Yay, another writing topic from Ginhi, I guess I just feel like sharing tonight. I wrote this for my Eng. 12 class...tis a memoir. I hope you guys enjoy it...any feedback is appreciated. I'm hoping to submit it to the school's literary magazine. =3
Quote:
The Otaku
I’ve tried hard to make my memory blank, and yet I remember. No. I’m not doing this for myself.
The air is moist and somewhat heavy as it passes in, out of my lungs. These dog days of summer eat me alive with their catastrophic heat and utter lack of compassion. It is hell on earth in this house without air conditioning. On days like these, I am blessed to be resting somewhere that the thermometer doesn’t scream ninety degrees Fahrenheit. My basement is a sanctuary, with its muted lighting, sepia tone furniture, and my beloved video games. As the deteriorating chair presses its arms into my legs, I take a decent whiff of the air; detecting a hint of must fester around me. I love this.
It’s Friday night. Supposedly, this is the kind of night where those teenagers, kids my age, hang out with their friends, and make memories. Instead, I re-adjust my positioning in the computer chair, and have a staring contest with the Dell; which I will ultimately lose. The acoustics of my house enable me to pick up the sound waves from the TV upstairs, but I only hear the droning on of some mindless show. Trying to entertain my ever wandering mind, I start to think about Saturday. How it will be a day to look forward to, as it is the marker of a two year relationship. Supposedly two years is a decent amount of time to spend with someone when you’re in high school. At least that’s what “they” say, but what makes them so knowledgeable about how I feel for someone? My mother interrupts my thought process with her strong groan from upstairs. Something to do with politics has to have been on, as she clicks through the channels at the speed of light, trying to avoid the unneeded stress. I jack up the speakers to drown out the television, and continue to distract myself with the mindless daydreaming. Yet, over the speakers, I hear some more noises that sound of disapproval and unhappiness. My curious mind calls up to my mother, asking something along the lines of, “what’s going on?” This reply is one I wish I would never hear; one that I find of the most difficulty to ever repeat. “Your friend Charlie got killed fighting over in Iraq,” she said in an almost matter-of-factly way that made me sick.
No. No is the first thing that popped into my head, and one of the most primitive words as well. Just two weeks before, we were talking about what we wanted to do with our lives when we were older. No. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were just chatting away on the sports bus, interested in the entertainment aspects of Japan? Didn’t I just pass him a note while walking down the hallways of the Academy? Aren’t those crisp letters from his basic training still bursting with untold stories? No. Just no.
I left the comfort of that old computer chair, and crawled up the stairs to try to take in this delusion. The news story was one that I had heard before, but this time someone I cared for was the one to pass on. The newscaster looked stoic, yet proud for the man who gave his life for our country. My mother did her best with comforting me, but I told her that I was fine; I just needed time to think. Think about what? Nothing. Maybe I meant to say forget, or maybe I’d have already forgotten.
For the next few days I was absolutely alone in my mind. Every single thing that could be thought of led me back to him. Everything still does. Talking to people I knew prompted me to remember those early years when I was just a lowly freshman. When being carefree was an option. When Charlie was alive. It was then that a habit started to form, as I forcibly fell asleep later, and later in the morning. A routine day would involve me falling asleep somewhere between eight and ten in the morning; only to wake up by four pm. The hours I spent waking were devoted to the computer as I grew strongly addicted to the online identity I had molded. I can’t say I felt alive, but it sure as hell beat following a “normal” schedule.
This internet provided me with information of the world outside my alcove that I didn’t feel like experiencing myself. The Press and Sun Bulletin site that is frequently now used for PIG reaction papers at the last possible minute plays memories of looking up the articles written about Charlie and his death. Multiple times in a day I would check if there was new information, anything that could provide a twisted form of solace. Upon seeing enough of those cliché articles about death from patriotism, I decided I needed something. This very something, at six thirty in the morning, was to run.
Deep fog. The less than half an acre of my fenced in backyard was covered in this mist. The entire world was asleep. Except for me. Perhaps the running had some pathetic metaphoric meaning that I can further dissect and analyze. No. I was running to run. Was it only for ten minutes that I ran, or am I racing through the tall, dewy grass as I speak? With that instance being the first real contact with the real outside world in days, I returned to the basement with sweat dripping from my limbs. Revisiting my home that was the internet, I noticed the information for Charlie’s wake and funeral were freshly posted up. Wonderful.
“Let’s wait a little longer to go in,” I said to my mother as my eye beamed ahead. I passed this funeral home almost every day on my way home from school, but I never, ever thought I’d be going to it so early on in my life. There were characters I had never seen before outside the aged building, but not the specific ones I was searching for. Mainly, I was searching for the Maynards: Kaitlin, Keith, and their parents. These were people who introduced me to Charlie, and some of the people I trust the most. After what felt like an eternity I stepped out of the car; ever so slowly into the evening sun, and towards fate.
The inside of the funeral home was typical. Expensive looking chairs and couches, portraits upon the wall…a sign in book for those who came to visit. Taking the pen heavy into my hand, I signed for my mother as well as myself. Soon after that the Maynards slipped into the building, all looking as sad as I’d ever seen them. Did I look that sad? We traveled through the time warp that were pictures of Charlie as a baby, through the last time that he was seen alive. I could hear crying from behind me, as Keith wept for his friend’s loss. I wondered why I couldn’t cry for something that heartbreaking, something that hits full force.
Seeing a closed coffin makes you wonder what the hell really happened. What the people didn’t tell you about the attack. It’s obvious when thinking about how Charlie died; it must have been something pretty terrible because of his strong will to live. Was it comparable to a horror film? I’ll probably never know.
As my senior year of high school continues, I can’t help but remember. The Academy is a place where my memories of my friendship with Charlie are strong. Very strong. I have followed the footsteps he left such as becoming Student Council Treasurer as he was but three years ago, and will surely graduate the same way he did. No matter what has happened, there is no guarantee of a tomorrow, for anyone. Time is the only constant that will be upon this Earth, and a precious thing that needs to be taken advantage of. Because when time runs out, you can’t keep running with it.
I’ve tried hard to make my memory blank, and yet I remember. No. I’m not doing this for myself.
The air is moist and somewhat heavy as it passes in, out of my lungs. These dog days of summer eat me alive with their catastrophic heat and utter lack of compassion. It is hell on earth in this house without air conditioning. On days like these, I am blessed to be resting somewhere that the thermometer doesn’t scream ninety degrees Fahrenheit. My basement is a sanctuary, with its muted lighting, sepia tone furniture, and my beloved video games. As the deteriorating chair presses its arms into my legs, I take a decent whiff of the air; detecting a hint of must fester around me. I love this.
It’s Friday night. Supposedly, this is the kind of night where those teenagers, kids my age, hang out with their friends, and make memories. Instead, I re-adjust my positioning in the computer chair, and have a staring contest with the Dell; which I will ultimately lose. The acoustics of my house enable me to pick up the sound waves from the TV upstairs, but I only hear the droning on of some mindless show. Trying to entertain my ever wandering mind, I start to think about Saturday. How it will be a day to look forward to, as it is the marker of a two year relationship. Supposedly two years is a decent amount of time to spend with someone when you’re in high school. At least that’s what “they” say, but what makes them so knowledgeable about how I feel for someone? My mother interrupts my thought process with her strong groan from upstairs. Something to do with politics has to have been on, as she clicks through the channels at the speed of light, trying to avoid the unneeded stress. I jack up the speakers to drown out the television, and continue to distract myself with the mindless daydreaming. Yet, over the speakers, I hear some more noises that sound of disapproval and unhappiness. My curious mind calls up to my mother, asking something along the lines of, “what’s going on?” This reply is one I wish I would never hear; one that I find of the most difficulty to ever repeat. “Your friend Charlie got killed fighting over in Iraq,” she said in an almost matter-of-factly way that made me sick.
No. No is the first thing that popped into my head, and one of the most primitive words as well. Just two weeks before, we were talking about what we wanted to do with our lives when we were older. No. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were just chatting away on the sports bus, interested in the entertainment aspects of Japan? Didn’t I just pass him a note while walking down the hallways of the Academy? Aren’t those crisp letters from his basic training still bursting with untold stories? No. Just no.
I left the comfort of that old computer chair, and crawled up the stairs to try to take in this delusion. The news story was one that I had heard before, but this time someone I cared for was the one to pass on. The newscaster looked stoic, yet proud for the man who gave his life for our country. My mother did her best with comforting me, but I told her that I was fine; I just needed time to think. Think about what? Nothing. Maybe I meant to say forget, or maybe I’d have already forgotten.
For the next few days I was absolutely alone in my mind. Every single thing that could be thought of led me back to him. Everything still does. Talking to people I knew prompted me to remember those early years when I was just a lowly freshman. When being carefree was an option. When Charlie was alive. It was then that a habit started to form, as I forcibly fell asleep later, and later in the morning. A routine day would involve me falling asleep somewhere between eight and ten in the morning; only to wake up by four pm. The hours I spent waking were devoted to the computer as I grew strongly addicted to the online identity I had molded. I can’t say I felt alive, but it sure as hell beat following a “normal” schedule.
This internet provided me with information of the world outside my alcove that I didn’t feel like experiencing myself. The Press and Sun Bulletin site that is frequently now used for PIG reaction papers at the last possible minute plays memories of looking up the articles written about Charlie and his death. Multiple times in a day I would check if there was new information, anything that could provide a twisted form of solace. Upon seeing enough of those cliché articles about death from patriotism, I decided I needed something. This very something, at six thirty in the morning, was to run.
Deep fog. The less than half an acre of my fenced in backyard was covered in this mist. The entire world was asleep. Except for me. Perhaps the running had some pathetic metaphoric meaning that I can further dissect and analyze. No. I was running to run. Was it only for ten minutes that I ran, or am I racing through the tall, dewy grass as I speak? With that instance being the first real contact with the real outside world in days, I returned to the basement with sweat dripping from my limbs. Revisiting my home that was the internet, I noticed the information for Charlie’s wake and funeral were freshly posted up. Wonderful.
“Let’s wait a little longer to go in,” I said to my mother as my eye beamed ahead. I passed this funeral home almost every day on my way home from school, but I never, ever thought I’d be going to it so early on in my life. There were characters I had never seen before outside the aged building, but not the specific ones I was searching for. Mainly, I was searching for the Maynards: Kaitlin, Keith, and their parents. These were people who introduced me to Charlie, and some of the people I trust the most. After what felt like an eternity I stepped out of the car; ever so slowly into the evening sun, and towards fate.
The inside of the funeral home was typical. Expensive looking chairs and couches, portraits upon the wall…a sign in book for those who came to visit. Taking the pen heavy into my hand, I signed for my mother as well as myself. Soon after that the Maynards slipped into the building, all looking as sad as I’d ever seen them. Did I look that sad? We traveled through the time warp that were pictures of Charlie as a baby, through the last time that he was seen alive. I could hear crying from behind me, as Keith wept for his friend’s loss. I wondered why I couldn’t cry for something that heartbreaking, something that hits full force.
Seeing a closed coffin makes you wonder what the hell really happened. What the people didn’t tell you about the attack. It’s obvious when thinking about how Charlie died; it must have been something pretty terrible because of his strong will to live. Was it comparable to a horror film? I’ll probably never know.
As my senior year of high school continues, I can’t help but remember. The Academy is a place where my memories of my friendship with Charlie are strong. Very strong. I have followed the footsteps he left such as becoming Student Council Treasurer as he was but three years ago, and will surely graduate the same way he did. No matter what has happened, there is no guarantee of a tomorrow, for anyone. Time is the only constant that will be upon this Earth, and a precious thing that needs to be taken advantage of. Because when time runs out, you can’t keep running with it.
