Tree By The Field
(Revised Edition)
By Maru

Nothing is ever perfect.

How would you define perfection? How would you define the perfect life? Is it fame, fortune…love? How would you define the perfect moment, those times when the world seems to fall off its axis, when science has no rules to govern it, when religion is a sin, when life becomes death, and death becomes real and tangible and alive? Or is that what perfection means at all?

Perfection is imperfect. Perfection is nonexistent, as those perfect moments seem like they’ve never existed at all. Like humans, they parish; they die. The perfect dreams shatter and break, the perfect lives ruined, their destinies awaiting them.

How would you define a perfect moment? While the world stands still, you wonder if things will stay like that forever, knowing it never will, but never giving up that undying hope.

Nothing is ever perfect.

In a world filled with people searching for perfection, for the ideal, for the logical, for the beautiful, for the sane, for the conservative, for the peaceful, for the dangerous, for the perverse, for weak economic, for the dreams…all they’d have to do is look around to find it within their hearts.

Because nothing is ever perfect.

Chapter One:
Breaking Points

Growing up in the early 90’s was no major feat for anyone. It was, however, a somewhat memorable experience that I could never forget, nor really afford to forget.

I had two younger sisters, really young little sisters. I was about 10 or so when my first sister was born, and then thirteen when my other sister was born. I had to take care of them a lot. Not that I minded or anything. I probably enjoyed their company most of all over the years.

I lived with my mother, father and sisters in a small town. Everyone was packed in close like bunches of hay. The things that really kept this town going were rumors, gossip, and “extraordinary news”. The latter did not happen very often. However, once these phenomenons entered our realm, it was like a lit match on a stack of hay. Nevertheless, this town seemed fitting for me. A place could seem like absolute hell, but if you felt comfortable there, you had to admit—it was your home. Nowhere else would you find that same comfort and stability.

Like any normal kid, I fit in, mostly. Of course there were always the “bullies” or those kids on the playground who would tease you for your odd looking shoes…but that all didn’t matter. That was pretty normal for me, anyway. I woke up every morning, bright-eyed, ready to start the day. I was ready to take on anything. Somehow, it didn’t really stay with me too long. Up until the first day of Junior High came around, life had been wonderfully peaceful.

As I had learned later on, I was remarkably and noticeably different from the other kids at school. My mother told me never to pay attention to those kids who would try to put me down or mock me for who I am. She told me to “stand on my two feet” and to not be scared of a bully. She told me I had her permission to “knock anyone’s lights out” that was bothering me. We had a good laugh about this throughout the years. It became a sort of sad laughter, one where we didn’t really know what we were laughing at. We both knew I had trouble fitting in at school, if it wasn’t completely obvious already. She would have to go in and talk to the teachers when me and another kid were caught fighting. But I just had to fight for what I wanted, or else I would have never gotten it at all. If I didn’t get respect, I would show them none in return, either.

I was never one to “get even” with someone. It never seemed fitting for me, and Mom always raised me to believe that sinking down to someone’s level is the worst thing you could possibly do (justification of mocking with a knock the head was okay though—that was defending yourself). Most times I’d forget that pearl of wisdom, the throat of my “enemy” the main target. Really, everyone was my enemy. It seemed everyone hated me for one reason or another that I couldn’t understand. Eventually, I learned to calm down and not care anymore. It was only ever my lunch money, my chair in class, my homework, swirlies, my “borrowed” pencils, my destroyed projects, my “friends”, my watch…but when it came down to them taking my pride, then they crossed the line.

I don’t think many people can really understand this. If people push me around and steal my homework, isn’t that not taking someone’s pride? Isn’t that making them feel degraded and demoralized? Well, it wasn’t, for me at least. My pride was so much more than that, but I could never have understood that back then.

“Hey, Archer, you have that assignment Detoy asked for last night?” Ahh, right on time, I thought. Just in time to steal my sanity, once again, for the third time this week. It was the voice of most certain peril. I didn’t care. Why should I? It was just the same old routine, nothing new, nothing interesting or worthwhile. Most of all, it was absolutely nothing to get upset about. Not anymore. There was nothing else to do but “hand it over” and be done for today. He’ll be getting a nasty shock at the end of the quarter. Who ever pegged me to be the “smart kid”, anyway?

“Hey, idiot, leave that kid alone,” said another voice, from behind me. Damnit. Something new, perhaps something worthwhile…was it a friend? Who else would try to stick up for me? But I was wrong; I had no friends back then. No one would have helped me out. Whoever this kid was, he was committing social life suicide.

We both turned, my aggressor and I, that is. Sure enough, some kid was behind us, making trouble. What the hell was he thinking? Was he trying to act like a valiant hero? Did he want to boost up his ego for today? Was there a pretty girl watching? Why else would someone stand up for ME, of all people? I had nothing to offer them. He wasn’t like me at all, either. Taller, older, better-looking, athletic, hell, he could have passed for the all-American athlete track-team captain if he wanted to. I laughed inwardly, the irony was killing me.

“Why don’t you just get out of my way, dork? This has to do with me and Goth-boy over here,” replied the kid, his lips snagging on his braces. The boy just stood there with a smile on his face. It was like one of my mother’s TV dramas, and I was watching with complete fascination.

“Why don’t you get your own life? Besides, don’t you think you are a little OLD to still be in 7th grade math?,” the boy stated observantly. I couldn’t help but giggle a little; this kid was funny, as much as I would hate to admit. It seemed like the jock had some style after all (who would have guessed?). The bully turned around and glared at me.

“What are YOU laughing at, Goth-boy??” he said angrily, taking hold of my shirt and holding me captive. Maybe laughing at someone twice my size was a bad idea. Make that VERY bad idea, with an added emphasis on “bad”.

It seemed like my valiant all-American track-star hero had not forsaken me, he Karate-chopped the kid’s shoulder, which released his hold on me. Free, I ran quickly out of site, but still looking over at the two.

The bully immediately turned around and tried to hit the kid, but the mystery boy was quite elusive as it turned out. The boy started to dodge blows with ease and the guy who was pushing me around got very angry. He had nearly forgotten all about me or how he needed my homework. They kept going at it; a few spectators started to gather to watch the spectacle until a teacher came by and told us to get to class. I couldn’t have been more thankful. The last thing I wanted, however, was another run-in with my rescuer ever again. There could only be so much embarrassment I could take in this lifetime. At that time, however, I did not realize how our lives would soon become so inexplicably intermingled…

I didn’t think things could get worse, but somehow they did. My parents seemed to be on edge constantly, bickering and arguing over the most random and unimportant things. I came home to an empty house everyday, the girls at daycare and both my parents at work till 5:30 and 6:15 every night if traffic wasn’t bad.

Only when the house was silent could I finally enjoy the sounds peace. Like the elegant flowing of the branches against my window or the sound of chirping birds calling to each other; it was all heaven to me. It was the only time where I could stare off into nothingness and become completely overwhelmed in the senses. Those were the fleeting moments where I felt free, perhaps like a bird, ready to fly out of my home, out of this nest, to actually start my life. There was no life for me here. There were no sounds of joy in that home, there wasn’t a happy family living here.

Then they would come home. Everyday there would be a new argument, everyday a new battle. Sometimes, all you can focus on is not the outcome or a solution to a situation, but on the battle of the moment, the war, and the casualties. I hated that way of thinking, despised it even. And even though other kids would easily blame and hate their parents for using these tactics, I didn’t, I couldn’t. They were trying, and that was what mattered, to me at least.

I would often walk into conversations and wonder if I should pretend like I didn’t hear the things they just said, or act upon it, telling them exactly what I hate about the way they’re acting. I’ve definitely given it much thought. I wondered what it would be like if the two would divorce. It would be a simple solution. Maybe then they would stop focusing on the war and start setting their sights on a more real topic: their kids. their future. Sometimes, I wish they would just get it over with. Site ‘irreconcilable differences’ and get it done.

As I watched the deterioration of my family, I was thinking about the beginning of “Rebel without a Cause”, as James Dean screamed “you’re tearing me apart!” at the police station to his feuding parents. Sometimes, I wish I could do that, because that’s the way I felt about my family. Of course I loved my mother and father, but my father was the joker, the funnyman, the romantic. My mother was a bit more realistic, and although she once had a soft spot for his jokes, I knew she probably would never again.

I guess it started a while back, when I was just a couple years old. Both my parents kept silent over the years about their past, although I always could tell that they were keeping something from me. They would be going through one of their arguments, most times over the stupidest things, and get to it. You know, arguments that start off about so-and-so not calling the other when we needed a carton of milk at home that night and it would somehow end at “I can’t believe how much you never listen to me anymore! Why do you always DO this?” I always just sigh and eat the cereal out of the box, with no milk. Then, it would slip out, running through the “trust” issue (how he could never EVER do what he is asked to do repeatedly, obviously, and does in spite of of her)—then they would get silent and turn away from the counter they were both leaning on. The conversation would always end after ten minutes of silence, and in a low murmur one would say “the kids are hungry,” and then the other would nod in agreement. And both would go into opposite rooms to cool down. Neither one staying in the kitchen, though.

That’s when I knew the boat was coming in close to increasingly shallow water. I was waiting for the breaking point, waiting for the game to be over, for the war to be over. I wanted it all just to go away, to disappear, like that boy in school who rescued me from that bully. I never did say thank you to him.

I was starting to really dislike the slump I was in. Mina and Jesse were four and one years old when I started my first year of high school. It was often a traumatic experience for me. Older kids would tease me for the way I dressed just because I liked the color black or something stupid like that. At the start of the year I began to feel a little bit resentful of my bright red-orange hair. As soon as I could, I dyed my head black.

It wasn’t even that I cared about what other people thought of me. What hurt the most was the fact that most people had no empathy or sense of justice in school, not even the teachers. At first I would have thought they would be on my side, but I guess they found me a little too weird and “beyond help”. I didn’t care, I didn’t need them anyway. I started to fall into this repeating circle of failure in most of my classes. I became bitter at everyone. They didn’t care about me so I wouldn’t care about them, or their lessons. Where did algebra or science fit in the big scheme of things, anyway, when all mankind was meant for was its own destruction? I didn’t want anything to do with learning; therefore I lost the privilege and became unworthy of it early on.

I skipped class a lot, but it wasn’t to meet any of my friends. I really didn’t have any to mention. I just didn’t want to see all of those cruel faces starring daggers at the back of my neck, or laughing every time I tripped on someone’s foot that was protruding out from a resident desk. They couldn’t be any more original instead of playing out all of those old sophomoric antics. Thinking about this on the way to art, the only class I really liked, I failed to notice two guys trailing me, laughing at me. I realized they were following when I was rounding the hall and quickly ducked into the bathroom.

I hid in a stall as I heard the first bell ring. I thought I was in the clear, until I heard two familiar voices laugh lightly as they pushed the door to the bathroom open. I could hear their shoes dragging uselessly on the floor, as if they were too lazy to actually walk correctly.

“You think he’s in here, John?” said one, sniffling his nose.

“Yeah, he’s in here…hey, Archer! Hey, come out here, we want to talk to you.” I sighed, but I knew it was inevitable. It was routine. Let’s get one more anxiety off my back. I knew I was just being a big wimp by pretending I could hide from them, so I swung open the door and stepped out.

“Hey, there you are, Liam, my man. We’ve been looking all over for you!” I knew I was in control then; he wanted something from me, not only wanted it, but needed it, and he needed it from me. He was using the ‘buddy’ voice I hated so much.

“Stop bullshitting me and tell me what you want already. I have to get to class, you know.” Out of the two idiots, the one most capable of forming coherent sentences was, thankfully, the one talking.

“Yeah, uh…well you see me and Andy wanted to know if you could just do us a favor, and just hide this for a little while.” Then he handed me a Ziploc bag and gave me the sleaziest grin I’ve ever seen. The other kid, John, seemed to smile wider and wider, until I watched him nearly chuckle at me. I looked back at the bag distastefully. I glared at them and threw the bag back at the literate one’s face.

“What do you think I am?!” I yell, “So people tell you I do this crap, right? Do they tell you I’m all messed up? That I’m just like you retards?! Did they?! Well, I’m not, so get off of it. Run off now and find some other pathetic creep who will carry your shit for you, and be thankful I don’t share this bit of harassment with some friendly administrator.” I said, smiling and ready to walk away, but one of them grabbed my arm to prevent me from leaving.

“Hey, man, no need to get all mad and everything, why don’t you just take a hit, and we’ll talk about it, okay? Maybe we can change your mind?” the guy said, his voice getting thinner and tighter by the moment. My eyes narrowed, I don’t think I ever was this mad.

“Oh, it would be a fucking cold day in hell before that happens, buddy!” Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of words to be saying to two guys twice my size, but damnit if it didn’t feel so good to say. I felt his hand tighten like a vice around my arm, and then I started to really worry. I tried to pull away, but the fact was that my 120 pound body couldn’t possibly have gone up against two 185 pound muscle-cleaved beer guts of doom. What I needed was a miracle to save me from a pounded face or worse.

“Maybe my fist can do a little bit of persuading then, what do you think, you fag?” Rage started building up inside me, and I began to focus on the fight, on the struggle, on the battle, which was nowhere near thinking about the sensible outcome I had envisioned. I began to kick and take blind shots at the two guys in front of me. I was unsuccessful in my attempts, but I realized that for once I was taking action, I was doing something about my situation, and I was at my breaking point.

The next swing took me off guard, seeing as how it neither came from the two idiots or me. The guy holding me captive was knocked hard by the blow, letting go of my arm but leaving just enough time to punch me in my face. With a surge of pain I fell to the floor, all I could see was the hazy, rapidly disappearing image of my rescuer.