
James didn’t move, a weird sound forming in the back of his throat, a sound that echoed off the walls, and a sound he didn’t remember making. And the next thing he knew he was running, sprinting before collapsing to the floor, not able to breathe.
At moments like this James felt lower than low, not suicidal but not far from it. He hated everything about himself, his looks, his personality. He couldn’t think of one redeeming quality, not a single one. He was too down in the dumps to even look to his books for comfort, and all the food the maids had brought up tasted stale, like cardboard. So James was left alone with his thoughts, a deed that made him sink lower into his chair. His mind analyzed every feature, every flaw and before he could stop, James felt worse.
There was no mirror near by but he could see himself just as clearly if there had been one. The black hair, the crooked teeth, the disgusting blackheads that always seemed to appear beneath his bangs. James sighed, clearly distressed, but he did not let a single tear fall.
He was fine, he was a man, and he couldn’t help it as something wet, salty, slippery slid down his cheek, connecting with the red covered book in a small explosion. He stared at the fallen tear, speechless, and he watched as many more joined the first. He could hear the stomping of feet that echoed across the narrow halls below him and the voices that called out to one another. James used to be part of that, a part of them. And then life happened and he became nervous, scared and cursed to live a life in utter solitude.
James could feel the heavy emotions start to overwhelm him, the heavy emotions that caused him to keep to himself and sit day after day in his room, only the hero’s of the many novels to keep him company. What James didn’t know was that as these emotions were just as strong, they weren’t the same. He wasn’t sent into a complete moad of panic, and he didn’t shake vigorously. He just felt empty, like there was a big, gaping hole right through the center of his gut. His teeth automatically snapped shut but he could breath fine. James wasn’t having a panic attack. James was just lonely.
He fell back into the blue cushions, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The soft velvet felt course beneath his fingers, just like the heat radiating from the fireplace felt wrong, different, sticky. Ignoring all of these, James tried to get some rest, thinking he’d feel better after a few hours of shut-eye. Beneath his eyelids he didn’t see far away lands, brave princes or scary dragons like normal. Nothing but nightmares flashed through his mind, playing like a horror movie on the big screen. But unlike movies these nightmares weren’t made up in some creeps mind. These nightmares, his nightmares were true.
The boy looked around and took a calming breath. He was sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair and rehearsing the lines he was to say in just a few minutes. He was nervous; he never liked speaking in front of crowds. He had told his teacher this numerous of times, even bursting into tears at one point. But she didn’t care; she just chalked it up to a bad case of stage fright. In her mind stage fight needed to be taken care of at an early age. James would thank her one-day.
He sighed, fidgeting and running a pudgy hand through his dark locks before realizing it was a stupid move. When his bangs weren’t covering his forehead, he was showing off his widow’s peak. Dirk Jameson, a third grader that had a thick neck and eyes like a bird, told James that his widow’s peak made him look like Dracula. James did not know who this Dracula character was but Dirk said that girls were afraid of him. He went and got bangs two hours after he’d finished that conversation.
He slowly removed his hand, glancing around nervously, hoping none of the pretty girl’s saw. Especially not Emma, he definitely wouldn’t want Emma seeing his widow’s peak. He breathed a sigh of relief; every girl except Joanna Jones was turned away from him, peaking through the curtains of the stage and watching as their principal spoke. Joanna Jones was too busy stuffing her sweaty, overweight fingers into her pug-like nose. He wouldn’t care if Joanna Jones saw his widow’s peak. In fact, he thought, as she used her other hand to wave, he’d prefer if she saw it. Then she’d be afraid of him and never speak to him again.
James heard the audience clap, and he knew he’d have to speak soon and so all thoughts about Joanna Jones instantly disappeared. He instead decided to spend his energy thinking about his lines, his three sentence, twenty-five word speech that he’d be forced to deliver in just seconds. James felt like he was going to puke as he pictured the sea of faces he’d see, including the rest of the school and all the parents of his friends. His mom and dad were, thankfully, not going to make it. His dad was in the States, working on another movie and his mom was at her sewing club. He felt sick, faint. But he had do to it. There wasn’t any other choice.
James heard his cue, and taking one last deep breath, he walked past his classmates, through the curtain that reminded him of how much he felt like puking, and onto the wooden stage. He closed the distance between him and the microphone playing with the hem of his blue polo. He grabbed the mike, and turned to the bony principal with a look of pure misery on his face. She smiled encouragingly and motioned for him to start.
James turned to face the crowd, looking over each person’s expression. Eventually his gaze landed on Dirk’s mocking one, and he froze, his lips in the midst of forming the first W. He kept his eyes on the third-grader, watching at he mouthed the word ‘Dracula.’ And staring horrified, as he and the few other thick-necked kids broke into a fit of cruel, awful, taunting laughter.
James didn’t move, a weird sound forming in the back of his throat, a sound that echoed off the walls, and a sound he didn’t remember making. And the next thing he knew he was running, sprinting before collapsing to the floor, not able to breathe.