Dedication:
This Story is dedicated to all the lost children that could not find a sanctuary in life. Those who were brave enough to be themselves and fought back against the pressures of conformity. Who defines “normal” anyways?
It all started
in the mind of a little boy. There I sat in my elementary school prime, full of
life and eager to challenge the world. Third grade: so many possibilities and
unbroken spirits. The children shuffle into the classroom, which was structured
as a classroom should: sterile and cold. My desk welcomed me with the comforts
of a constrictor’s coils, as the children surrounding me occupy themselves with
the busy of activities. Their tiny hands scramble for the instruments: pencils,
crayons, scissors, and paper all the while their faces express a blissful
ignorance, like domesticated pets welcoming their master home. Looking around
the room, I find myself trying to understand the game. There are rules have not
been explained, but everyone appears to follow them. Look at those children;
they seemingly know exactly what they should be doing; why not me?
How could I possibly understand these rules, they are not
my rules. I am a radical particle bouncing in and out of the conventional
framework of physics. I am the damaged soul looking for meaning in a
meaningless world. I am being raised by a single mother and the little energy
that she has is dedicated to the pursuit and preparation of her next high, while
pleasing the evil that she sleeps with every night. So, with that in mind,
which is always in mind, the little rules I do have at home are confined to
staying out of their way. Sometimes I find myself imagining that I was raised
by wolves, running wild and free. Wild and free; I sit there wondering if there
is a difference.
My teacher, a heavier set woman with an irritating pitch
in her voice, makes roll call like we were her newly born clutch. Miss Easton
is a woman with a distant stare; a look that told a story of some deep and
insatiable longing. She is a woman that finds sanctuary in her classroom; a
woman that I suspect to holds the scars of many worldly cruelties. It is
strange how understanding the difference between “Miss’ and “Mrs.” can elude
the perception of a child. Miss Easton is a woman who did not stir up a sexual
fantasy in a young boy’s mind. She blended into the background; not providing a
presence that mingled with your thoughts.
Looking around the room, I see the carefully decorated
project boards and calendars; paying homage to Apollo by demanding order in
this classroom universe. I find myself fascinated by how deliberate the colors
seem to be arranged. It is evident to me that this classroom was birthed from a
person imprisoned by the need for order: control. I always had a passion for
art, and I loved the worlds I could draw. It is difficult to explain the
feelings I get from self-expression, maybe this is because of relative nature
that art holds; but the feelings I get from guiding my mind with my hand finds
root in one word: Zen.
My imagination is the morphine that numbs the pain in my
life. It allows me to survive the Devil’s embrace. Memories of pillow patterns
and pain are seared into my mind. I see his sadistic soul bulge from his eyes,
while he experiments on me. He tore into my innocence, taking a piece of my
soul with every visit to my room. My mother blinds herself to his intentions
with the brown powder that she drowns her reality in every night. There is a
magic in the ability to astral project yourself from the anguish of this world
with just a piece of paper and pencil.
Art time has arrived; my favorite time in class, I can be
myself by expressing my soul in imagery that communicates deep thoughts and
feelings only understandable to me. Holding my pencil; my mind submits to its
will. Lines seemingly come to life, crying out in shock like a newly born
infant. Abstract thoughts blur into reality as if it was a mirage forming on the
undercurrents of a heatwave. The image comes into focus; it is alive, and a
sense of pride elevates me to places unexplored. The drawing is almost
complete, a drawing that becomes a window into my dreams. Flowing with the
centrifugal force of my creativity, I find myself lured into the realms of
untaught methods of thinking. Thoughts that to a child have not yet been
defined as forbidden. I draw my thoughts on paper, it is beautiful. I find
myself engulfed by feelings of excitement; time loses its influence. I want to
continue, but my journey is suddenly halted by one word: “stop.” Miss
Easton was standing near her podium like some conductor and begins to speak to
the class.
“Children put your art instruments down” she requested
softly.
The children quickly do as they are told, but not me. I
feel the pressure; I do not want to stop. So, defiance overtakes me, and I
continue to draw.
“Jason please put the pencil down,” her voice whispers
irritation.
I ignored her and feelings of anger begin to crawl up my
chest. ‘Why can’t I continue to do what I enjoy’ I think to myself. I find my
consciousness inverting as the sounds permeating around the room start to dim.
“Jason! Do not make me tell you again, put your pencil
down!” Miss Easton’s face flushes with anger.
Something starts to build within me; emotions grope my
chest causing an overwhelming feeling of anxiety. The words pound in my ears; they
are sharp and direct, and I understood them for what they were: a struggle for
power. I continue to draw, but this time I was not drawing for exploration, but
for freedom. Suddenly, the instrument that I grasp with such vigor is ripped
from my hands. My mind charges with anger, “how dare she take my pencil like
that?!” I am having difficulty restraining my behavior, so with no thought of
consequences I grab another pencil out of my drawer and quickly proceed to
draw.
Suddenly, I feel my body being lifted from my seat. With
my eyes downward, I witness my desk fall away from me. I grip my paper and
pencil so tightly that my knuckles go white. I held on to them like they were
the only meaningful things in my life. Miss Easton starts to yell:
“Jason, I do not want to put up with another one of your
outbursts!” she pauses to catch her breath. “You will spend the rest of the
class time in the Principal’s office!”
As a final gesture of revenge, Miss Easton grabs the
masterpiece from my hands and with an almost pleasurable glare in her eyes
throws it into the trash-can. My feelings of anger are subsided by fear.
Holding me in one arm and having one hand free to carry out her vengeful plot,
struck awe in me. Her strength was impressive, and she is a physical giant in
my eyes. Carrying me out of the classroom, I could hear the careless giggles
whispering from the children.
My consciousness inverts, and the sounds surrounding me once
again begin to dim. I hung there lifeless, gazing at the passing patterns that formed
on the hallway floor. My mind takes over and I start to dream. My perception
distorts like kaleidoscopes were fastened to my eyes and I am taken to a place
that defies language. The colors are vibrant and the shapes bold: my
imagination takes me captive, and I find myself in a state of mind withdrawn
from the outside world.
The dream begins with my capture. The fleshy creature
holding me in its arm and speaks in a tongue that eludes my understanding. It
appears to be angry but restrained. This comforts me partially because the
beast exhibits anger towards me; but that anger is leashed by a power unknown
to me. I hang there contemplating my fate while I sway with the creature’s
footsteps. The beast’s movements are awkward making it difficult to tune out
the intrusive thoughts of panic. We finally arrive.
There at the entrance stood two guards. It was clear by the
expressions on their faces, that they were expecting my arrival. A collage of
thoughts come together, forming visuals that distract me, but before I could
float away, I am pulled back down by a voice.
“Jason, are you listening to me?!?” This voice
seemingly pulled at me, begging, annoying, and somehow solicited my attention.
The dream fades and I realize that I am standing in the Principal’s
office.
“Do you know why you are here?” the Principal speaks to
me in an aggravated tone, like he was annoyed by this disruption in his day.
“No” I respond in confusion.
“You are here because you continually disrupt your class”
he stares at me, a look tainted with resentment.
Looking up at his face, I start to examine the details
that made up his features. He was a slender man, which was exaggerated by his
protruding cheekbones and sunken eyes. Mr. Smite was a man that savored his
moments of power like an obsessive eater, hovering over a meal and his lust for
intimidation became more evident with every visit. His aero-dynamic face
fascinated me though; his expressions were so cold and distant, like a bird of
prey.
‘Why, would a man who despises children so much choose a
profession that focuses on them?’ wonderment embraced my mind.
Mr. Smite opened his arguments like a good prosecutor,
“Jason, once again I am confronted with the problem of what I should do
with you?”
As he developed his arguments regarding my mischief, the
thought came to me, ‘why can’t these people let me do what I want? What is the
harm in embracing life in a way that comes naturally to you?’
Conformity imprisons the mind through its cloning
process. The institution becomes the production line that produces its android
like children through this educational machine designed to break their spirits.
I sit here trying to understand my sin, trying to conceptualize the
transgression I committed against the system; ‘Why can’t I fly, liberating
myself in creative thought? I just want to draw.’
Mr. Smite stands up from his seat and for a moment stares
at me. Making eye contact, I see the bewilderment in his eyes; it was a look
that expressed disdain.
“Jason, we have talked and talked, but nothing seems
to get through to you,” he pauses for a moment. “You are struggling
in all of your subjects, and honestly I have no alternatives but to put you
into the Conformity Program.”
A feeling of horror possesses me; Conformity was a
program for the social rejects of society. Children whom for one reason or
another did not conceptualize the latent rules of institutionalization. These
children are noticed, but not in a good way. Their recognition derives from
their obvious inability to mold into the cast that solidifies the societal
wall. I have seen what happens to the others; they were never the same. They
went in as Mustangs and came out as domesticated horses.
“Mr. Smite, please do not put me into that
program,” I pleaded. Tears begin to swell in my eyes. I do my best to hold
my composure, but the demand for this emotion is too great. I give in and break
down. Mr. Smite’s face cracks and the expression of victory is apparent in his
smile.
“You had your chance, but in the long run you will
understand that this was the best decision for you.” ‘Decision!’ I shout in the
realms of my mind. ‘What decision?!’ I had no say regarding the course of my
destiny. It was clear that the fates have spoken, and my thread of mortality
has been pulled tight waiting for the fatal cut. Because to kill the spirit is
far worse than physical death because it dooms you to walk the earth with the
living dead. Societal expectations corral you into a spiritual slaughterhouse,
and they do so in the name of order, in the name of conformity, in the name of
the greater good.
Mrs. Preacher, the Conformity teacher, was conveniently
standing behind me. I felt defeated with the only energy circulating through my
body coming from anger. My jaw clenched, tightening like a vice; I felt the
pressure gathering around my teeth. A young child should never experience such
hatred, but any innocence that remained within me faded in that office. Mrs. Preacher
takes me by the hand and guides me to my cell. Walking into the classroom, I
realized the sounds that surrounds me begins to dim. I am no longer in the
torment of my reality but in the comforts of my dreams.
‘You can capture my body, but you will never enslave my
soul’ the words echo in my mind.
My cell is accommodated with a table and many chairs. The
table is round and made of some kind of stone and my only company is a guard
standing about eight feet tall and staring off into the distance. Oddly this
guard appears to be female. This is not to say females do not possess the
capabilities of becoming warriors, but this guard is Colegak. And Colegaks are
a strictly patriarchal society.
Observing the dress of the guard it becomes clear to me
that this is not a guard at all, but some negotiator. Her face was long, with a
sloping nose. Her skin was a greenish-gray color, and the texture was rough.
She sits down in front of me, and as she starts to reach her hand across the
table, I distance myself, giving the message that my personal space has been
encroached. I stare at her and notice how her bulging veins in her hands
slither like snakes when she moved her fingers. She extends her hand closer,
seemingly wanting to engage me. She closes in and now eye to eye, I can see the
yellow wheat fields that swayed in her eyes. Mysterious and intimidating, her
stare makes me uneasy. “Jason, begin to read” she commands.
“What?” I hesitated.
“Begin to read” she repeats herself.
The image of reality starts to come into focus like a
slide under a microscope. Mrs. Preacher’s face pieces together as if it was a
jigsaw puzzle. Her lips tighten as her fingers applies pressure to her
forehead. She looks frustrated and unhappy, and I could not help but to feel
sorry for her. She seems lost to me, like a child longing for a parent’s
love.
Mrs. Preacher is a tall woman with a long crescent-moon
face and tightly curled hair. Her eyes are wide, exposing the hazel coloring in
her irises. Her middle-aged complexion is intensified by the lines that ran
deep into her face. I find myself reading those lines drawn throughout her face
like a palm-reader interprets a hand. Her face speaks of long durations without
smiling, and the deep lines carved into her brow tells of a life plagued with
anger and pain.
“Begin to read Jason and please do not make me ask
you again,” her voice quivered. I stare at the words trying to make sense
of them. The book was dull, and the words gasped for life, while I sat there
pleading for my sanity. All of these expectations drown me in a flood of
demands that suck the life-giving oxygen from my creativity. I feel my body
slip out from under me pinning me to the floor as the pressure gathers around
my back. The words of this society echo in my mind reinforcing the stigma that I
am deformed. Like Quasimodo, I am persecuted for my differences while being
imprisoned by an organization that is empowered by conformity. My stigma eats
at my soul, and I feel my essence fading with my spirit. My hopes are stifled
by the understanding that through time these negative suggestions will conquer
my subconscious and dictate my beliefs and actions. I cannot let that happen,
and I won’t. Mrs. Preacher smiles which surprises me because I did not think
she was capable of such a thing. For a moment I imagined that she was a loving
person, a kind person, a person who cared about the welfare of my soul. And
with her devious giggle, that image was shattered, and the cruelty residing in
her soul exposed itself through that grin.
“Just as I thought, ignorant” she pauses to watch how her
words affected me.
“Come on you little dummy, just read these simple words”
she is tapping sarcastically on the book. “Children like you are a waste of
time; you should feel ashamed yourself taking up so much time from all these
good teachers. Teachers whom could be investing their efforts into children who
are destined for greater things” her eyes catch mine. They are intense and full
of disapproval. Her face begins to swirl into a blurred image like mixing paint.
The sounds funnel down into a low pitch hum until I hear nothing but incoherent
babel. My dream whisks me from this room, and I find myself in a stone
chamber.
The Colegak negotiator is sitting across from me with
some stone ruins in her hand. She is chanting in a language I do not understand.
I have heard of these so-called negotiators and their magic. More like
interrogators they use black magic to submit prisoners to their will. I feel
the influence of her spells; my hopes and dreams drain from my body like blood
does a wound. I feel weak, and my will is tested as her chants grow louder and
boom with dark energy. The structure of my mind is strained by the negative
energy projecting from her voice. I get that sick feeling one gets when the end
is near. I fight the influence with all my soul, but I know if I do not find a
way out of this chamber soon, I’ll have no choice but to submit to her spell.
Looking around the chamber I see a table near the door and there, sitting at
the edge of the table, is a dagger.
‘If I can just get to that table, I could yield that
dragger as a weapon and make my escape,’ thoughts frantically fire through my
mind as I try to calm myself before making my move.
“I need to go bad,” I say doing my best pee pee
dance impersonation. The Negotiator, I mean… her face begins to stretch and
bend as the greenish-gray color falls from her cheeks. It is like she is taking
off a tightly fitted mask, and I see Mrs. Preacher’s face emerging from the
mask like a baby from a womb.
“Jason you better not be playing any games with me… Okay,
you little pain in the ass go, but make it quick”, she follows my
movements like a hawk homing in on its prey. I walk towards the door, keeping
one eye on the scissors laying on the edge of the table. In one swift motion, I
grab the scissors and quickly turn around to face Mrs. Preacher.
“Who is the dummy now?” I shouted with emotions riding up
my throat. I choke on my words, not knowing why tears filled my eyes.
“Don’t you make any sudden moves…? Why can’t you people just
leave me alone”, I stared deep into her eyes trying to find her soul. But
her pupils begin to eclipse her hazel irises leaving doll-like eyes filled with
anger and disdain.
“Listen here your illiterate little maggot, put those
scissors down before you hurt yourself; but more importantly before you hurt
someone who matters” her gaze fixates on me. I step back slowly keeping my
eyes on the witch. Her thin lips tighten, cracking the dry skin surrounding
that so-called smile.
‘Why is she smiling?’ the thought sounds off like an
alarm. A chill crawls up my spine, and then I feel my back press against
something solid. Looking upwards I see the face of a man, and before I could
take any action, his large meaty hand grabs my shoulder like a vice grip. The
pressure he applied on my shoulder almost brings me to my knees. Mrs. Preacher
gives out a muffled laugh and her eyes sparkle with amusement.
‘I can’t let them take me’ my soul aches with the painful
agony of an exposed cavity. I take the scissors that I had in a white-knuckled
grip and stabbed that hamburger patty hand so hard that the blade of the
scissors went a half of an inch into my own shoulder. A deep bellow fills
the room as the man cries out in pain. Pumping with adrenaline, I did not
notice the blood trickling down my shoulder, nor did I feel any pain. For a moment,
I stand there stunned by my act. The events surrounding me appeared to me like
a movie and I observe myself on the screen with a pair of bloody scissors in my
hand watching this large man grabbing his hand tightly and crying in pain. The
blood from the man’s hand begins to drip onto the floor making strange patterns
on it. I finally come back to my senses; remembering that I have taken my eyes
off the witch. Quickly turning around, I am greeted by an empty chair, and my
breath is stolen by fear. Frantically jerking my head in different directions,
I panic, as I attempt to locate Mrs. Preacher. I feel a sharp sting on the left
side of my face. My vision blurs, as I feel gravity pull me to the ground. That
Witch blind-sided me with a slap knocking me off my feet. Trying desperately to
regain my footing I see a fuzzy figure out of the left corner of my eye. I feel
the breeze of another attempt on my face. Not taking the time to rejoice in
Mrs. Preacher’s uncoordinated blow, I jump to my feet and wildly slash the air
with the scissors. She drops back; her pupils are dilated leaving only deep
dark holes in her eyes. I know that if she gets to me, I will not survive this
day.
I see the doorway beckoning to me, and I pray that my
feet will guide me to freedom.
“Jason you are done for, you hear me you are done
for!” her voice pierces my ears, and her words are filled with an evil
hatred. Running out the door, I hear the fading screams of Mrs. Preacher and
the approaching footsteps of the school’s security guards. My heart is beating
like a war drum, and my mind is racing for survival. Getting to the hallway I
look for an exit, but my plan is thwarted by the security guards blocking the
exit in front of me. They run towards me in full stride, I quickly dodge them
by running into the auditorium. I dart towards the stage with the single-minded
purpose of creating distance between me and them. Climbing onto the stage, I
hear the auditorium doors slam open. Looking behind I see the guards running
towards the me. Thoughts ricochet in my head: chaotic and violent; I
desperately search for an escape route. Just then I remembered a ladder leading
to the roof of the building. It was in a cleaning closet nestled backstage. I
push my feet as fast as they will carry me, almost losing my balance. The
guards’ voices draw closer as I push myself through the curtains. Seeing the
closet door, I notice that the sounds in the background begin to gargle, and
the familiar surroundings transform into a menacing courtroom adorned with
beautifully decorated banners draping down from the ceiling.
I see the secret chamber door leading to the top of the
right tower. I hear the Colegak guards approaching, and I wish that I could
understand them. Their voices fluctuate as they communicate their positions to
one another. The voices begin to fade as I race up the swirling staircase
taking me to freedom. I see the sunlight breaking through a sky-light just
above me, and this breathes life back into my exhausted body. Reaching the top,
I push myself through the door sucking in the fresh air that is circulating on
the top of the castle. I hear the horrifying sounds of footsteps echoing up the
staircase. Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the sacred stones of my people.
These stones were given to me by my father, who was a great Holy Man among our
tribe. These stones were said to provide the yielder with the power of flight.
Holding the stones tight in my hand I start to run towards the edge of the
castle. I jump, feeling the air rush through my hair as gravity embraces my
body. I fly towards the earth like a falcon diving for its prey. The ground
rapidly approaches, and the detail of my destination flashes forward and my
eyes freeze me in time. At that moment everything goes black.
A pinpoint of light is all that remains. It hovers in
front of me, and like a keyhole to my mind, I attempt to look through it. The
light grows slowly consuming the darkness surrounding me. I can see the shadow
like figures standing above me. They are saying something; however, I cannot
understand them. I feel something warm flowing down my head and cheek like warm
water. I see my hand, and it opens like a blossom to the sun. Three marbles
roll from it, and I fade with the light that drape over me. Gravity begins to
lose its influence and my body floats, gliding through the air with a freedom
that I have never known before.
“The Stones worked, oh man the Stones worked” I
cried out with feelings of exhilaration. I can see the guards gathering around
something, as they shrink underneath me. Closing my eyes, I find myself
liberated; truly free to paint the sky. Soaring on the wings of my thoughts, I
break the shackles of conformity and penetrate the veil separating my two
worlds. The light covers me like a warm blanket; I feel the familiar embrace of
a mothers’ womb. I let myself go and surf the cosmic wave to awe.
Literary Bath Salts Publications 