Dreams by Jason Montoya

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.