User talk:Meeshell1000

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1: BEING CHASED CHAPTER 2: TODAY'S THOUGHTS CHAPTER 3: THE CONSCIENCE THEORY CHAPTER 4: THE BROKEN VASE STROY Chapter 5: Falling Asleep Chapter 6: Getting Yelled At Chapter 7: Hating the World Chapter 8: Discovering the Power/The Escape Chapter 9: Testing the Power/Entering Another's Dream Chapter 10: An Early Night Chapter 11: Exploring the Power Chapter 12: Daydreaming Chapter 13: Chelsea's Dream Chapter 14: The Renegade Chapter 15: Escaping Again Chapter 16: Sleeping Together Chapter 17: A Prophecy Chapter 18: Losing it All Chapter 19: The Armageddon Chapter 20: The Warning Chapter 21: The Awakenings Chapter 22: The Rebellion Chapter 23: The Aftermath

CHAPTER 1: BEING CHASED

I was running. I never knew I could run so fast. My breathing grew heavier and heavier with every passing second. I could feel the very blood that coursed through my veins pumping faster than the speed of lighting. It was as though the Earth was spinning fast enough so that I may see it happening before my very eyes. I was getting dizzier and dizzier with every step I took. I felt like I was running in circles while running backwards at the same time. I could hardly see in front of me. I could hardly see anything. I was practically gasping for air. I couldn't withstand the searing pain in my sides. I knew, though, that I had to keep running, that I couldn't stop. Maybe though, I thought to myself, I could slow down. Just slightly, I could ease my pain. It was then that I sensed the sudden touch of what felt like a hundred finger tips on my bare skin. A shudder raced down my spine. I fell to my knees. I wasn't injured, but I could feel grief beating me to death. Maybe I could have taken it, had agony not have struck me in the chest like a gunshot immediately following. I was sweltering in the heat of the cruel anxiety that my emotions tortured me with. I could almost feel myself beginning to faint. I kept breathing more and more heavily, hoping not to descend from my knees to my face. Thankfully, however, it wasn't long before I started catching my breath. I was starting to be able to see again. I could vaguely see the forest floor that I lay on, as well as the trees and darkness that bordered it. I stared intensely at the forest floor for as long as my head was spinning. The floor became more and more clear until eventually, I could see it perfectly. With that, I stared straight ahead. Then, something strange happened to me. As I took a sharp look at the world in front of me, I instantly began to feel weaker. Suddenly, something forced me into returning to staring at the ground. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pick my head up. No matter how much I resisted the strange force, I was powerless. I couldn't do anything. It was almost as though my body was being taken over. I then saw the ground slowly start to shake. It was rather abrupt and brief. It lasted about five seconds, and was gradual. I could only assume that my dizziness was severe. I was then distracted by the quivering sound of a sharp, piercing whisper. "No…", it said. I refused to look up again, regardless of the curiosity that tortured me, as I had never heard this voice before. I did not, however, hesitate in attempting to understand this mysterious stranger. "No… what?", I said, remaining as calm as I possibly could. "No… one…" I was extremely confused, but I refused to let it show. "No one, what?", I said. I retained all inflection and emotion, as anything could provoke this strange voice's rage, should it feel at all. "No one… here…" Was he lonely? I thought to myself. Maybe he needs a friend. "I am here.," I said, in an attempt to be reassuring. "Alone…", it responded. At that moment, I was at a loss. "What?" Suddenly, the ground began to shake again. It was different this time. It was heavy and long-winded, rather than gentile and concise. I was absolutely sure it wasn't my dizziness this time, or was I unaware that one's dizziness could simulate the sensation of an earthquake? Assuming that my fate couldn't get much worse, I looked ahead, disregarding the risks. I didn't see much, other than trees and the path. I glanced behind me, then to my right, and then to my left. No one was anywhere to be seen. I faced forward. Oddly, I was much more confused than scared. "Who… are you?", I asked. No answer. Instead, I saw something at the end of the pathway. It had the appearance of a light, but I couldn't make out any other distinguishable characteristics. I squinted as hard as I could. I still couldn't make it out to be anything other than a bright gleam. I managed to retain my serenity on the outside, but questions raced through my head like race cars that had just been signaled to bolt through the track. What's going on? I thought to myself, Is anybody there? Is this really happening? What is this place? It was getting closer, yet nothing about it became clearer. I could only identify it's star-like glow. I couldn't understand. What was it? What was it doing? Suddenly, I began to notice something. The light seemed to be coming for me. It was dashing through the air at incredible speed, like a bullet. It was getting closer and closer to me, and I didn't know where to go from there. All I could do was worry as questions continued to scream within my mind, almost as though they were trapped inside. I became almost petrified with anxiety. Could it hurt me? I thought, Could it kill me? What's going to happen to me??? It was heading for my eyes. It was almost blinding. Then, just as the light was almost directly under my eyes, I once again heard the echoes of the sinister voice as it uttered one sole word with a ghostly tone. "Run." I was deadlocked. I had no where to go. I felt that I could do nothing but behold what I thought would be my last glimpse of light. That was, until, the light was directly under my eyes. I was then suddenly able to arch my back as far down as the ground itself. I watched the mysterious light flow right above my face and fly over me, darting right pass me as I felt a greater sense of relief then I had ever felt before. Yet, at the same time, I was stunned. I was not flexible, and everything had seemed to happen completely spontaneously, with absolutely no warning or intention. I even began to contemplate the possibility of the fact that I had not moved my own body, like I had been taken over by something. Or someone. Nonetheless, I was in no atmosphere for amazement. I could only focus on my strive for survival, as the danger seemed to be infinite here, but in spite of the mysterious forces that trailed the forest, I consistently reinforced myself to remain calm. I was unsure of whether there was an identity behind the strange voice or, if there was, how easily it could be scared or angered, not to mention it's defense tactics. A tiny bee will sting everything in it's way. A german shepherd may bite a human that startles it. Regardless of whatever the identity, if any, that may have been behind the voice, I was painfully unaware of what lay ahead, as the future is unpredictable. "Run where?", I asked, getting back to his strange command. No answer. I grew impatient. "Run where???" Anxiety was filling my lungs. I waited as patiently as I could in that moment. "Tell me!" No answer. I couldn't take it anymore. I let out a piercing scream. I had never felt so enraged, but it was getting to me in ways I couldn't understand and never thought possible. I was unsure of whether to be thankful or not when it ended up being the violent ripping of my vocal chords that finally provoked the voice to respond. "Get… out...", it said. This time, I was the one who didn't respond, unless my slow, heavy breathing that was but a mere attempt to empty the infinite amounts of animosity lodged within my lungs, as my screams had turned out to be disappointingly insufficient in doing so, could be considered a form of response. "Why… still here…" Inadvertently, I ended up giving it a taste of its own medicine. I was unfortunately unable to enjoy it, as I was too preoccupied with what I assumed to be a vivid sensation of what it is like to die. "Go…", it said. My fury was somehow then superseded by my sudden desire for the logic and reasoning that refused to present itself. My words, however, were not shy of vengeful subtlety. "Where… where am I supposed to go?", I asked. "Away…", it responded. "I'm not sure how I can take orders from a voice,", I said, replacing ideas of logic with ideas of manipulation, "or are you too much of a coward to show yourself?" "Not… scared." "Neither am I." I said. I was ready to fight. "Should… run…", it said. There was no question in that it had an answer for everything. "What do I even need to run from?" I asked. Suddenly, the ground began to shake again, but briefly. I saw something not too far ahead. I saw cracks spontaneously forming in the ground. I looked to the ground at my feet. I had never been in vicinity of an earthquake before. Was that fact becoming untrue before my very eyes? I suppose I should've been relieved when the answer turned out to be no. Unfortunately, however, my relief was only then silenced by curiosity and confusion, which worsened in progressing time. Suddenly, I began to see greater brightness than I did before, when instantaneous beams of light began to shoot out of the ground, taking my perplexity to higher levels than ever before. It was then that logic was no longer my ally. Unsure of whether I could not single out any analytical explanations, or whether I was too weary to do so, I could only stare at the sudden beams of light with eyes filled with intense confusion. The lights began to rise higher and higher out of the ground, almost as though they were trying to escape. But what could they be escaping from? As the question raced through my brain, I noticed something. Something else was trying to escape from the ground, something that would want to escape. It was something that would posses urges to break out of such a confined space, something that could feel emotion. Someone. It was silhouetted. It was black. Pitch black. It was an arm, pushing through the heavy ground. It was making progress, as it was able to stretch it's arm out further and further as it pushed through the hard surface. Nothing seemed to make sense, but from where I was standing, suspension of disbelief was my only reliability. I was in no position to ask questions. Then, another arm shot out of the collapsed ground. Both arms held on, as though it was for one's dear life, as surely these arms had to belong to someone. Then, I saw the arms push off of the ground, slowly popping the rest of it's body out. I began to see the very top of a head, a silhouette as well. Fear, anxiety, and yet somehow, curiosity, were virtually fighting each other for a spot in my state of mind. I was completely unaware of how to feel about what could be anything. The silhouetted body slowly began to show more and more of itself. I could see a torso. Should I close my eyes? I thought. What if so much as looking at it could be dangerous? I looked away. I didn't know what to expect in this place. Then, I heard another whisper. “Stephen...” Ignoring every possible danger, I immediately looked the silhouette directly in where I assumed it's eyes would be. “You know my name?” It's entire body was standing there, a dark silhouette of a lone body, that which, despite the absence of facial expressions to assist in my judgement, I had a strange hunch it wanted something from me. “Stephen…”, it said again. “What? What do you want from me?” “Gone...” It was at that moment that this mysterious thing, whatever it was, had fueled my anger to it's absolute maximum. “Who are you?!” I yelled. “Tell me, now! Who are you, how do you know who I am, and what do you want with me?!” “Well...” Suddenly, the trend of bright lights flashing before my eyes continued. This time, brightness was all I able to see. Everything in front of me had become what was solely a bright flash. No sky, no ground, no substance. I closed my eyes, proceeding with caution. At that moment, everything became absolutely silent. My eyes remained shut, as I did not want to take any chances. “Well what? Answer my questions!” Suddenly, I heard a new voice. It was not dark or sinister in the least. In fact, it was the exact opposite. It was gentle and pleasant, like the voice's owner would not hurt anybody, not ever. As a matter of fact, this voice was familiar. “I'm Bert Soames, I know you because you're my son, and I want you to wake up.”

CHAPTER 2: TODAY'S THOUGHTS

I had not awoken from the dead, but it had seemed to be so. I opened my eyes as much as I could, for my exhaustion was practically consuming me, not to mention the utter shock that just made it's way into my brain. My father was sitting on my bed, a wide-awake look escaping his eyes with an eager smile to match. It wasn't shocking, he is always like this. “What time is it?” I asked, half asleep and irritated. “Six o'clock.” he answered. My father is what I like to call an "over-enthusiastic morning person”. Of course, with waking up everyday at five in the morning in making sure that he has time to get ready and commute to work, it would probably be something he would have to adapt to. Then again, the only reason he had to leave so early is because we live in Woodside, a town that's over an hour away from New York City. He is a lawyer in Manhattan.	I have always come to wonder why my father would chose a job so far away. I've been told the story. I know that my father lived in Manhattan before he met my mother, and that he wasn't always a lawyer. His life used to be the pursuit of his dream of being a successful playwright. I've been told that he graduated high school in North Carolina, then moved to New York to make his dream come true. He even wrote a script, I forgot when though, I was told it was written before he graduated, and I've never read it. I've been told that it was long gone, and I've never bothered to look for it. Anyway, he unfortunately was consumed by the pressure of rejection, and never summited his script to anyone. He instead decided that all he could do then was put all of his effort into living on whatever money he had left in his savings for as long as he could. Eventually, he met my mother, with whom eventually he shared his apartment with. It was she who inspired him to study law, but the tuition for law school unfortunately lost them most of there money. They spent a year working low paying jobs, living check to check, until eventually, my father finished law school and got a job at a law firm in Manhattan. After having enough money, they moved to the suburbs. It was then my father had to decide whether or not to keep his job or look for another that was closer to their new home. He decided to keep his job, but he never told me why. I was born about two years later. I don't object to his happiness. There's nothing wrong with joy in one's life. Unfortunately, however, his opinions of me are not as tolerable. He sees me as depressing, simply because I do not share his exuberant personality. On the contrary, I am not overjoyed about the air that I breathe. I am not filled with energy and excitement at six o'clock in the morning. My father, on the other hand, has a completely different theory. He insists that I am never happy, that nothing in the world could fill me with joy, that I am, in a word, depressed. I'm not even sure that I know what the worst part of it all is, whether it is that he has an idea that he can decide how I feel, or that if I actually was depressed, which I most certainly was not, he would only be making me feel worse in giving me the idea that nobody would care, that I would only be criticized for my feelings and states of mind. “I have to go to work now.”, he said “Get up and get going.” He got off my bed, ripped my covers off of me, then left. I can not even begin to express how infuriating it is when a parent does that. I don't know whether it's just the unpleasantness of it alone, or the underlying idea that he is being forceful, that he thinks that obnoxiousness and pretentiousness is one of the most effective forms of reverse psychology, that it will inevitably make me succumb to his conceited ways. I wondered if it would be wrong to laugh at such arrogance, but I put the thought to the side, as I was still greatly tired. I wanted to get up, but my powerful exhaustion was preventing from doing so. In fact, it was as though it was prepared to kill me the minute that I should question it. I kept my head on my pillow, planning to get out of bed in about five minutes or so. Unfortunately, however, a rude disturbance put that goal to bed. “Get up. Stephen. You're snoring is the most annoying thing in the world.” It was a high pitched voice that was ironically enough not as jubilant as the deeper one of my father. A voice that was just as irritated as it was irritating. That's how I knew it was my little sister. Like me, she was not a morning person. Quite the opposite, in fact. “Come on, Stephen!” she said, sounding impatient. I hadn't an idea of what she could be in a hurry for. She was never one to worry about being late for school or anything like that, and even if she was, she still had an hour an a half. “Shut up, Isabella.”, I said, my face still buried in my pillow. “You're ten years old.” Part of me wondered if I was contradicting my own words by saying that she was ten years old, then telling her so much as to shut up. The other part, however, just wanted to go back to bed. “Is that all you say?", she asked, clearly angry. "That I'm ten years old? Don't you know any other words? Like at all?” Yes, I have asked her that question before. Then, she hit me. I immediately sat up in my bed. I wasn't amused. “Isabella,”, I yelled, “stop acting like a parent and get the hell out of my room!” She didn't listen. Instead, she stood there, with a smug little smile on her face. “Isabella, I said get out of my room, now!” “Now!” she said, mocking me. When she doesn't act like a parent, she makes fun of me. “Go! I mean it!” “Go! I mean it!” I was infuriated. I was ready to jump out of my bed and hit her right back, but then she stormed out. I probably wouldn't have done it anyway, the last thing I wanted was to be more immature that her. Unfortunately, though, sometimes my impulse can get the better of my judgement, which is why I was grateful when she stormed out. There's a very good chance that my impulse would have won if she hadn't. I got out of my bed. I was angry, but I was slowly simmering down. If there's one ting my sister knows best, it's how to make me mad. I know she's only ten, but a ten-year-old with the knowledge of how to make someone feel so badly is a ten-year-old that wouldn't work so hard at it without a reason, which killed me, the fact that my sister hated me so much that she was willing to put the effort into to being so cruel, even though sometimes it wasn't much. That which didn't have much always managed to have subtle meaning to supplement. In spite of all of it though, I thought that the best thing that I could do would be to put it to the side for now. I knew one thing for sure. It's never hard to see that all my sister is after is a feeling of self-importance, much like the rest of the world. The only difference is, she couldn't be more obvious. I have an identity for my her as well, like how my father is an over-enthusiastic morning person, my sister is "a blind carbon copy of my parents". She will repeat things that my parents say, word for word. She will tell me to get out of bed, empty the dishwasher, that I can't have dinner if I don't do this or that, or something of the sort. The blindness is in my parents. They never seem to notice. It doesn't matter. I never listen to her anyway. She's just a child. I was never really a talent in letting things go. My walk to school was serene. It was relaxing. It always is. Most people consider that walking anywhere is tiresome, but my walk to school gives me the peace and quiet that for me, is usually difficult to find. It leads me in my escape from the multiple drudgeries that I deal with in the morning and nights before. I only wish it could help me escape from what follows. I sometimes take random walks at other parts of the day, but it is never truly as satisfying as my walk to school. I don't know why. I think it is because at other parts of the day, I know that shortly, I would have to go back home. The wind wasn't too strong. It was a little bothersome though, as it kept blowing my hair in my face. I've been told multiple times that “my hair is rather long for a boy”, which is really something of an exaggeration. My hair barely touches my shoulders. It's thick and dark brown. “Long hair for a boy” to me is a boy that can put his hair into a long ponytail. That is long hair for a boy. I try my best not to let opinions and criticism get to me. I suppose I should be a pro at it by now, with all of the opportunities that I have had to practice given to me, but it only gets more and more difficult. Not a lot of people understand that, which is extremely irritating to me. People assume that all I have to do is ignore what people say. People make it out to be easy to tolerate rude stares and degrading comments. It's not easy at all. In fact, in might be the most difficult thing in the world. I was halfway on my way at that point. My walks to school are a time for me to think. I usually just take whatever is on my mind and ponder it deeply. Today, I thought about arrogance. I thought about how stereotypes are developed by those with wild imaginations and spread by lifeless cynics. I thought about how one will often look at another, then look away in blatant disgust in making one feel so self-important. I thought about the close-minded, and of what could provoke one to be so cold-hearted and cruel, to which there was no logical answer, I thought of the devil. I thought that these ideas could be secretly lodged in the back of one's mind, and that only those pure of the heart, the soul, the mind, and even the body, are truly powerful enough to know of them. It was then that I suddenly had a feeling, as though I could sense something reassuring me that I was right. I don't know what it was, but it made me feel secure. All-in-all, there are some things in life that I have never been able to understand. I could never grasp the idea of so much ignorance compacted in such a small world. I stopped walking. I looked across the street. I was at school, and my walk had come to an end.

CHAPTER 3: THE CONSCIENCE THEORY

The educational system had never seemed right to me. Yes, it is thought great to receive an education, especially since it is an opportunity that we did not always have, one that was fought for, and long and hard at that. What I disapprove of is the educational system's ironic lack of knowledge, that which I believe is the true primary source of the world's ignorance. English used to be one of my favorite classes, that was until my first day in Ms. Falke's class. Common courtesy should be for teachers to get to know their students, to establish a connection, to know what works for them and what may help them grow as intelligent people. Sadly, I have had a nervous feeling of the meaning of intelligence having been have greatly diminished for quite some time now. I was sitting in my English class. I was really tired. Exhausted, in fact. The weather outside was dreary. I couldn't tolerate much today. As Ms. Falke was writing on the board, I could see that she was actually in somewhat of a daze, like she didn't even want to be there. I didn't know what to think, what would be more sensical, between utter shock or my usual disappointment in my hopes that at least one of my teachers would disprove my theory that there is no such thing as a competent teacher. As I pondered that thought, I heard a girl's voice. “Ms. Falke?” Then, despite the crippling exhaustion that overpowered me, my eyes shot wide open. “Yes, Chelsea?” she said. “Are you tired?” she asked. The answer could not be more obvious. “No, not at all.” Liar. “Then, do you just... not want to be here?” At that moment, everyone in the class, including Ms. Falke herself, had appeared to have been woken up from a deep sleep. Everyone was shocked. I could hear whispers all throughout the room. There was a “whoa” here and a “wow” there. Some even laughed. Ms. Falke, on the other hand, was not amused in the least. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Oh, come on, Ms. Falke,” she said, with complete blatancy, “Your eyes are barely open, I can barely read your handwriting on the board, and everything you say just sounds like a yawn.” This time, everyone was utterly impressed. “Go, Chelsea!” one said. “You tell her!” said another. Ms. Falke, on the other hand, was beyond angry. “Chelsea, that's none of your business.” she said sternly, “Now enough, or you're going downstairs.” Ms. Falke looked at Chelsea harshly, almost as though she was going to do something to her. It was certainly not a friendly look. She turned around. It was a look that was not so much as intimidating, but was obvious in attempting to be so. Nonetheless, it didn't stop Chelsea. “Jesus.” she mumbled. Ms. Falke turned around immediately. “That's it. Office. Now.” Rather then fighting her, Chelsea simply shrugged, then got up, but as she headed for the door, I stepped up from my desk. “Wait.” I said. “Ms. Falke?” “What is it, Stephen?” “That wasn't Chelsea. It was me.” Ms. Falke looked at Chelsea, who nodded with absolutely certainty. “Alright. Take a seat, Chelsea. Don't let it happen again, Stephen.” Chelsea walked to her seat, flashing me a smile along the way. The rest of class was pretty boring, but I managed to muddle through it. When it finally came to an end, I proceeded to walk out, but was tapped on the shoulder. I then heard a “thanks”. It was Chelsea. I turned around. “No problem.” I said. “What are friends for?” We were standing people's way, but for some reason, I felt it wouldn't have been right to move. She chuckled. “Yep. See ya.” As she walked away, I stood there with a sudden sense of confusion and pessimism. I kept wondering if using the word 'friend' was the best idea. As I then proceeded to my next class, I thought to myself for a moment. I thought of how I would always consider Chelsea a friend, but I could only wonder whether she would me. I thought about the fact that Chelsea and I have been going to school together ever since she moved to Woodside six years ago, but we've never seen each other outside of school. Yet, I also thought of how we have talked every now and then, and that I had always tried to be as nice to her as I could. In fact, I feel as though I have a habit of trying harder in being nicer to her than I do with others. I don't know why, but whatever it be, I know that it is because of my conscience. I've always had a theory. My theory states that there is always one reason that everybody has for their actions, no matter what the situation or who the person may be. The reason is because of one's conscience. A conscience is powerful. A conscience always knows what is right, as the common man will shortly summarize. Most importantly, a conscience always has reason, and I admire the idea of the conscience because of that. There is no reason that a conscience would ever work abruptly, there is always a reason why one would make a decision. Unfortunately, sometimes, the reason may be underlying and not quite so obvious, which leads to impatience an misunderstanding in people, in other words, the beloved ignorance. Bottom line, a reason has to come from somewhere, but sadly, many are too restless in taking time to take the time to figure out those that are obscure and complex. In short, what is stored in the depths of one's mind must always have a source. Unlike many, I would say proudly that I have much appreciation for my conscience. I regret to say, though, that my theory stems from personal experience. Many consider me a deviant. I will not deny it. I will deny, though, the common definition. A deviant is one who does not engage in the social norm. A deviant is not ultimately a criminal. A deviant is not a hateful person. A deviant is not negative, depressed, suicidal, or someone who thinks it is cool to just not care. A deviant, to me, is someone different. Simple as that. I am different. I am a deviant. I will not deny it. I entered my next class. I couldn't stop thinking about my friendship with Chelsea. I thought about how we've become acquainted, but not close. I thought of how I don't talk to many people in my school, and there's a reason for that, and it is a reason further in depth of my conscience. I am not antisocial. I associate with people, but rarely do I use more than a sentence. I have never felt provoked to strike up a conversation with anyone in my school, especially not one personal. One thing was for sure, everyone knew everyone in my school. People know me, but they don't know me. My life was my life. Nobody needed to know about it, at least nobody that I barely knew. Chelsea, on the other hand, evoked my instinct somehow. However, there was one person, one besides Chelsea, that I have felt differently around. Her name is Grace. She was certainly beautiful, tall with long blonde hair, though to say the least, I had always felt something different around her, perhaps to say a sense of hopefulness, maybe that of reassurance, or possibly even just less doubt, which maybe would just be enough, I have yet to know. Unfortunately, though, it was sadly not enough for me to actually talk to her. I guess one could consider it a reverse take on the stereotypical high school love story. I first noticed Grace in our freshman year of high school. I remember feeling something the first time I saw her face. I know that that's what everyone will say, but that doesn't make it untrue. We've talked once, at least as much as I can remember. It was freshman year, and we were in the same geometry class. I remember being up at the board solving a problem, to then hear my teacher call her up to the board to solve a problem as well. She came up to the board to a spot next to me to write her problem. As we were writing, she look at me and talked to me for the only time that she ever had since we've known each other. “Hi.” she said. That was the part in the story where the girl would normally become overexcited and happy in her discovery of the boy knowing of her existence after all, followed by pretending to faint or whispering to her friends or finding some other way to overly exaggerate her excitement. In this version of the story, I was the girl. “Hi.” I said back, with a smile. In my rendition of the story, I skipped the exaggerations, or at least I kept them to myself. It was a moment that others would not surprisingly consider insignificant and unimportant, but to me it was a moment of sanctity, one I will never forget. Sadly, Grace and I did not share a class this year, however, I do see her in the hallway sometimes. Unfortunately, with the last time I talked to her being a mere coincidence that would most likely not occur beyond the inside of a class room, I did not expect to speak with Grace again for a long time. So far it's been two years. At that moment, I was sitting in my desk. Class had begun already, though I was surprised in knowing so, being that I was either distracted in my thoughts or just to exhausted to care, not to say my exhaustion didn't take sole part in rendering me disinterested, but it greatly assisted. I could only think of Grace. My focus rested on her beauty, her wholesomeness, and everything about her that I knew and admired. Primarily speaking, my thoughts were of the reasoning for the optimism that I felt around her. Grace is what one would most likely consider to be a popular girl. I would consider her popular as well, maybe, would the definition of the word 'popular' not have been so greatly distorted to something so disgraceful. One could look up the word popular in the dictionary to find “liked, admired, or enjoyed by many people or by a particular person or group”. Many people know Grace. It is not uncommon that I see her in the hallway with a group of people, or sitting at a lunch table with a large group of friends, relatively speaking as well, thereby considering her popularity in more ways than one. Be that as it may, I have unfortunately been having a bad feeling for some time now that a great majority of people do not look at a dictionary as often as one used to, which was not very frequent to begin with. The word 'popular' has been manipulated. It has not only become a virtual mix of a social class and a religion, that of which its pretentious members are obligated to degrade in efforts to achieve their goals of self-importance, but it has also become one that its non-members despise, a majority of which are sadly too consumed by fear to rid of it, so much so that those fearful have practically fooled themselves into either believing that it is something we as a group should respect, or something that we must live with. That would be my definition, at least. I have never even felt comfortable using the word alone. If nothing else, I would not classify its newer definition as its prior, that is to say would one ask me the definition, perhaps a foreigner or a young child, I would give that which would be seen in the dictionary, or at least remotely in my own words, if being manipulative in the least, as I much prefer professing my own beliefs over doing so of others, especially officials, however, I believe that in this case, the official standing makes perfect sense. Very rare is it so that we agree, but we do, so why fight it? Unfortunately, there are many beliefs that I have yet to share with others. Not to say that would change my beliefs, though only to wish for greater purity in people, that which I have begun to feel to be harder to find than a rare gemstone. There is a reason a diamond is so rare. On the topic of Grace, she was that diamond, I have believed for a long time. She proved something to me in the moment I met her, that is that diamonds are nearly impossible to find, yet when one is discovered, its finder immediately feels it wrong to search for another, for the purity of one diamond could never match that of another. She also helped me in realizing that difficulty in finding something does not imply a non-existence, that a search is never over until it is complete, when something is found. There's a word for this feeling, that word is love. Many would say that loving Grace is non-sensical in knowing this backstory, that I have not had enough contact with her, that I barely know her, but of course, I am never one to follow anyone's beliefs but my own, and there would be no reason as to why I would start then, and my beliefs are that the common thought of “love at first sight” is most definitely true. Feelings are feelings, why deny them knowing they are there, only to set oneself up for relentless denial and agony? I only wish that my thoughts were not overcome by fear, not to say I am ashamed, only troubled. Everyone is afraid of something. I knew I would be ready to overcome my fear one day, so why attempt what I knew I wasn't ready for yet? My thoughts of Grace continued on as I sat in my desk, only being able to otherwise dread the minutes passing by as I longed for the school day to end. Aside from my thoughts of her, I was in no mood to even make an attempt in tolerating the incessant pointlessness that was a school day. All I could do was continue to enjoy the better productivity I received by daydreaming in all of my classes, while at the same time, praying that when I awoke, I would be waking up to competent teachers, worthwhile knowledge, and a feeling of inadequacy being happily forgotten. Hopefully, one day, I won't wake up to disappointment.

CHAPTER 4: THE BROKEN VASE STORY

I do not care for therapy. I never have. Truthfully, I can't stand therapy in the absolute minimum, but why preach? To preach when no one will listen is the bigger question. Begging for no therapy will only make one seem to need it more, I have learned the hard way. The reasoning for my going to therapy is non-sensical and meaningless. Being so, it helps me return to reality when I need to. I have theorized that most parents consider therapy for there child not because they feel that their child needs it, but because their expectations of the child they wanted from the moment the child was born were not lived up to, and it is something that the parents can't deal with. I was sure when my parents signed me up for therapy that I was right. Prior to my parents thinking that I needed therapy, they had begun to see me as off-putting. I could tell by the little signs, such as questioning my appearances or subtly attempting to steer me away from my habits. It was when they started notice that their attempts weren't working that the contemplation really began. I remember coming home from school one day to see my mother on the living room couch reading a book. She looked up at me. “Stephen?” she said. “What?” I said, not in the mood to talk. It was not uncommon that I felt as such coming home from school. “Are you aware that you have paint stains on your face?” I knew I heard a subtle tone of disgust when she said that. I returned the favor with a look on my face equally as subtle, but that in anger rather than repulsion. “I guess I didn't notice.” I answered, the disdainful tone in my voice remaining. I did not use that tone on purpose, I did not want to. It was something I couldn't control. I hated myself for it, but I assumed that my mother would understand. I would unfortunately soon find out later that I was wrong. “Shouldn't you have checked before you left your art class?” “I guess so.” “Well, go wash it off.” she said, almost like she was sending me away, like she couldn't stand for me to be in her presence any longer or something. She might as well have gestured with her hand that I “begone”, like a queen would do to her non-worthy subjects. I don't know if my mother means to be a cold-hearted cynic or not, but regardless, it's who she is. I remember lying down on my living room couch with nothing to do later than night. I then heard my parents come in after a trip to the market. Along with the sound of rustling paper bags, I heard whispers of a conversation. I wasn't very interested at first, that was, until I heard my name. “I just want what's best for Stephen.”, I heard my mother say. Clearly, I was intrigued. I walked over to behind the kitchen door, listening what my parents had to talk about, what which was so important that it had to have been whispered and kept secretive. “I do too.” my father said. “So why are you being so skeptical about this?” Skeptical? About what? “I just think we should really consider the making such a big decision.”, he answered. Decision? A decision for me? Shouldn't I have a say in whatever this is? Apparently not so. “He's depressed all the time, clearly.”, she said What? What is she talking about? “He barely talks to us, and when he does he doesn't have much to say.” There's a reason for that, you judgmental, heartless bitch. “He doesn't eat...”, she continued. What the hell is she talking about? I never realized how psychosomatic one's thoughts could truly be until that very moment. “...and I can't even remember the last time I saw him smile.” It's hard to smile around you. “Do you think he'd like it?” asked my father. Like what?!! “It doesn't matter.”, said my mother. “What matters is that Stephen is healthy and happy.” ...but how would I be happy if I don't like this... thing… what is it?! “Trust me, Bert. Therapy's helped a lot of people through even worse problems than what Stephen has.” This is the part of The Broken Vase Story that I like to call "The Reaction". I unleashed my anger as I pushed open the kitchen door with all of my might. “Therapy??!!” I shouted. I was furious. "Stephen!?" my mom said, scared and shocked. My father simply stood there, like he had done nothing wrong. I confronted my mother at that moment, making not a single attempt to hold back my anger, as well as all thoughts that crossed my mind in the process. "Therapy!! What problems?? How could you do this to me?! What have I ever done to you?? What did I do to deserve this?!" It was no surprise that I looked like a raging psychopath at that moment. Of course, there was no mirror to prove it, so I was never absolutely sure what I looked like, but I could feel it, not to mention that the looks my parents gave me, mostly those coming from my mother, were methods of communication in themselves. Looks were not unusual coming from my parents. These looks were new though. "Stephen, please, calm down.", she said, faultily attempting to calm me down. My mother was never one to be reassuring, especially in terms of her possessing care and affection for anyone aside from herself, especially me. "We just want what's best for you." she said. "No you don't!" I shouted. I then found a open water bottle sitting on the counter. I smacked it off, leaving water to spill all over the kitchen floor. "Stephen, please, calm down!" There was no way I could calm down, nothing whatsoever could make me. I was infuriated. Why wouldn't I be? I was breathing heavily, my face was bright red, and I had the strong urge to hurt someone, however, I was not violent. I am not violent. I could barely control myself. I saw a glass vase sitting on the table in front of me. I punched it, breaking it into tiny pieces. My mother and father ran under the table, my mother seeming to be a little more scared than my father. However, I still believe that her fear was only the smaller of her troubled thoughts at the time. I still, to this day, believe that disappointment was far more present. I fought it more after that. I did not break anything else. I had to clean up the broken parts of the vase. My fighting ended up only being useless exasperation, for to this day I sit in a therapist's office every Thursday from 4-5. It is absolute agony. That was the conclusion of The Broken Vase Story. There's a sequel. I've entitled it, "Therapy: The Story I'm Afraid May Never Have a Conclusion." Today's therapy session may be the longest one that I have endured to date. "So tell me how you've been, Stephen." My therapists name is Deborah Glasgow. I often attend my therapy sessions feeling sorry for her, and a little bit guilty, as I will never have a lot to say to her. My biggest question is whether or not she is aware of the fact. "Fine," I answered. A look on her face said disappointed. I wouldn't be surprised if her primary goal was to get more than a word out of me. "Okay, good," she said, hopefulness still there, doing what it could to stay strong. "Um, hows your family?" I didn't even answer her the time. I simply shrugged. "Um, alright," she said, becoming worrisome. She wrote things down on a small notepad. There was no question that I wanted to know what she was writing, however I actually had a pretty good hunch: 'silent', 'quiet', 'to himself'. One of maybe the very few good things about therapists: Insult your patients, lose your business. Even if it is just on a piece of paper, it becomes a morality for them, a habit if one will. "Friends?" "I have friends," I said. I was being defensive, I knew it. "Um, okay, I mean, how are they?" she asked, nervously. "Oh," I said, actually embarrassed. "They're fine." "Great," she said, beginning to express a very subtle tone of hopelessness in her voice. As she wrote more down on her notepad, I kept debating with myself. Part of me kept thinking, am I too paranoid? Should I give this lady a break? I mean, she is trying. However, the other part of me kept thinking, You don't need to be here, your parents forced you to endure this crap. But is this really her fault? But if she were truly any good, she would notice that I don't need to be here. She can't read minds. It's fairly obvious. She's probably no different then your parents. She probably just cares about money. But what if?? "Ugh!" I said aloud, distressed and confused. Ms. Glasgow was surprised. I was too. Then, Ms. Glasgow suddenly tried to do so much as hide her shocked facial expression, like she didn't want me to see it or something. Not that I didn't, which I am pretty sure she was well aware of. "Are you okay, Stephen?" "What?" I said, almost as though I was waking up from a dream. "Yeah, I'm fine." I do the same thing with Ms. Glasgow that I do with my mother: I speak with an accidental tone of hatred in my voice. Ironically enough, though, I think I may have regretted using it more with Ms. Glasgow then with my mother. I have given up on my mother. I am not in a position to resent Ms. Glasgow, yet. "So," she said, in an attempt to distract from awkward thoughts "Yeah?" I answered, waiting to see what she could come up with. I could tell that she knew that she only made it more awkward for both of us. "What do you want to talk about, Stephen?" Whoa, I thought, that's a new one. I started to feel a slight more guilty about my tone, that question took me by quite the surprise. "I don't know," I said, "shouldn't you be asking me a question." "Well, I did." she said. It was fairly obvious that she was trying to avoid conflict.