TRAPPED in my Mind - Prizes Updated - Winners Announced!

I am...

driven by my unconscious	52.7%	[ 49 ]
in control of my action	22.6%	[ 21 ]
a set of responses dictated by the environment	24.7%	[ 23 ]
Total Votes:			[ 93 ]

[Yonderponder]

New rule has been added. scream

[s u g a r c u b e - - x]

I'll start when I get home

[Yonderponder]

Yay! Hope to see something from you! : D

[Hikaru Seishin]

Username: Hikaru Seishin
Word Count: 2,800
Title of Entry: An Insane Kind of Normal
Entry:

The man writes at the desk, determination and fatigue in his eyes. He is a world-weary man of about thirty years, trying to make a living while supporting his wife and four beautiful children. A man suddenly knocks down the door to his study and the working man stands up, questioning his appearance. The intruder jumps on him and stabs him in the torso continuously the same way he did with the rest of the worker’s family, the blood painting the floor and his nasty, recently burned face-

I let go of the desk. I can’t watch anymore. I’m breathing hard and I take a few gulps of air before sitting down on my chair. I feel faint and I need water, but I would much rather deprive myself of my needs than walk downstairs where my drunk and raging parents are, ready to take out their anger on me.

Abusive as they are, I’m glad for the fact that they still realize I’m a living being. Though my room is plainly furnished, I, nonetheless, am grateful for the bed, desk, and mirror that they leave me with, even if their memories are tainted and dark. I go up to that mirror now. I look at the man of sixteen looking back at me, more handsome than I could ever imagine myself to be. He sports short brown hair, and his lips and the slope of his nose complement his face. He’s well built; you can tell he’s a strong runner and you can imagine that he’s a prize athlete. But the part of him that you’ll instantly be attracted to is the colour of his eyes. Those disturbingly bright amber eyes that can see things no one would care to give a damn about.

Seeing myself, I always wonder why people hate me so much. There’s nothing for them to envy, nothing that could possibly set them off, and yet they always push me away. What was that word? Right, it was isolation. That word used to scare me so much. But then I realized a few years ago that it was what I had been – and still is – what I’m living with.

“Salem,” I turn and look at my dog, who had called my name. “Penny for your thoughts.”

My dog, Sly, is a rare, red-coated Alaskan Klee Kai that was abandoned because he had broken his leg and his former owners couldn’t bring him to a decent veterinarian to get it fixed. I found him on the side of a road in a box when he was six months old. He told me himself. That was the day I first talked to him.

It was bright and sunny, unlike the usual stories about finding abandoned puppies. I was walking home from school and, as I passed a nearly run-down apartment, I heard whimpering. I decided to look for the source and found it in a box sitting near the bushes. I noticed that the poor pup had a strange leg and looked at it. I knew a bit about medicine, being in a family of doctors, and it was obviously broken. How it got like that, I didn’t know nor did I care.

“You look like you need some help. I’ll get you to someone if you’ll come with me,” I put my hand out to see if it would be okay with that. It looked up at me and I realized that it was heterochromic, one eye brown and the other baby blue. It slowly stood up and nudged its nose into the palm of my hand.
 
“Alright, now that that’s settled, wanna tell me your name?” It nuzzled my hand, instantly warming up to me which wasn’t what Klee Kais normally do. It was just as strange as I was, and I smiled at the thought.

“Sly,” a tiny little voice barked out. “My name is Sly.”

After that, I brought him to my house and locked up the basement so I could work on his leg. My parents had their own little medical clinic in case people couldn’t get to a hospital in time. Our town didn’t have one and they would have to drive about an hour and a half to the nearest certified hospital. Before I began to talk about things, I would help them with patients and I’ve seen things a six-year-old probably shouldn’t have. It took me about two hours, but I finally got it done and I brought my new friend to my room. My parents didn’t know about him then, and they still don’t know now.

“Hey, Salem. Get your head out of the clouds. Want to answer my question or not?” Sly growls and puts on a strange face. The only reason I can tell it’s annoyance is because I’ve lived with him for a long while.

“You already know what I’m thinking, Sly. It’s just the usual stuff,” I say, walking to my little closet in the corner of my room and grabbing my sweatshirt. The voices downstairs grow louder and louder and I know that I have to get out before they come upstairs. The lock on my door doesn’t always work the way it should. Pulling it over my head, I tell him, “We need to get out of here.”

Sly gets up and nods his head, hearing the angry voices. I open the window and a lovely breeze comes in, instantly making me feel lighter and happier. I jump out and my feet hit the roof of the garage without a sound and Sly follows. I close the window and we make our way down, my friend in my arms and me gracefully jumping down. I put Sly down and begin to walk aimlessly around our neighbourhood.

Then, it happens.

I’m able to hold it back for a bit, but it always comes back. My head starts throbbing and Sly notices that something’s amiss. In an instant, a searing pain cuts through my body and I the cry I had tried to keep inside escapes. I shut my eyes and fall to the ground, knowing that I can’t do anything to stop it.

I hate my little “gift”. It isn’t hereditary or genetic and no one else knew of anything like it. I’m not a so-called psychic or one of those other phonies that try to cheat people out of their money. Those are tricks. This…this is my reality.

The pain ebbs away and I look up, seeing people staring at me. The ones that know me walk away and ignore me because they think I’m just seeking attention. Some of the others have a strange, undefined outline. They continue to stare at me and some even try to help. They’re the ones that are “just in my head.” They’re the ones that others can’t see.

“Not again,” I whisper to myself. Sly whimpers beside me. He can’t see them either, but he knows what it’s like to be alone and in pain. I slowly stand up and try to brush away those that are trying to help me. As I do, my hands pass through their ethereal bodies. Most of them know that they can’t touch me already and look down, sadly. There is only one that comes to find that they’re not of this world anymore. A terrified expression comes across her face and she lets out a blood-curdling scream. The new ones are what people call banshees. They become terrified and go on a rampage, possessing someone to try and become one of the living again and taking them out in the process. I don’t blame them; I wouldn’t want to be stuck in limbo either.
 
Before I notice it, I’m trying to calm her down. I usually let them take out their anger on whoever they find, but this time I don’t care that I’m trying to be myself. I know what it’s like to be different, to know that I’ll never fit in with the others. She was just a reminder of what I am, of what I can’t change.

“It’s okay, calm down,” I tell her. The others mumble and give her reassurances and she stops screeching and begins to sob, tears streaming down her face. “You’re lucky, you know that?”

She stares at me and says, “Have you gone nuts?! How am I lucky? I’m dead, boy! I’ll never be able to see my family again!”

“You have people that are like you, or at least in a similar predicament,” I say simply. With a shrug I continue on. “As for me, the reason people think I’m insane is because they know nothing about me and don’t care to. There’s no one with the same curse that I have to endure. Have you ever met another person that could see ghosts?”

She instantly regrets asking her questions and she is just about to say something when I interrupt her by turning my back and walking away. I don’t need a ghost telling me that she’s sorry when she shouldn’t be. No one can sympathize with me, anyway.

I keep walking and it starts to get more and more crowded. The number of people and ghosts begin to increase and cars are starting to pass by. My head is full of thoughts as I cross the road, and I arrive at my second home.

The park. It’s a beautiful one, tended to with love and care by the gardeners who live in our town. A mix of conifers and deciduous trees along with several bushes line the path leading to a large fountain smack in the centre of town. But the fountain isn’t where I want to go. I duck into the woods and walk aimlessly until I find the little clearing I had discovered as a boy. A particularly large oak tree springs up from the center and I begin to climb the tree.

This tree is one of the only objects to have shown me a favourable memory. I smile as the tree shows its prized past again as I continue climbing. There was a couple here, not too long ago. They were taking a walk in the woods, happy and smiling until they stopped under the oak’s branches. The man got on one knee, and took out a ring.

“Alexis, I love you and I was wondering if you would –”

“Of course!” She interrupted. She let him put the ring on her finger, her eyes shining bright with unshed tears. Once it was on, she leaped on him and they lay there in the grass, laughing. “I love you too, Richard.”

I open my eyes to the moon, not noticing how much time had passed me by. The clearing now has a mysterious quality to it that calms me. The oak’s leaves whisper and laugh as they dance in the wind. I take a deep breath and a minty smell engulfs my nostrils. A light fog descends and the weather’s cooler than when I first came here. The silvery light reflects off of the fiery leaves, and I allow myself a small smile and the wonder I’m faced with.

“You don’t have a very good guard dog, you know?”

I widen my eyes in surprise and look down to where Sly is. A girl is there, sitting with her back on the tree and stroking his head. Sly growls with contentment at being scratched behind his ear and he looks up at me with an apologetic expression.

I sigh and tell her, “He’s nothing close to a guard dog. That, and he’s still a puppy.”

She giggles and stands up. She’s pretty, with long, layered blond hair and hazel eyes. She’s slender, she has glasses, and she dons a navy blue sweater and jeans. She reminds me of that woman, Alexis. Maybe she’s related to her, her daughter maybe.

“You’re Salem Isles, right?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. I find it cute and I laugh a bit before I can stop myself.

“Yes, I am. You’re in some of my classes…Carey Valquist?”

“That’s right,” she nods and smiles at me. Then, she puts on a serious face and looks into my amber eyes. “They say you’ve gone mad.”

I jump down off of my branch. “Keep talking.”

“People say you can see ghosts and that you can kill with anything. You isolate yourself from others because you’re scared that you’ll kill them. There are other rumours that say you can talk to animals.”

At this, Sly pipes up and says, “Yes, he can! I’m proof of it!”

“Shut up, Sly. Let her talk. And you can’t be proof because no one else understands you.” Carey looks at me, eyes wide.

“You can actually talk to Sly, can’t you? All I heard was growling but you talked back to him. What did he say?”

I am honestly taken aback. I have never met someone who actually wanted to know about me, much less converse. Even my own parents don’t pay this much attention to their cursed little boy. I tell her, “He said that he was proof that I can talk to animals.”

She gets quiet for a bit before she softly inquires, “What’s true? What isn’t?”

Before I’m able to ask her if she truly wants to know, I look at her eyes and see that her curiosity is genuine. She isn’t doing this just to poke fun at my expense. She really cares. So, I gulp down my nervousness and let myself go.

“I can see and talk to ghosts, I can talk to animals, and I can see memories when I touch something,” I say, my voice trembling. After keeping it in for so long, it’s hard to talk about. “I’m scared of things like the jabberwocky and goblins and vampires because they exist. No one else knows they’re there because they don’t believe in the “fairytales” but I know because I can see. And they know that and they’re haunting me, stalking me, trying to get me so that I can’t expose them, even though they know that people would scoff at what I tell them. I’m practically cursed.”

“Wait, what do you mean you can see memories? Everybody can see them.”

“No t the way I do. Should I give you a demonstration?” I hold out my hand. “It works with both living beings and inanimate objects.”

Carey stares at my hand it before taking it. I close my eyes and everything rushes in like a wave. As the fragments pass me, I begin to recite what I see. “You’re Carey Elizabeth Valquist. You’re fifteen turning sixteen on the fifteenth of March and you have a loving family. Your mother’s name is Alexis, your father’s Richard, and your younger brother is called Mark. You were born in New York and decided to move here so that you would be able to get some peace and quiet instead of listening to cars and breathing in the smoke. This was also where your parents grew up and found each other.”

When I open my eyes, I find her looking at me in amazement and something like admiration. “You’re not lying.”

“No one ever proved it. Until now at least. Oh, and your dad proposed to your mom under this tree.” I pat the trunk of the oak. “That’s what it told me.”

“I wonder why no one’s ever bothered to be your friend. You’re insane,” she walks up to me and smiles.

“That’s why,” I reply. “It’s because I’m insane.”

“Yeah, but normal isn’t good either,” she takes my hand, and Sly growls and smiles a bit. “Sometimes, being insane – being a bit different – isn’t such a bad thing.”

I look at our hands and smile, saying, “No. It isn’t such a bad thing after all. I guess normal really is overrated.”

[s u g a r c u b e - - x]

Username: s u g a r c u b e - - x
Word Count: 2,900
Title of Entry: Consumption to the Finest Degree
Entry:

It's white. Very white......

---9am
The blue sky begins to darken with the light of the fading sun creating a bleeding red across the surface. It is only for a moment before the only light bright enough to see is that of the luminescent moon. Small figures stalk across the gravel and dirt in the darkness. It did not seem as though the night would stop them. Though it was past time for exhaustion to set in, the stalkers seemed not even close to weary. If nothing else, there might have been a slight burst of energy from one. Or perhaps it wasn't....

All people become weary. Yet, the soft thrum of footfalls on the ground did not falter. It was an easy yet somewhat quick pace. It was obvious, whoever it was needed to get somewhere. Where to was the question. If it was necessary to use the cover of night to make such a journey, then perhaps the destination was one that none needed to know of.

---1:30pm
The cage wasn't much of a cage. It was more of a room that was very inconvenient. It was small, to say the least, big enough to move about comfortably in but not enough that one didn't feel the urge to smash each and every wall apart with every step in any one direction. Each wall had dents in them as if that was what he had attempted to do. There were also splashes of color on the walls. There was actually a lot of color on the wall. There was probably no white anywhere to be seen. It looked as though there was paint over layers of paint.

The only thing that seemed off was the overwhelming stench of blood that flooded the room. It was mixed well into the smell of paint. It was acrylic paint so it was not a strong smell but it was a distinct smell. The blood was very acute as if it was it were embedded in the cracks in the walls. It was almost too much for most people to bear. He didn't seem to mind though.

His hands were covered in paint. He sat in the cage silently, stirring the paint idly with his fingers. The only wall that did not have color all over it was the transparent wall that he leaned against as he moved his arm around in a circular motion. His brushes lay scattered around on the floor beside his feet. The man wreaked of blood and paint. He had a contented look upon his lips and a very apathetic one in his eyes. Behind him in the room outside his tiny little cage was the remnants of those who helped him "decorate" his unfriendly living quarters. The hard surface of bone was cracked as if on impact. Skulls and other body parts were strewn across the large space, silent as death.

The color of his paint was a dark murky red. Streaked with dark crimson, the dark red covered over what had previously been blue and yellow. Even the oranges and soft peach color were painted over by the dark red. It was one of those days.

---4:22pm
The color of the cloth was that of a shimmering emerald green. They matched her eyes. he refused to wear it though. the girl who offered it to her, insisted that she wear it. She was not at all interested and insisted instead that she should not. she was more than a little tempted to hit the girl with her fist. Hitting her with her shoes would have been terribly worse, after all. Yet, the law was probably the only thing keeping the poor salesgirl from having a large gash across her face. Had she been a kinder person, she would have smiled and perhaps found a way to be rid of that horrendously revealing piece of clothing. She did not feel like being a kind person but she did not feel like putting forth any more effort. Instead, she handed back the dress and pulled her friend out of the store. "Can't believe you made me go in there."

"Oh? I think it looked nice on you." he said in that tone of voice that was common of him. He had a sly sarcasm to his tone almost all of the time. Part of her found it amusing and another found it more than a little irritating.

"Liar." she snapped back at him, not even bothering to look at him as she said it. He found that amusing for some reason.

"Heh, so self-conscious, aren't you?" she looked back at him and gave him a scathing look.

"I don't need to hear that from you!" she knew that part of what he said was true. she was self-conscious. It wasn't the dress. She really just didn't like it. Yet, she knew that she couldn't take the compliment because she firmly believed it didn't look good on her. Perhaps she knew it for a fact or maybe she thought he was just being a jerk for it but she did know she didn't believe him. not to mention the boy was always a liar. He shrugged and continued to follow her either way. "hurry up. I just came here for a belt."

Even though she had said that, he knew it wasn't entirely true. The ball was coming up and she had yet to find a dress. It was required to go. There was no way she was planning to go in a pair of slacks and dress shirt. Even she didn't have the right look for it. So, the only solution was that she find a pretty outfit.. sadly, that was perhaps easier said than done.

she walked faster. Perhaps she thought if she did, she would loose him. He also found that thought amusing. That wasn't going to happen and It was just too bad. It wasn't mandatory but dates to the ball were an option. She didn't have a date, but a certain someone else did. It was just too painfully obvious how she felt about that. How she felt about a certain joker, as well.

He was a sweet guy, good looking, and generally a fun person. It was all too clear that she liked him. Perhaps he liked her as well but it sure wasn't going to be shown at the ball. Part of her wanted to hide and not be seen. another part of her wanted to shine and show him she was a better choice. It didn't really matter. When she got back to school, she'd have to see them together.


---7pm
It was painful. No matter how much he wanted to deny his thoughts, they were always there and they lingered in his heart. It was better now. Recently, he hadn't gotten to see much of the other boy, which was probably for the best. had he seen him, it would only cause more of that dull ache he knew he'd never be fully used to.

He walked down the halls, hoping to find something to distract him from his thought until class started. He would likely just go out and read on the lawn or in a classroom. He wanted to see Him but at the same time he wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. His solution was usually putting in his earbuds and not letting himself think about much else.

It was well over thirteen years since they had first met and a good seven years since he had realized his feelings for the other boy. How they had met was no longer important. How they had lost touch was more of an issue and continued to be so. He hated it. He hated what he'd done but at the time it had been the best option. Sometimes it still was. His love would never understand... or perhaps he would never care. Either thought was depressing.

Being out with him had been the worst. It wasn't even the thought of a date that bothered him. It was the fact that the man he loved would always smile at another. Never at him. Those eyes would never sparkle for him. Those lips would never turn up at the sight of his arrival. Things were different with friends. They were even worse with best friends. He needed some new songs.

The small boy got up from the floor that he had ended up at. He used the wall to push himself up as best as he could. the bell hand tolled but he didn't feel like going to class. He did anyway like a good little boy. He found his way towards the classroom and sat himself in his usual seat near the front. At least for a while he'd have something else to do.

After school was out for the day, he went to find his friends. They had forced him to go a party. He didn't much care for it but he'd heard that a certain someone would be there. It was by no means an excuse to see him. It was more of a trouble. If anything were to happen at least he'd have a chance to intervene. the party was one of many troubles he'd gone through just because he'd felt it was his duty to do so.

As the party continued on, things went faster, hotter, sweatier, and a bit smellier. He had refused to drink and merely watched. He spoke briefly to some and then was dragged into a game of seven minutes in heaven with a bunch of drunk teenagers. How the gods liked to ******** with him. It was easy to just fast forward and say that he'd been pushed into that dank and cramped closet with the boy that haunted his dreams. Said boy was drunk as well. Well bloody hell that was. He wanted to resist the temptation and he knew it was the better thing to do. He really did. But of course, he was a teenage boy; trapped in a closet with the boy he loved; said boy so drunk and impressionable; and not to mention that this will probably never happen again; Why the ******** not?

He took his chances and went for those soft, sweet lips.Damn, he wished he could do that more often. It wasn't going to happen but he didn't see any harm in wishing. It wasn't like he could simply just give back a kiss. He wanted to keep kissing the boy but it wasn't right. Bloody hell, he was drunk for ******** sake. He waited another minute or so before the door was opened. He dragged his companion from the closet floor. "Did you have fun?"

"Sod off." he replied, pretending to be upset. He left the group of players to get himself a drink and let his mind wander once again. Perhaps the music would help.

---11:55pm
The sound of music came from within the classroom. He hadn't expected to find much at this hour. It was late and most of the clubs had finished. It was coming from the auditorium. The gentle sound of music and a light singing that could barely be heard over the music. Whoever it was either couldn't figure out how to be louder or was trying hard not to be heard. He guessed it was the latter, even if no one else was around. He'd give him the benefit of the doubt.

Walking into the auditorium, he found himself in front of a huge stage with all the lights flaring down on one figure. He didn't think it appropriate to interrupt. Sitting down in front of the stage in one of the many chairs, he watched as the young man on stage sang softly. It was one of those slow songs he didn't know. Very soft, slow, and strong. He wanted to smile as he listened.

As the song ended, he came over to the singer. the other boy looked almost in shock at seeing him. He held his hands up in a sign of peace and in hopes that no one would shoot him. "I come in piece. Don't shoot." he said, more jokingly than originally planned. He came over and smiled at the other. "Nice song." he tried to compliment to the blond boy that looked at him as if he really were a joke in himself. He felt even more awkward as the boy stared at him. He stood there for another five to six seconds before he decided just to bolt it and leave.

The next day was hard. for some reason he couldn't get that face out of his head. The guy had been cute. Admittedly, he didn't seem gay. That was always his problem, right? He liked straight boys. That made life all the more tiresome. Almost no one in school knew he was interested in men. He wasn't deliberately hiding anything, he just didn't find any use coming out and telling people. He liked his privacy was all. It would be a long day and it was unlikely he'd see the boy again.

Waiting until after school ended was easy. Football practice went as usual and then he wanted to check the auditorium again. It was quiet this evening. It was almost disappointing. He turned around to leave but bumped into the blond boy from the day before. "Oh! Uh.. Hi." he said oh so ******** nervously.

"... What are you doing?" was the first question that came out of those slightly dry lips.

"Um....I uh... I came to... see if anyone was performing today." That sounded stupid, yes. He didn't want to rethink those words because he didn't want t embarrass himself in his own head too. "Practice?"

"I just come to use the auditorium."

"Oh. Well...uh sorry about yesterday. Just thought you sounded nice. So I stuck around."

"It's okay... thanks." his pale cheeks reddened a tint of light pink. He seemed embarrassed by the compliment. "I'm not very good. the people in glee club are a lot better." He didn't care about those people.

"Well, I still like it." he said, his voice going softer as he said so. It was still so nerve-raking. 'Um. I guess I'm gunna head out." he said with a few odd gestures. He ran off before the blond could say anything to stop him. He felt bad about it but the butterflies were more prominent than the guilt. He ran out the school doors and went home.

the next day was the same. the only difference in his routine was that he stopped by the music room on his way after school. "I'd like to join." the small group of people stared at him in disbelief. the teacher who stood in front of him smiled and let himself do as he pleased. All he needed to do was show them how well he sang. He decided on Time of Dying by Three Days Grace. He didn't know why he chose it but he sang it and thr little group gave him a warm welcome afterwards. the cute blond boy did not. He sat in his seat, looking at him. The smile he'd been wearing fell. this would be harder than he had first thought.

---2:10am
Always one of those nights. Time of Dying was still playing around in my head. Maybe that's why they had decided to sing that song. I rolled over again, mumbling still. I wanted to laugh at the images that continued to play in my mind. How much more suffering they went through every night. A lot more than mine ever were. Somehow it was almost too funny.

I'm not always sure why I still do this. Well, I do know why. It's the only thing that helps me sleep. I'm not really sure why I do it for most of the day, though. I find it more interesting, perhaps. Real life can be... a pain. Each and every part of life in my mind was more interesting than the life I live. for some reason I find it almost surreal. The real world is a dream to me and in the times I do come out of the haze and see the people around me, it's almost too funny. The same society in my dreams is not so silly to watch as that of the one in front of my face. It makes no sense.

As i lay under the covers, I find it cold. Even with two blankets and numerous pillows, it's still cold. I close my eyes and for a moment I'm not sure what to think. It's too much running through my mind. I can't figure out who to play with. Perhaps I'll let her go to the ball in a pretty dress. Perhaps I'd like to find another victim to splatter across the walls. Perhaps I'll continue the unrequited love story. One of these days I might find a way out. One of these days I might not be in this cage.

Perhaps one day I won't be trapped in my own dreams. My dreams. My world. My salvation. My merciful entrapment.





[A/N:: You can skip everything before 2am but it wouldn't be as fun
I know it doesn't sound trapped..I'm sorry if I'm confusing anyone. It was part of the point....sort of.
And they purposely don't have names.]

[Yonderponder]

Thanks for the entries, guys! I've added them to the front! : D

[say-sayonara-ara]

I really hope you meant what you said about weirder being better. redface
Username: CharlieTehRubberDucky
Word Count: 1610
Title of Entry: Part of a Half
Entry:
A hazy morning Sun rose above the industrial buildings of the city, illuminating the red, eroded bricks and rusting fire escapes. A suppressing layer of smog covered the skyline, tinging an already bleak view with depressing grey tones.
Pulling back the curtains, she shaded her eyes from the light and let out a yawn. After a few blinks, she pulled on a loose sweater and went to the kitchen, where I could hear her noisily banging around in the cupboards, in search of a clean bowl for cereal.
I floated in after her, just in time to see her pour milk over the bland squares of grayish wheat squares, which hardly looked like ‘Hearty Goodness...Guaranteed!’
She leaned against the counter, dipping the spoon in and lifting it back up rhythmically. The pullover hung, not clung, to her lean figure. Her hair looked thin and dull, and messy from sleep and lack of Sun. The once clear blue eyes looked gray and watery in the unforgiving kitchen light. Sensing my gaze, she looked up, blinked and turned away again.
“I had hoped you would have left by now.”
I didn’t respond; I never did.
By now, she had finished her breakfast. After carefully placing her bowl in the precariously full sink, she tucked a piece of dishwater blonde hair behind her ear.
“I don’t see why you’re still here. The doctor said these pills would work.”
Tensing, I flexed my shadowy hands. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt Bridget. But she couldn’t take those pills. They might work, and if they did, I’d be gone forever.
Bridget’s eyes flitted from the pill bottle to me, and back again. She grabbed the container, but I latched on to her wrist. With a yelp, Bridget released her hands and dropped the pills. An angry red blotch was leftover from my grip.
Ashamed that I had hurt her, I dropped my gaze. I tried to pick up the pills, but failed. I was only imaginary after all.
With a sigh, Bridget crossed over to the sink, washed her hands, and poured a glass of water.When she returned, her burns were gone, if they had ever really been there to begin with.
“I’m sorry. It’s not that...The issue isn’t...”
She shook her head, and sipped some water.
“Look. It’s nothing personal. But I was a normal girl. I want to be normal again. Like...I’m not even sure if you can understand me. This Schizophrenia business needs to stop. I’m 23 years old. ********... I’m wasting my life, all because of you. So please. Go away.”
This time, I didn’t stop her, when she reached for the white pills. Instead, I shrank away to the doorway and observed her from there.
Muttering to herself about experimental drugs that only made things worse, Bridget took out one pill and swallowed it. As she screw the cap on, she paused, an unscrewed it and took out two more pills and gulped them down as well.
She blinked, and took another sip of water before collapsing on the floor. As she lost consciousness, I faded out from reality right along with her.

---

Four hours later, and she began to move again. The sky had already begun to darken for the evening, making her apartment appear even more gloomy. A hazy moon had only just begun to poke out from behind the rust colored clouds, as the sun passed by.

These medications are s**t. What kind of Doctor prescribes pills that only worsen a condition?

Bridget’s eyes shot open. “Since when do you talk?”

I don’t, I answered, drifting in from the hallway and sitting in front of the sink. I’m only in your head after all.

She put her head in her hands. “Can’t you leave me alone? I had a boyfriend before this.” She gave a bitter laugh, adding, “I was happy before this. Unclassified form of schizophrenia my a**. Call me what I am, insane.”

You’re not insane. I tested my new strength by picking up the pill bottle. Bridget watched my every move as I opened the tube, and picked up a pill, weighing it in my faintly transparent hand. You’re just... I trailed off. It didn’t matter to her. No one wants to hear they're weak.

“Hah. Okay. Sure.” Pushing past me, Bridget headed back for the bedroom. She collapsed on the bed, and clicked the remote. The television whirred to life. Some news story about a fire, a shooting, and a political scandal greeted her. The pictures reflected onto her pale skin, and I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her.

Still, it was undeniable that she had helped to make me stronger. Perhaps she could continue, and I would surpass ‘imaginary friend’ status. I observed my reflection in the cracked floor-length mirror that hung on the closet door.
Yesterday, only my outline was visible; a pale shadow of a figure. Today, however, my figure was a little more solid. The shape of the couch behind me could still be seen through me, but it was less noticeable. My eyes had gained some color, a deep, cherry red.
I looked back at Bridget, who was still fixed on the screen. Her hands played absentmindedly with her phone.
Barely ten minutes later, her psychiatrist called.
“How are those pills working for you?” his cheery voice asked, crackling through the speaker phone.
“They’re crap,” she answered bluntly.
“Well, you’ve got to give them a chance. You’ve been taking one a day, right?” The false brightness in his voice was disconcerting, even to me.
Bridget paused. Either she was deciding whether or not it was worth it to lie to him, or she was distracted by a commercial for a new movie about zombies.
“Bridget?” the doctor prodded patiently.
“Um, yeah. Doing fine. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got..friends over,” she lied, looking sideways at me.
“Oh good. Tell them I say he-”
She hung up, but didn’t toss the phone across the room, like she usually did after talking to him. I drifted over and peered over her shoulder. Instead, she was on facebook.
“Perkins has a new girlfriend.”
Now she did throw the phone.

I’m sorry. I wasn’t really. He had always bothered me. Always so positive, and sensitive. It brought me some pleasure when I was able to manipulate and distress Bridget enough to cause him to break up with her. Ideally, she would have ended it with him, but it had a similar effect either way.

“You should be! I love him. We were so happy before you came along.” Bridget jumped off the bed, and stalked over to the window. There was a ledge just underneath it. Sometimes, she would sit on it on less smoggy days.
“Do you know he would have stayed if you hadn’t put such violent ideas in my head? Every night, he said that he would do anything he could to make me feel better. But you wouldn’t let me get better.”

I smirked at the memory. Stupid Perkins. Before I was able to take a definite shape, and had to influence Bridget from inside her head, I had dropped thoughts like, ‘he doesn’t really love you,’ or ‘where do you think he was last night? you mustn’t let him get away with lying,’ to great affect. Eventually, Bridget threatened him with a knife. That’s when he split.

I gave her some privacy. Looking back, that was a bad choice on my part.
“Hey! You.” I turned around, my shady claws twitching as I saw her standing on the ledge.
“You’ve pushed me this far. If the pills won’t work, what else will?” Some tears pricked her eyes. Suddenly, she seemed more alive than ever. I felt my tie to her life, and therefore, life in general, slipping.

Please don’t. Bridget. I’m doing all this for you.

Bridget stopped, teetering precariously on the edge. I leapt at the chance to talk her down, but as I opened my mouth, I became too late.
She took a deep breath and dived. I saw her fall, twisting in the air, like some strange kite, or perhaps a doll that a child no longer had use for.

But I still had use for her.
---

The EMT monitored Bridget’s every move.
“Bridget? Can you hear me? Blink if you can.”
Bridget blinked.
“That was quite a fall. Lucky for you, it was only the second floor, and there was a bush underneath.”
“Am I...?”
“Are you what, hun?” The nurse asked, smiling. She patted her cheek kindly. “You’ll be fine. Just a broken leg and collarbone. It’s a miracle, really.”
Bridget blinked a few more time. Her eyes searched the room. There was no shadowy, ghoulish figure.
When the nurse exited to go bring in Bridget’s visitors and let them see her alive and well for themselves, Bridget whispered, “Are you gone? Are you here?”
I did not answer. I was not a separate force anymore. I would just have to wait. Perhaps I’d get another chance to be in control.
Curling my dark tendrils up around myself, I settled back into the comfortable part of her mind, and let my claws drop. There, I caught hold of something beating.
No one should be able to get rid a part of them forever.
---

[So yeah. That was pretty strange. But I love psychology. I want to double major in that in college. c: If you didn’t pick up, it was written from a hallucination’s pov. I thought that would be kind of cool.]
Also, I listened to a lot of Animal Collective while writing this, esp. this so if you want to get the full experience, check that out. c:]

[Yonderponder]

CharlieTehRubberDucky

Hello! : D Just letting you know, I checked your word count, and including your foot note, you clock in at around 1170, not over 5000 like you stated. If you want to add to it a bit before the deadline, you can do that, and then I'll add it to the list of entries.

(I think you might have counted characters, not words, by mistake. xD)
I really hope you edit it to enter, because I read just your footnote so far, and from what you said in it, it sounds like it could be a real contender in the contest. : D If you're going to/when you edit your entry, let me know, yes? : D

[say-sayonara-ara]

Yonder-chan

CharlieTehRubberDucky

Hello! : D Just letting you know, I checked your word count, and including your foot note, you clock in at around 1170, not over 5000 like you stated. If you want to add to it a bit before the deadline, you can do that, and then I'll add it to the list of entries.

(I think you might have counted characters, not words, by mistake. xD)
I really hope you edit it to enter, because I read just your footnote so far, and from what you said in it, it sounds like it could be a real contender in the contest. : D If you're going to/when you edit your entry, let me know, yes? : D

Oh, thanks for letting me know!
I guess my wordcount is broken. I'll add on.

[say-sayonara-ara]

Edited. c:

[asdahsfaj]

User Name: Raina V Skyver
Word Count: 1501
Entry Title: Someone Wake Me Up...
Entry:
-----------------------

I sat there and watched her rot in my eyes, twisting and turning she threw herself across my mind.
Only hoping I would not break and weep at the sight of her leaving. I stay trapped in these dreams, hands grabbing and clawing at every vein. I push down the book, pages screaming to read on. "The end is near!" They shout. Who would've thought we'd be standing here in front of such a problem. My pulsing heart in your hand, and my mind leaking out of every vessel of my body. I can't dream in peace anymore, their shouts they haunt me in my sleep.

A shadowed figure will appear at the door with his list, armed to the teeth to take you with him. Your begging with him will get you nowhere, you must only sit and wait, hoping that someone will take you off the list before his cold hands reach your face and swipe the very life from you.

I feel them stare, looking over my shoulder with a sigh. Come and take me I beg them, but they let me wonder on. Not knowing where i'm going or what my purpose is when I reach the end of the road. They won't hear me out, they won't let go. I bruise from their stares, my ears bleeding with their words of disatisfactory.

"When the road ends and you;re still running, what are you going to do?"

I reply. "I will turn and run the other direction."

"But the circle you're racing will lead you to death."

"Then I will fight until my bones show through my flesh. I cannot lead, only follow. I've lost my path this time."

They tell me. "Your eyes will blind you, your heart will suffocate you. And your mind will lie to you. Be careful."

I nod my head and go to walk out of the room.

They hand my keys to me as I walk out of the door and into the streets with the cold air of September; brisk and cool it dances with the hairs on the back of my neck.
We stay lost here, this place, it is no heaven and defies Hell.

I can't feel my lungs, they feel like they've taken on water. We fight at dawn, I hear the voice scream from the shadow. "Where are you hiding?" I ask, but as usual, no reply.

The trees, they see all and they follow my every move. As if running from myself wasn't enough, now nature herself is out for me. I smell the fumes of cigarettes and pollution musking the air, we suffer in a toxic world.

Paying money for a taste of fresh air. I'll sell it down on the corner to make a profit, it's always free to lie.

I wonder down long, twisting roads. They all seem to lead nowhere but are determined to find their way out.

I see a little boy standing in an almost drunken haze; I notice that the boy has no face, he stares blankly and reaches out a fragile hand. After him I go with steady feet I run. I hear his laughter break into screams as we run blindly into the dead forest; all is black and grey and the man sitting a top a bolder having tea with a friend waves as I pass by in a rush.

I can feel the air thicken with regret. He stops me and asks me to join, he says that i'll never make it by dark.
So I take my place on the rock, I notice a small flame for the brew. He wears a top hat and a multi-colored long-tailed tux.

He smiles as he offers me a cup of tea and asks about my journey. I tell him I have nothing to say for my journey has yet to begin. Everything around us is dead, trees split and broken apart, overcast swallows the sky. The sun has no room to live there. The smell of rot and despair are thick in the air, and this man carries on with tea and a stool as if the day will never end.

In the background I hear the ground shift, I know it's time to leave. He allows me to use his pet to make haste.

Away we go, heart throbbing in my chest, the blood staining my lips as I clinch tightly.

I can't feel the weather, but everything looks so cold.
The skies tell me a story of how they remember being blue and how the grey stains their lives with sadness.

We arrive at the castle gates, I turn my head to see a cat fighting with a horse. The argument isn't clear but their harmful intentions are. I turn to speak with the guards before turning back to see that the horse is balancing on his back legs on the steps. I notice that his right front hoof and his back left hoof have been torn off. He tries to keep himself balanced, in which he fails to and falls forward, bone hard into the stones of the ground. I feel his pain as his body shakes. I watch them as they stagger away dripping blood. The horse's bone grinding into the cobble stone from his mass weight pressuring down.

The cat has also had his leg removed as well as his ear. I watch with pain in my heart.

I feel sad for both of them but cannot help either, nor can I express anger. The cat looks at me, bloody face, missing part of his ear with a bulging eye. I grab his paws and swing him with frustration; but I can't find it in myself to let him sail free into the sky.

I enter the gates, the twisted man sprawled on the floor looks up at me with white eyes and begs me to leave. My head takes it's own route as I stare ahead. The priest sits on the alter as the conveyor belts chug with power, dumping the lives of people into the burn room behind the walls.

Everything is in red and gold, the colors I've come to dread the most. The smog from the machines clouds the air.
I can't save them, not one, not two. I just watch them roll steadily through a small window in the wall and into a fiery pit where their screams will cry on for eternities.

I listen as they scream but notice none of them are restrained. My eyes follow the long red drapes that hang from the ceiling and pin to the walls. In the center of the room above the alter a giant cross hovers. The body of someone who should have been there for me stays nailed to it.

I never wanted her to go, but our hearts were in a different place. She cries out for help but all I can find myself doing is shoving the dagger deeper into her chest.
Tears well up in her eyes. But my heart beats cold like a stone and I can't find it in myself to pull my hand from the handle. I sit there and stare until I've taken her very soul into my body through my eyes.

Before she dies, i'll forget to say goodbye.

I pull back, running fast towards the door. I can't let them catch me, I can't let them see me. They had me once, I won't ever let it happen again.

The faceless boy has caught me again. He flashes by. I take off in chase of him out of the large wooden doors and out into the white sand field surrounded by the dead forest. We come to a screeching halt in the middle of the field. I look down at him, noticing the paleness in his face, the lack of eyes and a mouth, his ruffled hair and his old, torn, white pajamas.

He leans his head back and his face opens. He screams so rapidly I can't make sense of the motions of his head. So rapidly it is only a blur. But his cries echo and ring in my ears.

I watch the ground under him open up and suck him in, taking everything around us, sand, rock, trees, animals.

Finally it comes to a sudden stop as the stump of a tree trunk plugs the hole. I look closer at the smooth wooden surface and listen as the ringing in my ears becomes louder. The sun rises so fast my eyes burn, I take notice to the small tricklets of blood that are coming out of the stump.

I feel a cold rush up my spine, raging chill bumps spring up over my arms as my whole body shudders. I look around to see nothing, but I know someone is close, and we need to make our escape. Where do you run when you have nowhere to hide?

Someone please wake me up..

[The Solarised Night]

Hey Yonder. Good to see your comps back up and running smile

Username: The Solarised Night
Word Count: 2994
Title of Entry: Gender Bender
Entry: This one is more "trapped in my own skin" but the same could apply to mind as the protagonist has to suffer the internal feelings and thoughts associated with that, thus "mind"


Mud-splattered ballet shoes trudge into my bed room; their occupant stares at me pleadingly. The echoes of shattered spirits radiate from emerald irises, paralysing me into a numb silence. It is impossible to ignore the freckle dusted cheeks, which are stained with both cool rain and heated tears; they are battered to a shade of blue. Slender arms are gripping the stomach of a shredded tutu. They are attempting to conceal the crimson flow that peeks through the rips and tears of nylon and flesh, but we both knew that hiding was futile.

“You’re bleeding!” I gasp, trying not to cry. An unsteady groan from quivering lips responds to my shock.
“Who did this to you?” I snap “It was those boys that live down the street, wasn’t it? I am going to rip them apart!” My mind is an emotional juggling act, as I cycle through concern, sympathy, fear and rage.
“I’m sorry, Sissy.”
“Oh darling, I’m not angry at you; this isn’t your fault,” I sigh sympathetically.
“It is my fault; I shouldn’t have worn your dress,” he whimpers, throwing himself into my arms. I cradle his little head and hum soothingly; he still seems like a child to me even though he is edging on adolescence. My aunt once told me in a stale breath of white ox tobacco that “he should have been a girl.” Sometimes I think it would have been better that way; he wouldn’t have to suffer Atlas’ burden or pretend that he has no scars.
“Let me look,” I insist as shift his delicate body away from mine for closer inspection of the damage. He grimaces and bites his lip, as I gently peel the material away from his wound. The depth of the gash made me wince and cover my mouth to supress the scream building in my lungs. I hastily strip pieces off my shirt and press them against him to slow the bleeding.
“Bubba, we need to get you to a hospital!”
“No! Please, don’t send me there,” he pleads; his eyes widen in fear.
“Look at you; you need stitches!”
“Please sis,I don’t want dad to know. He’s more likely to kill me than this will,” he begged with a grim laugh. I can’t help but smile, even though I want to weep. I knew he was right…

Our father is a former officer-general who never learned how to use his inside-voice. He is a hardened veteran who barks like a dog and has a sullen demeanour at the best of times. I recall the slapping of skin through the walls of my room late at night, the silent cries so faint as if never from a victim; the screams of “He’s just a child!” and dismissive he’ll-grow-out-of-it’s still puncture my mind with empathy. We share a collective memory of violence, though I will never grasp the hardships faced by a twelve year old who wishes he was a girl. My brother’s secret or his life; there is no hesitation in which I choose.

“I am driving you to the hospital.”
“Sissy, please I need your help.”
“I am helping you.” I know he feels betrayed, like a criminal whose best friend turned them in. He glances at the floor with crystallised eyes. It pains me to see him disappointed but I can’t see an alternative.
“What are we going to do about this?” I ask. I feel the hot blood seeping through the rags of my shirt. I won’t be able to stop the bleeding much longer.
“Well you’ve done first aid haven’t you? Why don’t you do something?”
“I learnt how to do CPR, make splints and bandage wounds; this is a completely different ball game.” He frowns at me in a blend of confusion and irritation.
“Just wrap it up or something.”
“The cut is almost an inch deep! I can’t just bandage it and hope for the best; get in the car,” I demand. He knows that he doesn’t have a choice.
“I need to change first,” he insists, but I hold his shoulder and lead him to the passenger seat.
“There is no time for that; get in.”

He remains completely silent as I speed through the grim, overcast town. The swishing of the windscreen wipers, wash away the liquid bullets that beat against the blue, metal shell. From the rear view mirror, his vulnerabilities are seen. Beneath the bruises lay deeper scars. They are bottled up torments that swell within him. The valve needs to be opened; the pressure is becoming overwhelming. Something needs to give.
“I’m a horrible person!” he bursts out crying. The shattering of his crystalline stare released the flow of pain trapped inside of him. His tears bring the relief to the anguish he cannot express.
“You’re not horrible, Lachlan,” I sigh, as I rest my arm on the back of my chair of he can take my hand.
“Yes I am,” he sniffed “everyone calls me a f*****t. I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds really bad.”
“A f*****t is a really mean word for a boy who likes other boys,” I explain.
“But I like girls! They have pretty clothes and hair; I just want to be like them. I don’t like boys! Well at least, I don’t think I like them. There is something wrong with me.” He struggles to map out the contrasting places that exist in his world.
“There is nothing wrong with whom you are, Lachlan.” I squeeze his hand a little tighter.
“Everyone else thinks there is, even mummy and daddy,” he mutters
“Well I think you are wonderful. You have such a beautiful voice and are a brilliant dancer." I smile at him through the mirror. He returns the gesture weakly before returning to contemplation. I stop for the second intersection in a row, leaving the engine to purr at the adjacent rush of cars. The traffic lights are not in my favour today.
“Are faggots evil?” Lachlan asks, “Johnny told me that faggots go to hell. Does that make me evil?”
“No!” I yell. He pulls his hand away from mine and whimpers. “I’m sorry, bubba. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just…” The loss of words is excruciating. How do you explain the debate of morality to a child?
“Honey, there are stupid people in this world -cruel and stupid people. There is nothing you can do that will remedy their narrow minds,” I say, as we pull up in the hospital car park. He doesn’t respond.

I fling my seat belt aside and jump out of the car to help my little brother out of his seat. He screams in pain and doubles over; blood splatters on my shoes as I rush to catch him. He looks up at me, paler than usual; his vision is blurred and unfocused.
“Oh s**t! s**t, s**t, s**t!” I bite my lip and lift him into my arms. I run awkwardly uphill, holding Lachlan close to my chest. My jeans become drenched in seconds. I am thankful that Lachlan weighs no more than seventy pounds.

The secretary jumps as I kick open the door. A large puddle forms at my feet as I scream “I have a stab victim; get the doctor NOW!” She picks up the phone as a team of triage nurses lead me to the emergency room. They sweep Lachlan away from me on a wheelchair.
“Can’t I go with him?” I ask the nurse who blocks my way.
“I am afraid not. The doctor needs to clean out the boy’s wound and check for internal damage. You may see him shortly.” He glances back at me in panic, but I assure him that it is going to be alright.
“I’ll be there soon; I promise,” I run up to him and whisper. We embrace briefly before I feel his head droop in my arms; he is almost unconscious.
“I am going to need to record some details about the incident,” the nurse says whilst stepping in front of me. I ignore her and glance over her shoulder to watch the ER doors swing shut. God, I hope he is okay.
“Excuse me, miss?” She clicks her fingers to get my attention. I frown at her rudeness as she continues to click her fingers in my face like she would to a dog.
“What do you want?” I growl.
“What is your name?”
“Amber Johnson,” I say, watching her pen dance across the government-issued clipboard in a series of scratchy pirouettes.
“What is your relationship with the victim?” she enquires in a tedious tone.
“He is my brother.” She nods while scratching away at the page.

The nurse continues to fire questions about the incident and Lachlan’s medical history. Her words become a drone of reluctance that oozes from her tongue, leaving a repulsive mass of regurgitated sympathy lines at my feet. I am expected to consume these words with relief and gratitude. I am not a baby bird; second-hand scraps of faux concern will not ease my anxiety. My frustration builds higher with every second of not knowing whether Lachlan is okay or not. He has never been in an operation alone, not even when he had his appendix out. I’ve always been with him for every needle and every doctor’s appointment; I hope he isn’t afraid. Still the nurse rambles on and returns to her oppressive clicking.
“Don’t you care that a twelve year old boy has been stabbed?” I snap.
“It is simply protocol Miss Johnson. All staff must remain apathetic to maintain focus,” she says indifferently. She dares to raise her eyebrows in a narrow-eyed glare, as if I were composed of the same murky debris that clings to the hem of my rain-soaked jeans.
“There is a difference between professional distance and being an imperialistic b***h,” I spit.
“That is verbal abuse Miss Johnson and I will not tolerate it in my workplace,” she said stiffly.
“Well, I will not tolerate you clicking in my face, like this.” I mimic her stiff tone as I click my fingers within an inch of her nose.
“I insist that you go to the waiting room until you are summoned,” the secretary interrupted. She was not hostile in her approach, nor apathetic. The buzzing of fluorescent lights was the only sound between us, as I took a step back from the nurse.
“While I understand your concern, quarrelling with staff members will not treat your brother any faster,” she continued “Please come with me.”

I follow the echoes of her stilettoes on the polished floor until we reach in a room filled with padded steel chairs. I am ushered into one of the merciless seats. The icy metal clung to my body, feeding my fears rather than comforting them. An out-dated television set crackles and hisses from the shelf it is mounted on. A few people appear mesmerised by the flickering of soap operas and cooking shows, but I can tell that it is only an escape from the dreaded possibilities that claw and wail within their minds.

The room feels plagued with the lingering scent of stress and panic. The padding on the end of my armrests has been indented with a previous grasp. My fingers caress the compressions curiously. I visualise the white knuckled grip of all the former occupants; I share their trepid anticipation. The stench of waiting-room memories is more potent than chemical sterilisation. As the clock ticks away I find my thumbs are at war. Each hand is nervously fighting for conquest, as my feet pound away at the unseen pedal of a base drum. A doctor walks in the room with a clip board in his hand. Everyone in the room is alert; we are all hoping that it is our name that he calls out.
“Amber Johnson?” he asks, looking around the room. I see a few people slump back into their chairs in disappointment as I jump up on my feet.

We walk into the emergency room where Lachlan lay on the bed. The leotard had been cut away to expose his recently stitched up knife wound that ran diagonally, from the centre of his rib cage, to his hip.
“Hey, sissy,” he mumbles, holding out his arms. I walked over to him to give him a cuddle as gently as I could. I brushed aside his auburn curls and kissed his forehead.
“Your brother shows no signs of organ damage, but he seems to have torn a few ligaments just below his rib cage. He has lost a substantial amount of blood and he will need to remain under observation overnight,” the doctor explained.
“How long do you think he will need to recover?” I ask
“He will need appropriate rehabilitation to recover the muscle tissue. There will be a ten day period before his stitches can be removed, in which time he will need adequate rest and limited movement. After the stitches have been removed, Lachlan will need four to six months of progressive movement and strength exercises. Until then, he is not to participate in any strenuous activities or do any heavy lifting.”
“Will I be able to keep going to ballet practice?” Lachlan cut in.
“Unfortunately, you can’t dance until you have recovered,” the doctor replied.
“But that is six months away!” he protests
“You need to listen to what the doctor says, bub,” I say as I rub his shoulders
“I need to see another patient now. Just press the buzzer if you need assistance,” the doctor informs us before exiting the room.

Lachlan is disappointed but his emerald eyes have solidified again; he is unwilling to show any weakness. His thick gypsy lashes batter away any pending tears.
“It’s okay, you know,” I tell him
“What is?”
“It’s okay to cry.” I smile reassuringly. He sighs and shakes his head; we are both more stubborn than we care to admit. I nudge him gently and blow in his ear, causing him to giggle. After a moment of hesitation, he asked
“Do you ever wish you were somebody else?”
“Sometimes, but it wouldn’t feel right to lose my sense of identity. Even though I’m not perfect, I am happy with the way I am,” I admit.
“But what if you weren’t happy with yourself? What if you thought anything was better than what you have?”
“What do you mean, Lach?” I ask. He looks deeply disturbed by a moral dilemma.
“I don’t feel like I belong in the skin I am in. I feel like I wasn’t born right, and that’s not just because of what the other kids say.”
“I love you, Lachlan; you are perfectly fine the way you are.”
“You don’t understand! I’m not fine and I am never going to be happy like this,” he cries
“I am going to file a police report tonight. I am sick of those boys doing this to you.”
“No!” He yells. I blink at him, trying to supress my rage; it hurts so much to see him in such strife. Lachlan gulps and takes my hand.
“It wasn’t the boys who did this to me,” he whispers “They punched me in the face, but I stabbed myself once they had gone. I got scared of the blood so I ran home to find you; I need your help.”
My heart drops with a heavy thud to the pit of my stomach. I feel pale and ill. Why would he mutilate himself like this? I grip the bedside table to prevent myself from falling.
“W-why would you do that?” I ask in shock. My throat feels dry and tight like a burning lump of coal is clogging my airway.
“I don’t like my body; I never have. I want to be a girl.”
“But why go to the extreme of stabbing yourself,” I choke. Everything still feels so surreal.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted shamefully. There is a tense moment of silence before I try to think of what I can do to help.
“There is an operation that can turn you into a girl,” I say slowly. I can’t believe I am talking to him about this.
“Are you serious?” he asks excitedly.
“Yes, but it is something that you have to be very certain about doing. It isn’t something that you can change back very easily. If you ever had the operation, you would be stuck that way for life.”
“I wouldn’t want to come back. How do I do it?” he is eager and I feel a twinge of regret for putting the idea into his head.
“You need to be 18 or have your parent’s permission. It also costs a lot of money.”
“I didn’t know you could do that – change to a girl I mean.”
“If it is something you really want to do, then maybe you should think about it. As hard as it is for me to accept, you are not a baby anymore. I will help you no matter what you decide to do.”
He pauses for a minute with a miserable look on his face.
“What’s wrong bubba?”
“You’d still love me if I were a girl right?” He asked fearfully. He withdraws his head from my shoulder and braced himself for rejection.
“Of course I would! Oh darling, don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t. We will talk about this more in the morning. You need to get some rest,” I say as I stroke his cheek.
“Don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere.” He sighs and cuddles up closer as I lean over his bed. I feel his little heart beat against my arm; it is a strong and determined rhythm. I know that one day Lachlan will rise above the chrysalis that restrained his true beauty. Until that day, he will always have my support and protection.

[Yonderponder]

CharlieTehRubberDucky

Edited. c:

And added to the front!

Raina V Skyver: Thanks for your entry! It's been added to he front! : D
The Solarised Night: Thanks! : D And thanks for the entry, too!

[Yonderponder]

Shameless bump.