Since I haven't posted anything in a while, I've decided something big needs to happen to this here online journal. Something major...like a story or something. Yeah, that's a capital idea. I don't usually nurture an idea pulled out of thin air and encourage it to grow, but I like this idea. It's sweet, like an over-frosted cupcake with an overload of sprinkles and a caramel frappe with whipped cream on the side all in one sitting. Personally, I could definitely do that. A sugar rush would be nice right at the moment, actually. I'm sick and I don't feel too wonderful, but I need to help this idea really take off; so later I can teach it to fly~
My name is Lucky. Just Lucky. I don't really like telling other people about my life before I found this bottle. It was like a metal pole on Main Street in the winter; the one all the little kids dare each other to stick their tongues on. Everyone had heard about me, everyone knew who I used to be...Then I ran from myself. I tried so hard to erase my identity that I actually believed it. But it was so false, and so terrible. My parents could never forgive me. Then I can still remember back to the day when I saw myself without a mirror.
It was raining buckets, raining so awfully hard. I thought the little water bullets would go right through the glass windows of the car. I was on my way home from school, just like every other day in my life.
"So, [insert name of your choice], what was school like? Any projects assigned?"
"No. Just the same old stuff." Mental note- I've never liked school, and school never liked me.
"What about you, little one? Anything interesting?" My mother turned around to meet my sister's eyes.
"Naaah..." Penny slid up her cell phone, texting.
I pulled off my wet hood and let it rest upon my shoulders; I felt so tired. The days when Haylee were apcent were always the worst. I usually had no one to tell all of the little things in life to; like how good I thought mint tastes as it melts on your tongue...the small things. Or how I like to stand in the rain with a waterproof coat on just to hear the sound of the rain splattering as it landed. I watched as we departed the front of the school; I remembered that it was Thursday. Thursdays were usually my most boring days of the week. I'll go home to homework, then eat dinner that's usually the same every night (chicken and pasta that looks like shriveled brains) and then finally go to sleep. I miss dreaming so much...when I was a child, things were different. My every night was filled with vivid colors and music I knew didn't exist in the real world. I remember the last dream I had before they stopped for good:
I was only seven years old. It was dark, and I was on my knees in the middle of the woods. There was a twinkling little fairy-like light shimmering like a mirage far in front of me. My eyes widened slightly as I reached for it in an innocent manner. When I realized that I couldn't reach it, I tried to pull myself off my knees. They were bloodied and scraped, like I'd been falling down all day long on sharp rocks. I managed to rise an inch or two before gravity got the best of me, and I sank back onto the ground. I tried five or six times before I began to cry. There was blood on my hands from trying to crawl to the light, my knees throbbing in pain, their wounds oozing. The dark was hanging like a black curtain all around me, closing off the small light until I could no longer see it. There was someone trying to talk to me, but I couldn't hear what they were saying to me. I awoke in the darkness, as though the dream had never actually ended. I hugged my knees to my chest to make sure they weren't bloody; they turned out to be just fine.
Someone told me, a long, long, time ago that dreams are just absurd little scraps leftover from our imagination, and that we shouldn't pay any attention to them. I regret ever making the decision to believe this person. My dreams haven't returned since the one that occurred in the woods that night. I worry that I may never see the world of my dreams again, with its beautiful wistful music playing far away, the notes blossoming on oxygen bubbles. I wish I could see the endless oceans glittering like someone had thrown shattered glass across the surface, rocky bluffs extending for kilometers above, or the clearings that I would always come to in the evening with fireflies weaving the thick grasses together. It pains me to think that I'll probably never see that place again, and that all I'd ever wanted had been flushed down the toilet at the mere age of seven.
When we reached the house and parked the car in the driveway, I walked right in without uttering the slightest greeting to my stepfather or younger brother. They stood with plastic smiles, my brother Daniel waving at me with that toddler manner I thought was so annoying. Deep inside my heart, I knew there was a place for them: right in the shadows, so that I'll never have to see them again. I walked up the stairs, no regrets with what I'd just done, and made a right into my bedroom. The room was dimly lit with the lack of sunlight, everything dusted in a pale shade of dull grey. My bag dropped off my shoulders, hitting the ground with a loud sound, as did my binder that contained my folders. I sat at my desk, drumming my fingers on the wood. I really didn't want to do my homework, but a passing grade was necessary, so I got started.
Dinner was next on the agenda. Every night was usually the same. My mother would cook breaded chicken in a frying pan, and then boil sliced carrots, later to make pasta that resembled shriveled brains. It doesn't get much better than this, right? Oh, but it does! She bought a loaf of bread earlier and put out the butter! Hurray, Mom! She just deserves a round of applause, am I right? Our kitchen is set up sort of like a buffet: the island is in the center, where all the food is situated. We just take what we want off the island and sit at the table. Or wherever we choose, like my older brother Thomas; he usually eats in the basement, where his bedroom is located, so that he doesn't miss a second of his RPGs. I prefer to eat upstairs, but it occasionally gets a little loud.
"So you're positive that nothing was interesting today?" Mom stabbed her yam, orange flesh steaming and exposed.
"Mom, I don't care about school. It's stupid." Penny snorted. She was eleven, had a ridiculous attitude, and a steaming sweet potato; I wouldn't want to be the one pissing her off.
Daniel bounced in his chair, squealing as he waved his fork in the air. My stepfather, Danny, (yes, they have the same name. It's some stupid pride thing, I don't know...) yanked it out of his grasp, scolding the child:
"No, Daniel, we don't play with forks. We use them to eat!" Danny demonstrated by impaling a piece of brain-looking pasta.
He shrieked, kicking his legs with a scrunched smile on his face, eyes squinted shut. Penny made her 'I'm-P.O'd-so-don't-mess-with-me face at Mom, who returned the favor by widening her eyes at the girl. I silently cut my chicken and dipped it in ketchup, another feature of our nightly dinner. Nothing ever seems to change around here; nothing. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, the grass is always greener on the Forest side of the fence. The Forests are our neighbors to the left; to the right we have a schizo, his sister, and his mom. Must be the original motley crew. But anyway, the Forests...they're just living the American dream. The mother and father work hard everyday, and their three children, two boys and one girl, all go to a fancy-schmancy private school about a thousand more a year than mine. It's simply wonderful, isn't it? Well, their daughter Laura has a spectacular perfume collection. You should see it: there are tons of different types of bottles in all the shapes and sizes imaginable, with a soup of different scents choking the life out of you. It's hard to think about anything else when you're around her. All she does is spray the stuff. I shudder at the thought of Laura's little perfume bottles all lined up in a row and take another bite of chicken drenched in ketchup. My thoughts at the moment consist mostly of my infamous glass jar analogy: Imagine you're in a glass jar, with a cork top you can pop anytime you want in order to escape. But you put yourself in the jar, to be away from everyone else. You can hear and see everything around you, but you do not wish to be a part of it. Everything is so surreal from the jar's point of view; you notice things no one else notices, you hear things other people fail to hear. It's almost like floating around in a bubble, isolated from everything else...floating high above everyone's troubles, leaving the rest of humanity to its little qualms. It's becoming harder and harder to breathe in the jar; your breath is fogging up on the glass as you struggle for oxygen. If you stay here, you will surely suffocate in your own thoughts. Left alone to die. Your conscience will scream, 'Pop the cork, pop it now!'. But will you have the strength to leave isolation and breathe the air that they breathe? Or will you perish-
I then try to push the thought of myself in a glass jar, collapsing to its floor with lack of air. It was a sad thought. But sometimes that is what I feel like: I'm just a waste of time, energy, food, and oxygen. Precious oxygen that our trees can't make enough of to feed our demands so that we will all live as long as possible. For God's sake, I haven't dreamed in six years. Doesn't that prove a cease in brain activity, that there's something wrong with me? No. All it says is that something caused me to stop dreaming, and I'm not so sure why. I can barely remember back that far...it bothers me to think of how awful whatever happened must've been.
Dinner ended, and I was assigned to the duty of taking out the trash. It was raining and I wasn't too thrilled, but I had no idea what would be waiting for me outside the front door. The gutters were overflowing, gushing over the sides in a torrential downpour into deep puddles on the ground. I dragged the heavy bag full of garbage down the stairs, ticked off. Why couldn't someone else do this right now? I dropped the bag curbside, then turned around to face the house. The air became still and cold suddenly. My heart skipped a beat, eyes challenging and frightened. There was a sheet of reflective glass separating me from going back into the house. My first thought was, 'God I'm soaked! I need to get back inside!', but then it was wiped clean and replaced with thoughts of sheer panic. I touched the glass carefully with my index finger, wincing and shutting my left eye; nothing happened. The glass simply rippled like a pond with a stone thrown into it. I placed both palms onto it, glancing at my reflection. I pressed harder, hoping to break the glass and get back inside. Instead, my hand slid down the glass as it changed properties; it became hard, like actual glass. I removed both hands, shaking. I wanted so badly to scream and call for help, but this was getting interesting. I moved the wet hair off my forehead and out of my eyes for better vision, focusing on the sheet. I willed it to become soft again, and to stir as water does. The glass became water beneath my palms, and I concentrated as I pushed half my body through the sheet. I was almost finished when a gust of sharp wind snapped a branch off one of the nearby trees. I lost focus, and the glass became hard with the strength of a diamond.
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