Written from the Mind

Chapter Seventeen: Once upon a time.

2008-12-06T08:30:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl. There was nothing particularly special or unique about her, but she didn't mind--she was her own person, and she was happy with that.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who fell in love with the girl in a way she had never experienced and didn't know how to react to. She accepted it, though, and tried to return it, believing in the concept of love that grows in the heart.

And also once upon a time, the girl lost herself. The boy searched for her and brought her back, and upon that same time the girl fell in love.

Chapter Sixteen: The Final Moment of Eternity

2008-11-05T05:51:00.000-08:00

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the nigh-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

There is a clock in the room. The room is in an old, creaking, cob-webbed house as old as Father Time himself, but that's not important. What is important, however, is the window straight across from the clock with its grimy glass that no one cares to clean.

Every evening, the sunset enters this room through the window, splashing its colors across the once-new walls, repainting them with hues of dazzling red, pink, orange, and yellow--then looks at the clock. It looks at the clock, touches and embraces it and brings back the shine that its wood used to hold, way back when the man who carefully carved the intricate designs still lived. The sunset always leaves as quickly as it came, slipping silently though the same window, slithering away into the approaching night, and the clock always stays.

This is the way things have always been.

Occasionally, the moonlight will enter the room through the same window that the sunset does. Unlike the sunset, however, it does not throw itself across the room, coloring everything in its path, but stays in the same spot, emitting an unearthly ethereal glow. The moonlight is much more sporadic than the sunset, doesn't change everything to gold, and gives a sense of coldness rather than warmth, but it comes through the window anyways. Now, under the moonlight's scrutiny, the clock isn't restored to its former beauty; rather, it becomes an unreal silvery form, its own ghost. The moonlight, like the sunset, always retreats in the end, though, and the clock always stays.

It stays as days pass. It stays through the seasons. It stays completely still, even the hands on its face unmoving, not recording the passage of time. And there it still stays, stuck forever in the final moment of eternity.

A poem should not mean
But be.

Ars Poetica written by Archibald MacLeish.

Chapter Fifteen: A Normal Silence in Dimension #3.

2008-08-31T21:27:00.000-07:00

I liked the quiet, because it was such a contradiction of itself. An oxymoron of orchestral cacophony. A paradox of piercing peace.

Even when there seemed to be no sound, no murmur, nothing at all, you could always hear yourself. Your heart beat--bm-bmp, bm-bmp, bm-bmp. Your breath--in, and then out, and then back in again. Once, I heard that if you held your hands over your ears, it would sound like lava. I tried it, and now it's a habit when I think. You can hear your muscles and bones bubble and hiss and pop as they shift ever-so-slightly against each other, creating your very own volcano.

I'm familiar with the silences in my life. I don't live in a city, or near one, and I like it that way. I look out my window and I see hills, lots of them, and when the winds blows and the tall grass waves the hills look like an ocean. I've never seen one, but I imagine that when I finally do, I'll take one look and say, 'You know, the way those waves rush over each other and ripple reminds me of the hills where I grew up.'

I live in the panhandle of Oklahoma, very close to the spot where our state line meets with Colorado's and Kansas'. Did you know that the view is amazing despite the amount of hills? I hear about views from the top of mountains, but I don't think anything is better than seeing for miles and miles and miles and never leaving the midwest.

I don't really have any friends, but I decided long ago that I don't really need people in general. I'm pretty sure that I started listening--and I mean seriously listening--to music around that time, too. Donovan has been, and will always be, my favorite. The Beatles are a close second, but that should surprise no one, considering one of their largest musical influences...

So, really, I don't mind the silence at all--because it's never there.

Chapter Fourteen: Smash Upon the Silence

2008-08-07T21:58:00.000-07:00

The first time Axel met Roxas, he was at a rock concert.

He didn't know the headlining band, or even any of the openers. Larxene had given him a ticket for free, though, and who was he to turn down a chance to damage his hearing? She'd said that originally she'd planned on going herself until Marluxia surprised her with "special plans for the two of them", but Axel was pretty sure that it had more to do with his birthday next week than Larxene's pink-haired boyfriend.

It was one of those concerts with a mixed audience; that is, half of the crowd was like him--noisy, college-aged, and just wanting to feel the excitement--while the remainder seemed to be too young to even be legally allowed into the building. Axel was almost starting to regret coming. No bands had taken the stage, the building itself smelt like several somethings had died in it and decayed, and he knew that sending him to a show practically stamped "unpleasant" was just the sort of sadistic, evil thing that Larxene would do, even to a friend.

Getting a little annoyed at the severe lack of music so far in his night, Axel decided to take a break from the people invading his personal bubble (despite his tendency to violate others' space, one of Axel's pet peeves was too many people, too close to him). He shoved past a short brunette girl--and holy crap there was no way she was even in high school--and made his way towards a promising-looking hallway that either led to fresh air (hurrah, no sweat!) or the bathrooms.

It turned out to be the former as he pushed through a set of doors and was smacked in the face with the biting cold air. Shivering a little, Axel folded his arms, and decided to lean against the brick wall next to the doors. Only then did he finally notice the only other person in the back alley.

He--Axel thought it was a he, at least--was about a head shorter than Axel (or so he guesstimated; it was hard to tell, what with the slouch the other had going on) with blond hair, wearing an outfit almost entire composed of checkers, and... had a lit cigarette between his lips.

"Blondie, has anyone ever told you that you're waaaaayy too young to be smoking?" This would be one of those moments where Axel was trying to be clever. Plenty of people told him it just made him sound stupid, but by then it was already a habit.

"Blondie" startled, as if he hadn't heard the door opening and someone else joining him outside, looked up, and ooooohhh my God, there was no way that eye color wasn't from contact lenses. Axel was, of course, way too preoccupied with staring into cobalt-blue eyes like a teenaged girl to notice that said eyes were being used to glare at him.

"How old are you?" To his credit, Axel did manage to snap out of his daze when he noticed that he was being questioned.

"Twenty-one," he replied, just glad that he could speak without faltering.

"I'm twenty, jack-ass," "Blondie" snarled, as he dropped his now-finished cigarette to the concrete and ground it out with his shoe.

"Uh..." Axel stared, and felt completely and totally embarrassed for the first time since his junior year in high school. "Sorry... It's just... y'know... you're kind of short."

"Oh, okay, so first you preach at me, and then you insult me?" The blond stepped forward from where he'd been propped against the wall, staring up at Axel with disbelief in his eyes. Great--so now the cutest guy Axel'd seen in forever didn't just think he was an ass, but also couldn't believe how much of one he was.

He scrambled to make up for his mistake. "W-well, your height makes you look cute!" The moment that last word slipped out of his mouth, Axel knew he was doomed. Shit! That was so not what I was trying to say!

Blue eyes narrowed, but this time their owner didn't say anything at all. Instead, he decided to move forward and go back inside--but not after elbowing Axel rather painfully in the ribs.

"Ow!" Axel exclaimed, whipping around and letting his slight anger and frustration get the better of him for a moment. "Watch it, blondie! Your bones are pointier than you probably know!"

Without ever turning, the blond simply lifted a hand and gave Axel the finger.

And as the doors slammed shut, leaving the red-head with his bruised ego and memories of how many times he'd fucked up that night, Axel heard the faint sounds of a song being played from inside.

Words fall from my mouth
Like plates from shaking hands
Smash upon the silence
Of the smooth naked canal

Axel and Roxas (c) Square Enix
Evil and a Heathen by Franz Ferdinand

Chapter Thirteen: Textile craft.

2008-05-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

Dipping, bowing,
Up and down;
Weaving, threading,
Restless hands.
Threads meet,
Greet,
Fall at their master's feet.
Feet that press the pedal,
Feel the metal;
Ringing softly,
Hum even softer.
Chk-chk-chk-chk,
The needle singing,
Clacking its way through life.
Such a way is hard,
But not so hard,
Not so hard it can't be soft.
Soft as silk--
The silk stitched together,
Joining hands and folds and bolts of cloth.
Pleating, hemming, tacking, knitting...

Until it's done.

Chapter Twelve: C'est la vie.

2008-03-10T09:04:00.000-07:00

Life's not fair; live with it.

He was told that all the time, beginning with his toddler years. You know, the two- and three-year olds that you see in the grocery store being dragged by their mothers and whining for this or that, screaming "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" when they're told no.

"Life's not fair" is the generally accepted, and used, parental response, leaving the toddler grasping for arguments. Finding none, they proceed to throw themselves on the floor and wail despairingly. Yeah. That was him as a child.

He couldn't comprehend the intensity behind the words that so effectively halted all his begging, but later in life he thought he understood. The odd thing, though, was that he still didn't agree with it. Well, only to a degree. Life was most certainly unfair, and that was undeniable.

But there was always this nagging feeling in his stomach that told him no, life wasn't fair, but there was something especially unfair about his situation. Like, he didn't know, he was supposed to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else, but by some twist of fate that life didn't decide (life knew how to be unfair in a fairly fair way) he was directed wrongly.

There wasn't any actual proof for this theory, and it was a stupid theory to begin with, but that didn't help. He still had that sensation, and sometimes it grew and sometimes it waned. When he laughed with his friends, it grew until he was SURE that life's intent was for him to be laughing with other people, and when he was alone it waned, because life had always intended him to be hermitical.

And then... then, there were the times that he thought for a split-second that he was living the life meant for him. He'd turn to look behind him, opening his mouth to say something to the person who was always there, but it was empty space. He never knew what it was he was going to say or who he was going to say it to, but when he realized that he couldn't, his chest hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he refused on principle to cry for something that he never had--at least, that he couldn't remember.

Sometimes he called people the wrong names, names that he'd never heard before. As this tended to happen most often when he felt emotional (an uncommon occurrence for someone as stoic as him), he assumed that it too had to deal with the life that he didn't lead.

One day, as he wandered aimlessly as he always did on Saturday afternoons, something else happened.

Browsing his way slowly through the outdoors art fair being held that particular day, something possessed him to stop at a jewelry stand. It wasn't the girly, sparkly type that was infused with gems, but rather a masculine collection with fierce pendant designs and thick rings sculpted into shapes. As his eyes scanned the table, they latched onto a circular pendant that was sitting father back and slightly hidden behind a gaudy metal wrist-band (that honestly looked more like a gauntlet, he thought as he mocked its creator for their lack of taste).

Extracting it from the pile of accessories around it, he admired it closely. It was about the size of his palm, made with silver (or something similar-looking) but with some parts coloured red to accent the ridges and curves of the piece. The shape itself was complicated; a circle containing a smaller circle, with spokes and even smaller circles connecting the two. Around the outer edges were spikes, and when he ran his finger over them he felt that they'd be able to cut his skin with enough pressure put behind them.

A sense of familiarity came over him as he looked the pendant over, and he quickly passed the $25 necessary to buy it over to the seller without a word, and she nodded at him before moving away to help others. Still examining the object in his hands he slowly turned his head and shoulders, and inside he knew that he was instinctively turning to the person-who-was-never-there.

"Hey, doesn't this remind you... of..." his voice trailed off when he tore his eyes upward and instead of the consciously expected empty space, he saw a subconsciously just-as-expected person standing there.

The man was tall, taller than him by a head, but it didn't feel awkward or intimidating. There was fire-truck red hair that couldn't be natural, and green eyes that had to be contacts, but he also knew that they were completely hereditary. Two triangular teardrop tattoos (he almost laughed out loud when the alliteration flew through his mind) lay upside-down on his cheekbones, and he didn't begin to think they were out of place.

Even the large grin that the man's mouth twisted into, both predatory and gentle, didn't alarm him.

"Roxas," the redhead greeted. Roxas nodded hesitantly, wondering why it wasn't creepy that this person knew his name.

"You know, you took your damn sweet time. I thought we agreed we'd meet up?" the other continued. Roxas gave him a confused look, which sent a disappointed frown to replace the man's grin. Sighing, he reached into his pocket with long fingers and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.

The moment the engraved lighter clicked open and a flame flickered to life, though, Roxas' mind either shut down... or lept into overdrive.

Fire. Fire was red, red was like his hair but he'd always said he liked Roxas' hair more with green eyes flashing over him that he had left and forgotten and never came back because he vanished and then he saw him die.

The sensation of memories that felt like his even more than the ones he'd thought were his (until less than a second ago) left Roxas feeling like he'd been run over. Blinking multiple times in surprise, he looked back up at the redhead. "...Axel?"

To be continued...?

Roxas and Axel (c) Square Enix

Chapter Eleven: Lost in these words.

2008-02-20T23:57:00.000-08:00

Sharpies in all colors of the rainbow.

A cold, bubbly soda to sip at through the hours.

Inside jokes between friends.

Thoughtless doodles of lines forming an intricate design.

Knowing that you can do something.

Making a fool of yourself.

Pleasant silence between friends-that-are-siblings.

Understanding the joke.

The pounding of shower water against your back.

Vibrations from the speakers playing music way too loudly.

Straight-edge punk.

Trusting in others.

Fog, low to the ground.

Really bad horror movies.

Realizing you were just smiling unconsciously.

The Kitten Treatment.

A work of art with emotional value.

Goosebumps when you hear an inspirational song.

Early morning meditation.

Feeling at peace with the world.

The fleeting joy of reading a fanfiction.

Sharing a viewpoint.

Standing at the top of a mountain, alone.

Assigning theme songs.

Rhyming and reasoning.

Rhythm and syncopation.

The urge to dance.

Laughing with others.

Reading of love.

...These are a few of my favorite things,
like warm summer-winters
and green-kissed life springs.
Like seeing yourself
scattered love-letter flings,
or awe in the fearsome
war nature's love brings.
As wedding bells toll
so Seraph ere sings,
as surely light spreads
so birds take to their wings.

And lost evermore in these words shall I be,
but simple pleasures return and set our souls free.

Chapter Ten: Agree to agree to disagree to agree.

2008-02-08T19:12:00.001-08:00

Repeat until it makes sense, over and over and over like waves. Waves across what I liked enough to show to you in a moment of love, moment of bonding, breakingdownthesewallstoreachandunderstandyou...

Across The Universe.

You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.

Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.

Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?

And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?

"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.

"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."

I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.

And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.

Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?

"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."

You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?

Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.

But I don't want your anger. Please?

Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.

Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.

Chapter Nine: Tamper with my Brain.

2008-02-03T10:28:00.000-08:00

5.30 in the morning really wasn't a good time for thinking about difficult topics, I mused. My eyes crossed and began to slowly close without me even noticing, but I soon jerked them back open and attempted a half-hearted glare at the bottle that sat not two feet away from me. I failed.

I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.

It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.

The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?

That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.

It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?

Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.

Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.

After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.

Chapter Eight: The Soothsayers' contrapasso.

2008-01-27T09:26:00.000-08:00

It is almost an absolute rule of the universe that whenever more than two teenagers, especially friends, are gathered in a room, there will be conversation. Lots of it. At moment, though, it seemed that that particular law would have to take a break; five teenagers--two girls, three boys--were sitting in a bedroom, all in various positions and locations around it, being completely silent.

Terra's eye twitched as she stared at her book. Who had started the idea of a Saturday study group to prepare for the finals, again? Dan, she thought, and on her mental to-do list she added 'poison Dan's cereal'. Dragging her imagination away from the idea of laughing over his twitching body, and then being able to do whatever she wanted for the rest of the day, Terra again tried to continue reading Dante's Inferno before finally giving up and shutting it as forcefully as you can shut a paperback.

"This is such bull!" she growled, glaring at the cover. Stupid Dante. What kind of a name was 'Dante', anyways?

Jim and Calais looked relieved at the sudden interruption, not having enjoyed "study time" very much either. Dan just sighed, while Ellie looked up, frowned at Terra for breaking her concentration, and tried to continue studying for her European History final on Monday.

"I thought you liked that book, though?" Calais asked.

"I did..." Terra said in frustration.

"And what's wrong with it now, that you had to distract us for?" Dan asked. He really didn't want to fail his Pre-Calculus class, and was taking extra precautions to memorize all of the formulas necessary.

"Well," Terra began to explain, "I didn't really want to do anything else, so I decided to read a few cantos ahead. Have any of you read Canto XX?" Everyone shook their heads.

Terra flipped open her copy of Dante's Inferno to the page she had been on, and began to read:

"And when my gaze moved down below their faces,
I saw all were incredibly distorted,
the chin was not above the chest, the neck

was twisted--their faces looked down on their backs;
they had to move ahead by moving backward,
for they never saw what was ahead of them."

When she finished reading the two tercets, the others were quiet. "And... why does that make you upset?" Jim raised an eyebrow.

Terra sighed, flipped a few pages, then read an excerpt from the translation notes, "'15. for they never saw what was ahead of them: Note the appropriate nature of the punishment: the augurs, who, when living, looked into the future, are here in Hell denied any forward vision. See lines 38-39.' Yep. Well, I'm basically going to hell."

Once again, silence met her quotation. "Does it say anything about turning into a moth being a sin?" asked Calais. He smirked, obviously the only one to find it funny.

"No, but apparently turning into a beast is related to the sins of Violence," Ellie pointed out. "And Terra, just remember that that was written in the Middle Ages, a time when personal opinions greatly influenced how people interpreted God's words."

Terra sighed. "Yeah. I know. Whatever." She turned her attention back to the Inferno, and decided for once to just skip that canto. She could always get someone else to summarize it for her, later.

The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, translated by Mark Musa.

Chapter Seven: A ceiling-row view.

2008-01-20T13:31:00.000-08:00

I stared apathetically down into the room. Huh. Well, this was an odd sensation. I tried to turn my head to the left; nothing happened. I didn't move. To the right? Nope. Up? Can't. Down? No go. If I can't turn my head, I might as well just get used to staring in one direction, huh? Staring at this room for all eternity.

This room... I've seen it before. Definitely. In fact... I honestly can't remember seeing another room, ever. It seems that I've already been staring here for an eternity, apparently.

There's a bed in the room. A dresser. A desk. A door that leads into the hallway, though I don't know how I know. Another door that must surely lead to the bathroom, although I can't see from this angle. Never have been.

A pounding at the door. My ears register the sound, but they're not ears, are they? Nope. Oh well, I can still hear. A stirring on the bed tells me that no, I'm not the only one here; however, this other person can move. She's a teenager, brunette, with hair that would hang halfway down her back if she sat up, I can tell. She covers her head with a pillow and tries to go back to sleep.

"Wake up, you newbie! You need to get up now!"

A voice adds to the pounding, and I can only conclude they are coming from the same source. A boy from the sound of it. A far too cheerful for this time of the morning boy. The girl groans and hoarsely shouts, "Go away!" I don't think she realizes that she's yelling in the wrong direction.

"Look, either open this damn door or I'll break it open!" the male voice responds, somehow both sounding irritated and retaining the friendly quality.

"Fine, go ahead! I don't care! Not my fucking door!" The pounding stops. There's no reply from the other side of the door. Did he leave? I thought that he meant the threat. I realize that he did, indeed, mean it, just as the door bursts open, slamming against the wall. Someone will need to fix that dent.

When the door swung open violently, the girl had jumped into a sitting position. Now, she stared at the person standing in the doorway. I was right; it's a boy. There's a youngish quality about him, probably from the extra fat that is making him slightly chubby. Combined with the red hair falling into his face constantly and green eyes that smile along with his mouth, there's an intrinsically friendly quality about him.

"I told you I'd break open the door!" Even if neither of them know that I am here, as my presence has not been acknowledged, I can feel the triumph in that statement.

"Uuuhh..." the girl supplies. I suppose she is confused, but I don't know why. I think I have seen this boy before, though... the smile seems familiar.

"Forge Limiter." That's his name. Yes. I can remember it now, but not where I know it from. The girl continues staring; I am beginning to think that her IQ is less than sufficient to hold adequate conversations.

"I'm sorry, what?" Why does she apologize?

"That... that's my name. Forge Limiter." The girl has never met him before, then. Unless she doesn't quite remember, like me. Somehow I get the feeling that our situations are different, though.

"Oh." She seems embarrassed by her slow thinking. "Well... I'm Te--"

Forge Limiter makes a sudden jump towards her, startling her into cutting off. What was she going to say? "No real names!" he hissed. "None!" Her name. What was her name? It starts with a T. That's what I will call her, then.

T pauses, before beginning to glare. I am sure that there is a crucial piece of information I am missing, now. It is just a name, and should not make her this upset. Apparently, Forge Limiter is just as dense as he is friendly, when it comes to reading facial expressions. He plows through.

"Right. Well, you need to come with me pronto. Dr. Jacobs said she hasn't checked you out yet, and we don't want to keep her waiting--"

"No," T says firmly. Forge Limiter doesn't understand, and neither do I.

"No what?"

"No, I will not come with you anywhere, period." T crosses her arms to make it clear that she means what she says. Forge Limiter frowns; I can tell he is irritated.

"Hey, look, I know I came in and ruined your sleep and stuff," Forge Limiter decides to drop the friendly attitude he formerly had. "but that's no reason to treat me like crap! So get over your issues!" Issues that T most definitely has.

"I would like to think that at the moment I have the right to have issues," T hisses. Good. Everyone is now aware of the fact that something is wrong with her. But doesn't she want it fixed? It seems not.

Forge Limiter laughs in the back of his throat, and it emerges as a snort. "Yeah, right. And why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know, because I was fucking kidnapped from my house last night by you creeps!" At hearing this, Forge Limiter changes moods once again, quite seamlessly.

Now he's gone from slightly angry to apologetic and awkward. "Geez... I--You're... one of those? You didn't respond to the employment letters at all or anything?" He runs a hand through his hair, and I can tell that it isn't because it was falling in his eyes, but rather as a nervous habit. "Man--I--...I'm sorry."

T looks taken aback. She probably deserves it. But she's confused, too. "Employment letters? And--you didn't know I'd been kidnapped?"

Forge Limiter drops his hand from his hair and shakes his head back and forth. "The employment letters that they send out to their potential employees starting at legal working age. You're supposed to get one every two months, but if you don't respond for two years..." The legal working age is fourteen, I believe. If the implied consequence of not responding to these letters is kidnapping, then T is probably 16. Barely able to drive. Forge Limiter reaches up and pinches his nose between his eyes. "Geez. I so don't need this headache. You're one of, like, three people--four, now--that ended up here like that."

Where is here? I know this room. I know this boy, this Forge Limiter. I do not know this girl, T. Exactly where am I, and why can I not remember any specific thing prior to this event?

"Listen... I'm sorry for acting horrible at first." T is speaking. By the tone of her voice I can tell she feels a bit guilty--I can't see her face; I'm located above and a bit behind her. "Do--do you think you could get me out of here, using whatever it was you used on the door?"

I think I would like to go with them. But Forge Limiter's face seems to be folding in on itself, his eyebrows slanting downwards and his eyes drifting towards the floor. Sadness. Apology. Guilt?

"I can't. Not because I don't want to," Forge Limiter breathes in, and it's a bit shaky. "but because there are about 50 security guards patrolling the place at any given moment. Even if I did somehow manage to get you past all of them... well, the Trackers would bring you back within a day or so, and we'd both get in trouble."

I can tell what Trackers are from their name, but the way Forge Limiter says it--I know there is more to that word than first glance reveals.

Oh! But, now I remember. I remember why I am stuck in this position, this angle. I remember why I don't have any ears. Why this room and that boy look so familiar.

I'm a security camera that was installed two years ago.

Chapter Six: Just between a vampire and a Nobody.

2007-12-08T22:53:00.000-08:00

Jim was lost. Lost in his mind, lost in his heart, lost in his soul. Absolutely spinning. Everything hurt, but it wasn't physical. He was exhausted and wired to the point of breaking at the same time. A crying jag sounded really good right about then, but Jim wanted to laugh, too. Laugh and shout and break down in tears.

"It sucks, doesn't it?" The voice came out of nowhere. Jim blinked sluggishly, not used to hearing someone else talk to him. He'd been rejecting all visitors, so who could this be? Looking around the room with his reddened eyes, he saw that there was indeed no one there.

"It's okay, I don't really exist." If anything, that just sunk Jim down deeper. Now he was crazy, too. Hearing voices kind of crazy. "But, y'know, not existing sucks. So let's say I'm here to listen. C'mon, kid, spill your guts."

"My life sucks." Jim didn't know what had possessed him to actually say that; it just slipped out. He must've been more desperate to talk to someone than he thought.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I'm a fucking vampire, for starters." Jim was starting to warm up a bit to the non-existing voice and the conversation. "All of my friends like to pretend that nothing's changed, but ignore the fact that everything has. They can't be around me, and I can't be around them."

For a moment the voice was silent, and Jim thought it had vanished, and he was alone again, alone with no one and it hurt-- "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You didn't cause this," Jim said. The words were meaningless, they were always meaningless anytime anyone said them, but guilt ultimately forces them out.

"No, you're right. I didn't cause this. But someone has to apologize for the way the world's fucked you over. So... a vampire, huh?" Jim flinched.

"Yes, I already said that," he ground out.

"Vampires are interesting characters, you know. Living, but their heart doesn't beat. Wouldn't you say that's like not even having one?"

Jim shrugged. "I guess. The technicalities aren't really what I'm worried about."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have a heart." Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't? And what do you mean by that?"

"I didn't have any emotions. But then... I died. Or faded back into the non-existence I came out of, either one. Now I'm not sure if I have a heart or not."

"...Right."

"Well, listen kid, it's been nice talking t'ya, but I've got to go find someone now. Someone.. very important to me."

Feeling a lot better, actually, after having a conversation even that short, Jim staggered to his feet, and then to his bed. "Alright, that's fine with me. First, though, could you tell me your name? I just told you some of my most personal thoughts, so it's only courteous that you could do that much."

The voice chuckled. "I'm Nobody, but you can call me Axel."

"Bye then, Axel. I hope you find who you're looking for. Just... just in case he or she drops by like you did, what should I tell them?"

"He. His name's Roxas, and you can tell him that Axel's working his ass off trying to find him, so don't move an inch and wait for me. Oh, and even if he doesn't tell you his name, or can't remember it, or something, you'll know him because he'll be sappy as hell." Jim could practically hear the soft smile in Axel's voice as he talked about his friend.

"Okay. I hope you find him."

"I hope you come to terms with being a vampire. Try to make the best out of it. Maybe if you...." Axel's voice slowly faded out, as if he was walking away. Jim felt his mouth twitch upwards into what might have been a smile.

Make the best of it, huh? As Jim fell asleep for the first time in over 48 hours, he resolved to speak to a representative from Ingravesco Deus tomorrow. Maybe he could look more into that offer about becoming a Pius Unus....

Axel and Roxas (c) Square Enix

Chapter Five: Normal Class Period in Dimension #2.

2007-12-08T22:42:00.000-08:00

I blinked heavily, realizing belatedly that I'd been reading the same sentence for the last few minutes. Raising a hand to my eyes, I rubbed them in an effort to try and wake up, before hiding a yawn with the same hand. How much longer until class was over? I glanced around the history classroom with its four cinderblock walls and lack of windows several times before remembering that Mr. Athern (what a weird name...) had taken down the clock so people like me wouldn't constantly look at it.

Giving up on finding a clock, I examined the wrists of those sitting close to me, trying to find someone with a watch. Nope. Then again, there weren't that many people sitting near me--the rows of desks, a small amount to begin with, were mostly empty. I vaguely remembered that they had been full at the beginning of the year. Again, I resolved not to let myself drop out.

"Miss Bellerman?" I snapped my head back to the front of the room to see Mr Athern staring at me. Damn, he just asked a question, didn't he? Couldn't he choose who he wanted to answer first, and then ask?

"Um..." I was stalling. My eyes scanned the pages of the European history textbook in front of me, even though I knew I wouldn't find what he had said there. "I... do not know." At least Mr. Athern was moderately kind to students who had no idea what was going on, like me. Instead of pressing for an answer, asking that I stay awake, or even lingering and staring at me, he quickly moved on.

"Mr. Cook?" It was a ritual. A very well-disguised one albeit, but a ritual all the same. Call on a person who hasn't said anything yet in class. Wait to see if they answer correctly, or even at all. Move onto another person who needed to be called upon. Finally, choose someone that he knew would be able to answer.

That was how he taught us; he asked us questions, we answered. How was one supposed to even take notes over something like that? I 'tch'ed quietly. 'Sorry,' I said in my mind derisively, 'but I'm not going to write down what Snoozy McNosepicker said as something to study off of for a test.'

Crossing my arms over my chest again, I slid down in my seat, then bent my head over until my chin was almost sitting on my chest. Time to go back to sleep, even if this position did give me a bit of a crick in the neck.

Chapter Four: They knew it was coming.

2007-12-08T22:21:00.000-08:00

I huddled under my covers. "No school today.... No school today...." I repeated to myself, willing my body to become sick. If I tried hard enough... there. Nausea. Actual nausea. But was it sickness at what I was about to do to myself and my mom, at the thought of going to school, or was this truly a stomach bug? Of course it wasn't the last one. That must have been my inner hypochondriac speaking.

No school.... Those two words even made my heart flutter with what they symbolized. A full day of reading meaningless fanfiction on the computer, surfing the internet and generally having some quiet peaceful time and a chance to sleep in. I kept trying to tell myself that I'd definitely use it to make up the homework I didn't do the previous night, but my subconscious just laughed at me.

Footsteps. I suppose it was a blessing that not only was my room on the opposite end of the house, but that my parents walked like elephants. There was a click and a shuddering sort of sound as my door opened. "Breakfast." Mom simply said, and turned to leave, but stopped when I groaned.

She knew what was coming.

"I don't feel too good..."

"How so?" I can hear her disappointment, her sadness, everything in her voice. The guilt hit me at full force, but I buried it deep, deep under and left it there to rot a hole in me.

"Bad stomach sick." Remember, Katie: keep your words simple, act really sort of tired, keep your lips pressed together as if you're resisting the urge to vomit.

Mom sighed, and sat on the side of the bed. I shifted, moved my leg out from under her, and curled up into a ball. "Well, you have to go to school."

"I feel really, really bad. Like throw-up bad. Like sitting in math class then suddenly vomiting in front of everyone embarrassing myself for the rest of eterny bad." Shitshitshit, no, when you lie don't be that specific, especially when opening your mouth is supposed to make you want to toss your cookies.

"...And?"

"I don't think I should go to school." There it was, the bombshell. Luckily I remembered how blunt I was about wanting to stay home last time I was actually sick, so I can put it into good practice here.

"Eventually, you're going to gather up so many sick days you'll fail your classes." I know. I know. I know. Please, don't make me feel bad. Don't do this to me. "You don't want to repeat another year." IknowIknowIknowIknowIknow. Stop....

"No."

"...You need to call Liz."

I groaned. Couldn't I just sleep? "Can you call her?"

"You owe her. You're staying home sick. Now call her while I call the school." The weight left my bed and the door opened, Mom paused at the exit, obviously waiting for me to pick up my cell phone. I sighed, grabbed it off of my bedside table, and switched to the phonebook. Mom left, and I squinted against the backlight of the phone to make out Liz's number.

It rang three times before Liz answered.

"Yes?"

"Hey Liz... it's Katie."

"Oh, hey." She knew what was coming, too. Was I that predictable now? Had I gone that far?

"I'm... sick." Yeah, right. "I won't be able to take you in. Can you get a ride?"

"Yeah, yeah. You get better, 'kay?" She doesn't believe me. I can hear it, I can hear it saturating every syllable of every word she says, but Liz plays along.

"'Kay. Bye." I slid the phone shut.

I was a horrible person. 'But,' I resolved to myself quietly, 'I'll change.' My subconscious mocked me again, laughing at me as I slipped back into sleep, hoping for good dreams that would make my lie worthwhile.

Chapter Three: Normal Morning in Dimension #1.

2007-10-18T20:08:00.001-07:00

"Hey, I bet in another dimension, there's a race of people made from soda cans," I said, holding my Diet Coke up reverently. "Yeah, and they worship at factories and their version of satan are those nasty bottles of soda."

Liz stared at me. "What?" she asked, trying not to laugh.

"No, seriously! There's probably an infinite amount of dimensions out there. Alternate universes. Timelines, where, say, Martin Luther committed suicide. Or Einstein was actually recognized for his brilliance, and was placed in a private school that smothered his creativity, and the theory of relativity never saw the light of day. And there's probably another one where we're celebrities."

"Or there could be no other dimensions at all," Lucy said sarcastically. "Did you think of that?"

"No-- well, really yes, but it seems more likely that the theory of there being millions of dimensions existing and more created every nanosecond is true. Imagine; a whole universe where I ate waffles for breakfast this morning, and not cereal," I said grinning. "What story opportunities!"

"No crossovers, plox," Lucy said. My grin grew even more.

"Why, Lucy, the way you're carrying on one would think you don't like my way of looking at the world like a story or fanfiction!"

"Because it's not."

That made me frown. "Well, duh, but do you have to be so serious about it all of the time?"

"Hold up you two!" Liz broke in. "Let's change the subject now. So... Who watched Gossip Girl last night?"

"ME!" I giggled. "Dan was great!"

"Not me," Lucy said listlessly. "It's garbage."

"Y'know," I said thoughtfully, "I believe there's an old adage about this situation... right! 'If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all.'"

"True dat." Liz nodded. Lucy groaned and stood up.

"See you guys later, then."

"See ya!"

"Tschüß!"

Chapter Two: All our strength.

2007-08-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

Mother Nature and I weren't the best of friends; she snows and I wish for warmth. The sun glares down at me, and I think fondly of December when the sun cooled down. I couldn't even spend half an hour outdoors in her embrace before said embrace began to feel more like a death hold and I retreated beyond glass windowpanes and wooden walls.

Mother Nature and I weren't the worst of enemies, either. When she sends pounding rain that drives itself against the house with the sound of a hundred pattering feet, I feel comforted and at home. Flowers bloom and butterflies bask in the glow of them, getting drunk on the nectar and I watch from a distance, longing for that grace and elegance.

Hurricanes and tornadoes rip their way through the land, yet while people lost homes and died all I could think of was what an awe-inspiring power that was. Earthquakes, mudslides, floods and lightning strikes and tsunamis all coming together to play their part in a symphony of ordered chaos, with her at the podium.

Everything humans are, everything we've been and will be is cared for by Mother Nature. We have a key role to play in her realm, if we could just find our scripts and get to working. As it is we're fumbling it all. As it is, we have become a terminal illness for this world.

Now, I realize, it's up to us to cure her.

If only to hold on to those winter nights where silence envelopes all, and fat white flakes slowly drift to earth, reminding us of her gentler side. If only for spring mornings when all of nature unfurls itself at once. If only for fireflies and peaceful sunsets and falling leaves, and purely selfish reasons.

We must hold on to her with all our strength.

Chapter One: That would be beautiful.

2007-08-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

'It would be nice to be in love,' I thought to myself. 'Yes, it would definately be nice.' I nodded to myself, as if that would somehow confirm the reality of the statement even more. I even smiled a bit, thinking about how wonderful it would feel.

'But I'm not.' At that the slight smile slid off my face and crashed on the floor. 'I'm not in love, and the chances of me ever falling in love is slim.'

Sighing, I returned my attention to the book I was reading, attempting to push these thoughts away. It didn't work, but that was probably because I was reading a romance novel. Then, I began to worry. What if I really never did fall in love? What if I went about my life as normal for ages, but never encountered someone like that? As it was I didn't even have many guy friends; not to mention the chances of a background (secondary at best) character like me getting noticed by guys was slim.

I was a fan of being honest with myself, so I by my standards I wasn't ugly. Maybe a bit plain (and I hated how my chin crinkled when I pressed my lips together and those couple zits lingering on my forehead had to go), but not bad to look at. In fact, I thought my eyes were quite pretty.

Same story with my personality; it's not very outgoing, and I could be a bit annoying to people I know, and I was definately shy. Nothing was happening there that would make me noticed. In fact, even when it did get noticed people either liked to assume that I'm happy all of the time or serious to a fault.

That's why I broke up with Zed, I guess. When I was young I outlined the things I wanted in a boyfriend. He should be able to make me laugh, we should share most interests, and our personalities should compliment nicely. Zed didn't really; he was depressed and depressing, and while we did share most interests (and what we didn't share we managed to discuss civilly), I wasn't interested.

The problem with that relationship was that while all logic said that we should be a perfect couple, we weren't, no matter how much Zed saw it that way. I would never tell him this, though. I felt like an ass for breaking it off, but it's better than leading him on then rejecting his marriage proposal.

I blinked, then noticed I was crying. Wiping my eyes, I tried not to let this get to me as I returned to my book. Tears silently poured down my face as the man announced his love and the woman, weeping, told him the same. In my mind, I thought,

'Yes, to be in love like that would be beautiful.'