Disclaimer: Everything’s mine. No one else’s. So, you know, don’t bother stealing. It’s not worth your time.

Author’s Note: This was inspired by an idea I got last year, but never got around to writing until now. “Them” refers to people at Pyrie’s school. This goes out to Jessica, for her support and much more.

Painting the Room

You know that girl, Pyrie?

The one who’s handicapped? Come on, everyone knows her. It’s impossible not to know who she is.

Don’t you think she’s odd? No one understands her, except for her friend.

The only one that she has.

[Laughter.]

I can still hear it in my head now, days, or maybe even months, after I’ve heard it. They had always taunted me, insulted me so that I’d know how low I was, how abnormal I was. At the bottom of society. No one in particular; only a fleeting name disappearing in the air. A person with no identity, no name.

That’s the way it has always been. Taunts, giggles, pointing fingers, lips curled in disgust . . all because they couldn’t stand me. They hated me. Why? I wasn’t normal. You see, I’m handicapped. Why couldn’t they stand me? Couldn’t people stand handicapped persons? I don’t know. All I know that this has happened my whole life, from the time I learned to talk to now. And nothing’s changed. Every day is the same. When I arrive at school on the special bus, everywhere I see, when I get down from the bus, are snickers and carefully hidden smirks. Even when they cover their mouths or try to put on an expressionless face, I know. Either way I’d know that they were laughing at me. Laughing because I couldn’t do the things they could do. And even if I could do them, I couldn’t do them properly. Laughing because I didn’t know things.

Did I care? Yes. But I could only ignore the taunts. If I let them get to me, I remember Mama whispering to me one night when she thought I was asleep, it wouldn’t help anything. It would make things worse. There would be more taunting, more laughter. And I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want to make that happen. Why make things worse than they already are? What’s the point of it?

Of course, they didn’t like me ignoring them. People don’t like it when the person they’re making fun of is ignoring them. Maybe all this was a call for attention. But why would they need attention? Especially from me.

When I ignored them, the teasing only got more jeering, loud and painful to bear, let alone hear. They hated it when I ignored them. They hated it even more than they hated me. It was the only thing I could do, though. Increasing their hatred for me wasn’t going to help anything. And the more I ignored them, the louder and more frenetic their mocking got. In the hallways I heard echoes, ringing clear in my ears, of them imitating me. I only looked at the floor and went on my way, not taking notice of them.

As mean as they were, they weren’t brave enough to actually do anything to me. They were afraid that they would get caught, especially with our school’s strict policy on harassment. However, no one took notice that anything was wrong; they went about their business as usual. The principal didn’t notice, nor did the assistant principal. Neither did the janitors and teachers. Either they weren’t taking notice, or they were pretending that nothing was wrong. How would they know if anything was wrong, though? Most of people’s taunting took place in the hallways, whenever the corridors were vacant. Places where they were sure no one would hear or see them.

That wasn’t the worse, though. I suffered through slow days that consisted of nothing but loud snickers and catcalls echoing in my ears and anything I heard was only that. My teacher’s voice didn’t reach my ears. In fact, I couldn’t hear her, for my head and ears were ringing with the sound of their gleeful mocking. Like a tiger about ready to pounce on its prey, crouched, waiting for the right moment to attack.

I couldn’t escape them, I knew, nor their taunting. And I couldn’t do anything about it, being helpless. That was until one day, an idea slowly began to form in my mind. I mulled it over and considered the consequences of it. It wasn’t anything harmless, really . . just a casual chaotic rundown of a wheelchair. With me in it. It wouldn’t do them any harm. So finally I decided to go along with it. I wasn’t looking for revenge; a way to avenge myself. No, all I needed was something to appease my growing pain. And this seemed to be it. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have a little bit of fun every once in a while.

As soon as classes were over, I waited for Marsh at our usual spot over by the water fountain that didn’t work. Since I was on the other side of school, where they couldn’t reach me – unless they really really wanted to run through an endless labyrinth of hallways to get to the other end of the school – I knew I was safe. At least for now. I knew I couldn’t be safe for long, even with Marsh, the school authorities and my teachers around me.

What Everest Junior High School looks like is hard to describe. How do you know what words to use, how exactly to explain so that you could be understood, and what you said came out clear? All I can offer is a meager description of our school’s shape. It’s no shape, really; not a rectangle, not a square, not a triangle. Not a shape. It’s a whole mix of shapes. An oval, a circle, you name it. The two cafeterias - one for fifth and sixth grade, the other for seventh and eighth grade – are oval shaped. The classrooms and the band room are rectangle shaped. The school stretches out, like a bridge; I guess you could call it. A geometrical figure that can’t be described, unless you actually see it.

----------hallway----------[school]----------hallway----------

That’s what it looks like. Imagine two other hallways on the two other sides. Then little hallways attached here and there, haphazardly, to the four main hallways. Like a highway, with other highways crossing each other, up high like bridges, above you as you drive.

“Pyrie?” A soft voice interrupted my thoughts. Instantly, without even turning and looking at the person, I knew who it was.

“Marsh!” Then I turned around and grinned at him. “You’re finally here. What took you?”

“Me?” He was surprised. “I’ve been standing here for the past fifteen minutes. You were thinking about something and didn’t notice that I was here. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s fine,” I told him. “I was only hatching a plan to teach them a lesson.”

He knew who I was talking about. “Pyrie –” he began.

“I know, I know. I might get in trouble, caught or it might backfire.”

“No, it’s not that.” He scratched his neck. He was nervous about something, I could tell. “It’s just . . I don’t know to explain it. Nothing will make them stop, you know that. Not even your plan.”

I looked at him wide-eyed. “It’s not to make them stop, just to teach them never to make fun of –” I choked then. So much for my brilliant plan.

Marsh looked thoughtful. “I could help you chase them,” he said. “If you want.”

“No, Marsh, don’t. Just forget it.” My shoulders slumped. “You’re right, anyhow; they won’t ever stop. Not even if I chased after them. I have to bear with it.”

He could only hug me.

After Marsh walked me – and pushed my wheelchair – home (I had decided not to take the bus that day), and we waved goodbye and he went home, I went to my room. I didn’t do anything once I got there; just stared out the window. Quietly reflecting. My mind was in a trance. I didn’t take notice of anything. Everything was invisible around me. All I saw was the sky slowly turning cloudy and grey, and raindrops falling from the sky. Everything was dark and gloomy. I looked away from the window and looked around my room. It had an aura of cheerfulness. Bright scarlet colored walls, flower patterns all over the place, a small canopy bed, a polished wooden desk over by the corner . . my room just looked too bright. It needed some drabness.

I gazed thoughtfully at the small bottles of paint set on a table over by my cabinet, at the far corner of the room. My room was rather small, allowing for everything to be cramped. And yet it was large enough to have a little extra space to wheel around in.

The paints could help me. To decolorize the room a little bit. Without a farther thought about it, I wheeled over to the table and picked up a bottle of cerulean paint and a bottle of canary yellow paint, along with a bottle of bright orange paint to add a little zest to the walls. I wheeled over to my night table, over by my bed, and set the bottles on top of the table. Looking around my room, I found that there was no paper. No spare or useful ones, anyway. Not even a scrap or strip of newspaper. I sighed resignedly. I needed paper to cover the floor, or at least my working space, with. Since I was working on the walls, I needed paper on the floor near where I was painting.

Finally, after rummaging around the room for a bit, I managed to find a few pieces of newspaper. Luckily it was dated four months ago, so that meant I could use it. What use was an outdated paper, besides being used as a cover for spills and things?

After carefully spreading the pieces of paper around, making sure they were close to each other in the process, I opened the bottle of cerulean paint and began painting splashes of color here and there, with lines, dots, zigzags, squiggles and odd shapes added in. And I did the same thing with the bottles of bright orange and canary yellow paint, slowly making my way around the room and moving the papers over to my new working spaces.

After a half hour, I was done. I proudly surveyed my work, happy with the changes that I had done. Who knew painting could change your outlook of things? And I felt better after painting my room. A lot better.

Looking out the window now, I saw that the rain had stopped and now the sun had peeked out from behind the clouds and shone brightly, letting everything soak its warmness and brightness. It was a cycle, I thought. Rain bought water, the sun bought growth. Together the rain caused things to start growing and the sun continued that growth. They caused trees and flowers to bloom and plants to sprout.

Much like my therapy helped me to grow use of my legs and the exercise to continue that growth. Like it was supposed to, but wasn’t, I thought bitterly.

Why was I so bitter about this? Since I was paralyzed from the waist down, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t run. I only could use my hands and arms. The rest of my body was useless. Even if I was in therapy, at my parents’ urging, it had no effect on me. My legs or waist didn’t improve any. I was just left to waste, having no use of my body except for my arms and hands. All I could do was to bear it, like I bore everything else, including the teasing and taunting. There was nothing I could do about it. This was the way I was born, and the way I would die. Nothing would change.

My name is Pyrie Marshall, and this is my life. Welcome.