Status: Active as long as Asa allows it to be.
The Making of a Life
Quarantine
Chapter 2
For once in my life, my room is comforting. The knife on my duvet isn't glaring at me. Its topaz isn't burning me. This book (somehow) stops it all. Maybe it is my cloud (moon?) in this world of suns.
The pages crinkle as I turn them and ink rubs off onto my fingers as I trace passages. Some stand out like diamonds in a coal mine. Some nearly bring me to tears. But still, even after reading every last letter, my question remains.
Words from marked pages (ribbons, from my graduation cap) float in my mind. Human nature is egocentric. Then there's another phrase. Consciousness leaves the body when asleep. And another, most painful string of letters. Death is...
And that's where a single page seems to be missing. My guts clench. If I were to know what death is, I might be able to figure out life. But the page is ripped out, a clean tear, with the numbers skipping from 173 to 176.
Suddenly, I feel my back start to burn. I know that burn well: sun. I turn and glance at my knife. My cloud drifted away, my night became day. The red book on my desk is no longer the impenetrable shield I thought it to be as I carried it home from the library. No, now it is just a security blanket. I wonder if finding the missing leaf of paper would restore the true strength of The Art and Science of Us.
A thought scrolls through my head at the pace of a ticker in Times Square. What if, what if I can find that page? What if I can learn what death (and therefore, life) is? What if I can finally answer my question?
When I return attention to my actions, I'm almost (not really) surprised that a small, empty suitcase is sitting in front of me. I open the old chest backed up against the bare wall and pull out a few articles of clothing, just enough to keep me cleanly clothed for a few days. I shove them into the suitcase and hurriedly tamp them down to make room for the thick red book.
As I zip up the case, my eyes find the knife on my bed again. I freeze. Take it? Leave it? Destroy it?
No. I cannot destroy the sun; nobody can.
I grab it by the hilt and let the suppressed beams of sunlight coming through my curtained window bounce off the sharp blade. Beautiful in a way, it is. Like a coffin carved in deep mahogany wood, beautiful, but morbid—destined to burn.
The knife rests gently (ironic) on top of the stiff red cover of the book. I cannot leave my motivation when searching for my goal.
I don't feel pain or remorse as I walk down the sidewalk. The heavy burden of the key to the door no longer weighs down my pocket. Instead, it sits on the doormat, waiting for a two-legged dog to snatch it up. Maybe they will make my house a home. I do not care.
Graham City is small. It has no trains, trolleys, subway lines, or nice footpaths. Only two small busses: one southbound, one northbound. I've only taken these busses once, when I moved here. They were not nice six years ago, and they aren't nice today, either.
The seat I'm sitting in is hard and cold, but comfortably hopeful, and my bag is squandered away underneath the seat. I'm not the only one on the bus, but I might as well be. An elderly woman is sitting at the very front, right behind the gruff driver, her thick novel (romance or mystery, I can't tell; maybe both) opened under her nose. She reminds me vaguely of Ms. Tate, but her hair is loosely curled and dyed almost blue. She looks kinder than Ms. Tate, too. If this woman were the librarian, I probably would not have a reddening welt across my cheek.
Ms. Tate was not pleased with my leaving. She was not pleased that I wanted to keep her book, even if she did snap up the bills I offered her in return. She was especially not pleased when I turned to leave without a word. Her bony hand had found my wrist and whipped me around, her other palm skidding across my face. I didn't speak or even whimper at the impact, only turned to leave again. She let me.
I will miss Ms. Tate. That is without a doubt. I will miss the quiet days in the library. I will miss the safe glow of her topaz eyeglass chain. I will miss the gaudy architecture and furnishings. I will miss the relics that the Limited section holds. I will not miss Graham City. I will not miss the judgment that people think flies over my head. I will not miss the solitary (feels solitary, though surrounded by people) cups of tea. The rest blurred into one constant memory since the day I arrived in the small town, fourteen and too alone to care.
Boredom doesn't bother me as the bus speeds down the highway, southbound to Mount Harlot; my mind is occupied with thoughts, all jockeying for a fleeting moment in the limelight behind my eyelids. They are like jealous schoolboys, all wanting to show the others up. I almost (but don't) let out a small laugh as I remind myself that I was one of those schoolboys, once upon a time. I was rowdy once, loud and playful, but then my parents disappeared. They just upped and left. They—
Tears sting behind my eyes. I will not cry. Forcing my mind back to the flashing landscape behind a pane of glass thicker than a man's will, but thinner than his valor, my hands grow clammy. This bus is like a quarantine, keeping me from the people I equate to: the religious, the scientists, the dreamers. A quarantine it may be, but the sun is too great for any walls, any panes of glass, any barriers no other can defy. Surely it is unfair. I cannot be the only one to think it iniquitous.
A sign signaling the approach to Mount Harlot flickers through my field of vision. Suddenly, the bus becomes a confined cell in which I am the magician's assistant. I cannot wait for the bus to drag to a stop. I need to get out.
Within moments, the dreary driver mumbles over the steady (monotonous) hum of the engine, "Get y'er things, lads; we're here."
The (almost soothing) drone silences and the door swings open. The elderly woman grabs her book and purse and hobbles the steps with (limited) help from the driver. Quickly stepping onto the hot asphalt, I nod a silent thanks to the man and slip a small bill into the tip box. I walk in the blazing sun, dragging my suitcase behind me, until I notice a small coffee shop. When the cool air envelops me and a plush chair materializes below me, I begin to relax.
I don't know how long I will stay in Mount Harlot. It is a big city, with an airport, train station, and several shopping malls, but where will I go? I have no plan, just the book in my suitcase and the thoughts in my head.
Mind. The sun whispers through the air, tickling my welting cheek. I realize that the sun is the same, no matter where I am. My chin sinks into my palm as I sigh.
The sun will always be there.
For once in my life, my room is comforting. The knife on my duvet isn't glaring at me. Its topaz isn't burning me. This book (somehow) stops it all. Maybe it is my cloud (moon?) in this world of suns.
The pages crinkle as I turn them and ink rubs off onto my fingers as I trace passages. Some stand out like diamonds in a coal mine. Some nearly bring me to tears. But still, even after reading every last letter, my question remains.
Words from marked pages (ribbons, from my graduation cap) float in my mind. Human nature is egocentric. Then there's another phrase. Consciousness leaves the body when asleep. And another, most painful string of letters. Death is...
And that's where a single page seems to be missing. My guts clench. If I were to know what death is, I might be able to figure out life. But the page is ripped out, a clean tear, with the numbers skipping from 173 to 176.
Suddenly, I feel my back start to burn. I know that burn well: sun. I turn and glance at my knife. My cloud drifted away, my night became day. The red book on my desk is no longer the impenetrable shield I thought it to be as I carried it home from the library. No, now it is just a security blanket. I wonder if finding the missing leaf of paper would restore the true strength of The Art and Science of Us.
A thought scrolls through my head at the pace of a ticker in Times Square. What if, what if I can find that page? What if I can learn what death (and therefore, life) is? What if I can finally answer my question?
When I return attention to my actions, I'm almost (not really) surprised that a small, empty suitcase is sitting in front of me. I open the old chest backed up against the bare wall and pull out a few articles of clothing, just enough to keep me cleanly clothed for a few days. I shove them into the suitcase and hurriedly tamp them down to make room for the thick red book.
As I zip up the case, my eyes find the knife on my bed again. I freeze. Take it? Leave it? Destroy it?
No. I cannot destroy the sun; nobody can.
I grab it by the hilt and let the suppressed beams of sunlight coming through my curtained window bounce off the sharp blade. Beautiful in a way, it is. Like a coffin carved in deep mahogany wood, beautiful, but morbid—destined to burn.
The knife rests gently (ironic) on top of the stiff red cover of the book. I cannot leave my motivation when searching for my goal.
I don't feel pain or remorse as I walk down the sidewalk. The heavy burden of the key to the door no longer weighs down my pocket. Instead, it sits on the doormat, waiting for a two-legged dog to snatch it up. Maybe they will make my house a home. I do not care.
Graham City is small. It has no trains, trolleys, subway lines, or nice footpaths. Only two small busses: one southbound, one northbound. I've only taken these busses once, when I moved here. They were not nice six years ago, and they aren't nice today, either.
The seat I'm sitting in is hard and cold, but comfortably hopeful, and my bag is squandered away underneath the seat. I'm not the only one on the bus, but I might as well be. An elderly woman is sitting at the very front, right behind the gruff driver, her thick novel (romance or mystery, I can't tell; maybe both) opened under her nose. She reminds me vaguely of Ms. Tate, but her hair is loosely curled and dyed almost blue. She looks kinder than Ms. Tate, too. If this woman were the librarian, I probably would not have a reddening welt across my cheek.
Ms. Tate was not pleased with my leaving. She was not pleased that I wanted to keep her book, even if she did snap up the bills I offered her in return. She was especially not pleased when I turned to leave without a word. Her bony hand had found my wrist and whipped me around, her other palm skidding across my face. I didn't speak or even whimper at the impact, only turned to leave again. She let me.
I will miss Ms. Tate. That is without a doubt. I will miss the quiet days in the library. I will miss the safe glow of her topaz eyeglass chain. I will miss the gaudy architecture and furnishings. I will miss the relics that the Limited section holds. I will not miss Graham City. I will not miss the judgment that people think flies over my head. I will not miss the solitary (feels solitary, though surrounded by people) cups of tea. The rest blurred into one constant memory since the day I arrived in the small town, fourteen and too alone to care.
Boredom doesn't bother me as the bus speeds down the highway, southbound to Mount Harlot; my mind is occupied with thoughts, all jockeying for a fleeting moment in the limelight behind my eyelids. They are like jealous schoolboys, all wanting to show the others up. I almost (but don't) let out a small laugh as I remind myself that I was one of those schoolboys, once upon a time. I was rowdy once, loud and playful, but then my parents disappeared. They just upped and left. They—
Tears sting behind my eyes. I will not cry. Forcing my mind back to the flashing landscape behind a pane of glass thicker than a man's will, but thinner than his valor, my hands grow clammy. This bus is like a quarantine, keeping me from the people I equate to: the religious, the scientists, the dreamers. A quarantine it may be, but the sun is too great for any walls, any panes of glass, any barriers no other can defy. Surely it is unfair. I cannot be the only one to think it iniquitous.
A sign signaling the approach to Mount Harlot flickers through my field of vision. Suddenly, the bus becomes a confined cell in which I am the magician's assistant. I cannot wait for the bus to drag to a stop. I need to get out.
Within moments, the dreary driver mumbles over the steady (monotonous) hum of the engine, "Get y'er things, lads; we're here."
The (almost soothing) drone silences and the door swings open. The elderly woman grabs her book and purse and hobbles the steps with (limited) help from the driver. Quickly stepping onto the hot asphalt, I nod a silent thanks to the man and slip a small bill into the tip box. I walk in the blazing sun, dragging my suitcase behind me, until I notice a small coffee shop. When the cool air envelops me and a plush chair materializes below me, I begin to relax.
I don't know how long I will stay in Mount Harlot. It is a big city, with an airport, train station, and several shopping malls, but where will I go? I have no plan, just the book in my suitcase and the thoughts in my head.
Mind. The sun whispers through the air, tickling my welting cheek. I realize that the sun is the same, no matter where I am. My chin sinks into my palm as I sigh.
The sun will always be there.
♠ ♠ ♠
Chapter 2! Done! The only thing that irritates me about Mibba is that on the summary page, it lists the Prologue as Chapter 1. I mean, the description says 'Prologue', but the little number says it's '1'. *sigh*Anywho, I would just like the say that, while it starts a bit slow, I have great plans for this story. Also, as I typed that, I read it in a very (VERY) bad Irish accent. In my head, thank cupcakes. XD
Maybe you'll get to meet someone very special in the next chapter or two... *winkwink* It just depends on exactly how it plays out.
Thank you!
Postscript
Comments make me very happy, and since I'm the author, some of that happiness can go to Asa to get him out of his eternal funk. Maybe. ^-^