Author: FoxyGrampa PM
[Contains slash]Emotions are powerful things. They're tied to us, to objects, to places, memories and death... humans have long tried to ignore them. But few can't. Cancelled for now.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Supernatural - Chapters: 12 - Words: 44,716 - Reviews: 71 - Favs: 14 - Follows: 7 - Updated: 08-17-07 - Published: 05-26-06 - id: 2181508
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Just a built up concept of mine. Still need to work out kinks in it, but I have enough to put out three chapters of it, at least. It's essentially taking the idea of manga and animes constant subjects; people whom are psychic, or can see ghosts. I thought I'd form it into my own conception. No secret organizations, no action-y powers they can actually control, not a lot of humor with it. Just some kids trying to figure out if this is just their mind creating things, or if they've tapped into something humanity has long since turned away from. I think the human mind is very powerful, but we turn away from our natural instincts so much with religion, society, and overall morals, that it can create things when we actually do have to revert back to that animalistic stage... brash emotion, or the need of survival, the realization into our own humanity. Or at least that's what this concept is. Oh, and the slash? Well, no real excuse for that. I'm just at that age, people. Besides, I think most women do have an extra sixth sense. Most do, anyway. So having it star an all male cast makes it just kind of more challenging. In essence, this story is indulgent for me; pinches of style, heavy dollops of outer thinking, and a dash of sex (non-explicit xD) and drama. Anyway, enjoy.
The rain trickled down slowly from the chilled, fogged window. Few eyes were studying it, as they had larger priorities for their attention than the gloomy rain.
The teacher was briskly telling of various plans for the day after this particular one, and reminding her students of what paper work they had for tonight. Only some students had their eyes on her, nodding at some words. Others sat, talking of nothing while packing their bags.
One boy sat in a middle row desk, by the window. In this class, the students sat in groups. Their desks, squished together, inducing communication.
But this boy ignored the girl to his right. Sitting quietly, packing her bag but listening to the teacher's words. A so-so student, a bit of a daydreamer, the boy noticed. Organized, but not in a beautiful manner. She had good enough marks, but struggled with math particularly--he remembers helping her once or twice. She was shy, and he, so very reclusive; their kindliness went past nothing more than a few conversations during recess.
He as well chose to ignore the boy to his right. One of the loud class clowns, this boy was. Not a leader of the class clowns--he sat two groups away. He was but a mere follower of that child. He was currently gathering up his disheveled belongings, stuffing them into his backpack. A horrid student, but not quite a terrible person. Quite a witty boy, but at times rude. He swept his abnormally long hair back, appearing to be irritated constantly at its length. It was not in its usual messy ponytail he often put it up in; he may have used the rubber band for a different cause this day. Perhaps, sacrificing it to fling it at a nearby victim during class.
The boy, staring at the window, was omitting his presence so much, he didn't even notice this boy with the overlong locks giving him a scrutinizing stare, his eyebrows furrowing over turquoise eyes. But he soon went back to his bag, shaking his head slightly.
These children were not why the boy stared at the window so intently. Of the droplets, inching their way down. Collecting other droplets, becoming larger and heavier, being before sinking down toward the unknown. What kept him so occupied, was a presence that as far as he knew, no one else was aware of. A presence the teacher couldn't see, nor the two other children to both sides. Only he, (and perhaps, he speculated, the classroom gerbil) could see the dark figure, looming in the corner.
He had noticed it as he walked into class that morning. It had never been there before--just moved in, or was dropping by for a visit. He was hoping for the latter. Its presence alone made him anxious; it fatigued him.
He felt its dank, ghastly eyes staring at him. He had only glanced at it, for its mere energy was what got to him, and he couldn't stand to stare it straight on. All he saw was the figure of some sort of person, with no hair on its head, skin, or anywhere. It was in the nude, facing the corner, sitting and hugging its knees. Its skin was almost as if it belonged to a zombie; deathly pale, almost with a blue hue. He could see every vain in its body, twisting, connecting and disappearing in wormy patterns. It made airy noises, dry and sucking, and sometimes a moan, soaked in its despair. It rocked back and forth, slowly and steadily.
He had wanted to separate himself from the being all of the day. But his loyalties to his studies kept him in the classroom. As soon as the first bell rang for recess, he had run out of the classroom and broke down sobbing in the hall. This happened often to him; he was dubbed a crybaby by classmates, naturally. A passing teacher quickly gathered him up, and staff members tried to reel in his control in the office for the rest of recess.
During lunch, he vomited his breakfast in the toilets. It was getting too much for him to handle. He had nearly passed out before the bell had even signaled for the last recess. His teacher speculated calling his parents to pick him up, but he flat out refused her to do so. He knew his parents would have just greeted it with agitation.
Throughout most of his young life, they thought he had suffered various psychological diseases. He had tried to tell them, more than once, that he saw these things, and always had. His parents, whenever he told them this, just exchanged looks of worry. They sent him to various child psychiatrists, and they all came to different conclusions, while in reality they were baffled as to what his condition was, if he had any.
"He's creating these images in his mind to get attention from you."
"He's creating these things in his head as friends because he's lonely."
"He's paranoid from past traumatic events."
"He has a slight case of ADD."
"He's having episodes where he's in a dream like trance."
They had heard it all. But his parents refused any medication, luckily; it was against their spirituality. They did eventually choose to take him to a child psychiatry ward for some time. It was the worst time in his young life. At only six years of age, three years ago, he had seen the most horrid of those things present there. Ones that emitted so many different impressions; sickness and confusion, loneliness and sadness. It made him sicker than he had ever been. He was taken back after only a month, when seen he had not only made no progress, but had gotten worse.
He had learned it was best to just try his hardest to ignore the presences. But a strong one like the one residing in his classroom, seeming to be probing at his mind, trying to get him to react and give attention, was so much harder to simply ignore.
The loud school bell rang, signaling for leave. The boy to his right rushed out the door with his friends, his unusually long hair whisking past with him.
Before he was fully out of the classroom, the teacher waved, "Good bye, Octavio! Ronald! Philip! See you tomorrow."
The boys stopped for a moment, stumped at hearing their "dorky" names(especially the long haired one, "Octavio", with the worst name of them all) before scampering out into the hallways. The teacher smirked.
The girl to the troubled boy's left walked slowly out of the classroom, waving shyly to the teacher. She gave the boy a side glance with a furrowed brow before fully departing, most likely wondering why he had been acting oddly all day.
The boy was now packing his own bag, sweat building up lightly on his forehead as he struggled to keep his eyes off the presence. Soon he would be home and he could rest off the experience.
"Gym?" the teacher called the boy by his idiosyncratic name. His eccentric grandmother had thought of it, and suggested it to his once bubble-headed mother, who had made his name official before his father could even find out.
Gym looked up and could see his teacher's face lined with worry, "Yes?" he answered, his voice coming as a slight squeak due to stress.
"Are you feeling better now? You're looking feverish," her low-heeled shoes clicked as she walked down the now mostly empty classroom, kneeling down to feel his forehead, "You're burning up!"
"I- I'll be fine," Gym answered, embarrassed by his teacher's concern.
"Well... okay. Are you sure you're okay walking home? It is raining," she said as she got up pack up and go herself.
"My parents are picking me up," Gym lied quickly, desperate to get out of the classroom by this point.
"Well, okay. I hope you feel better, Gym," she said and waved a goodbye as he left. He also exchanged a wave and nodded, before running through the halls, in a hurry to get away from the ominous figure still crouching in the corner of the classroom.
He soon was outside the school. A school school of prestige; only for the children of the rich neighborhoods. He had to wear a uniform, which was simply a white collar t-shirt and navy shorts, the girls a similar attire, only with plaid skirts. Directly across from them was the public elementary school. He saw students of normal street garments still residing there, conversing with each other casually or playing out at its open playground.
Their eccentric area of the city seemed to have the most obvious line of unbelievably wealthy, and deeply poor. It had four main areas, made up of different neighborhoods; the rich, gated neighborhoods, and across from that, where the wealthy shopped and communed, and had lavishing hotels and the like for tourists.
The on the other side, the more city area, was deeply poor. If anyone came down far enough, they would start simply seeing people living in boxes on the street. It went in almost a gradual manner in that area, the income level. It had middle class, but it slowly subsided to very urban, gradually getting more run-down by the building, and then rural and out there, where only the slummiest people lived. However, across from it was nearly artistic neighborhoods. Quite urban, but large enough parks; slightly better off. It was still quite run-down, but had jobs available there, and the areas people welcomed all visitors--unlike the snootier, richer neighborhoods.
What lay in the middle were all the schools. The public schools to the two poorer districts, which were merely two. The kindergarten to eighth grade, and then the high school. The richer neighborhood had the private schools. Not just two, but four. The unisex ones, kindergarten to middle and and the high school, and the Catholic, gender restrictive ones, connected in grades but separated by sex.
Gym's family was more than well off. At the time, he wasn't fully sure what his father did, nor what amount of money he made. All he knew was that it brought in more than enough for a family of three. So, he presided the unisex private elementary school; his parents, not being Catholic, but of an odd belief system, (Chosen because it was most accepted by his father's work, and his mother's social group the most.) naturally chose this for their son.
Who usually attended his school, racially, were predominately of Jewish faith and ethnicity, or as the minority, of different ethnicity's while not being Catholic. Gym himself was a mix of Indian (of the country India, not Native Northern or Southern American) and caucasian. His mother being from an Indian family, fresh off the boat, and his father, an heir to his family's fortune, being white of mixed European blood.
Gym wore a light-brown complexion, with his father's sandy brown hair. They knew not where he gained his electric blue eyes from, for his father had green, and his mother's were naturally a much more earthy, dark brown color. Even so, they felt affection for their son in his striking aesthetic features, the mixture of blood coming out very well in their opinion, as they would jest.
But that's the most affectionate comment he usually got from them, as of recently. They had once been very loving parents; during pregnancy and the beginning of their marriage, and even the first two years after he had been born, they had been immensely doting. But ever since Gym had learned to talk, to convey his feelings, his parents had begun to be disturbed by his behavior, and worried very much about their son's condition. In those early years, he told them of the things he saw.
If it was a more pleasant presence, as they sometimes did come, he would tug excitedly at his mother's skirt, pointing and jumping up and down at the wonderful sight. She first thought it was just a game, and, seeing nothing each time, would still always play along. If he ever did this with his more stiff father, he would at least smile and nod.
But if Gym ever saw the frightening, or forlorn presences... the lost, desperate, frighteningly angry things, he would be petrified with fear. Once in the far beginning he would desperately seek comfort from his parents in the moment, sobbing and going to their arms, while they hopelessly tried to comfort him and ask him what was the matter, and with his response could still do nothing.
Over the older tot years, when they thought it would wear off, it only got worse. They soon stopped acting like it was a game, and in public would brush him off, faces marked with embarrassment. After many of these instances, and more than once his father raising his voice and telling him to stop, Gym became slowly reclusive and passive. This was fine with his parents, only a slight worried comment about it they would exchange to friends once in a while, to gain sympathy. Gym would play by himself at parks, and would alienate himself from other children--as he would try to tell them of the things he saw. He would also rarely talk even a word to adults, just using nods, and shakings of his head. They began to simply ask questions of 'yes' and 'no', as means of communicating.
But as soon as he started school, it had become much more of an issue. Pressure came from his teachers to get him help, for other children picked on him while Gym made no moves to stop any of it. In-between psychiatrists, his parents would become harder on him to get tougher and to make friends. His father mostly, and he influenced his rather passive mother to stop allowing him to come running to her each time. The relationship of parent and child declined with both his mother and father. And soon, both parents just became fully apathetic, fed up and at a loss, and now only answered with irritation if ever the subject of his condition came up.
Gym was now walking home in the rain. He didn't mind the rain, even though it was unexpected and he had no coat or umbrella. It cooled him down. But soon enough he was shivering and wet, and hurrying home.
He was nearing a bus waiting bench. Gym was considering stopping to wait for the rain to disipate, as it was pouring more heavily. He opted to make this decision after a moment, his clothes became sopping wet, and he ducked under the bus bench.
After a moment of hopelessly trying to get his clothes semidry, he realized there was another presence sitting on the bench. He spun around, and found someone not much larger than himself, huddled together and hugging their knees.
He was relieved to find that it was a person. Not, perhaps, the same presence that had been haunting him all day. He stepped closer to the stranger, and found that they were shaking.
Not usually one easily induced to speak up, he stood there for a moment, watching the small person--perhaps it was a child? It must've been. It was hard to tell before, since the child had on a large trench coat, which was dripping wet and almost crumpled on to them.
In a flash, Gym realized who the child was. He recognized the long locks of hair, which were now dripping wet from rain and flowing over his shoulders.
"Decker?" Gym nearly whispered. The boy's head shot up, and it was indeed, the boy that had sat next to him for months in his class. Everyone called him by his chosen nickname, rather than his loathed title, taken from the Latin language.
Bloodshot and puffy turquoise eyes were now staring at him, shocked. He was then doused with embarrassment at his condition and wiped away his tears, "What the hell do you want?" he croaked, before breaking eye-contact.
These two boys usually ignored each other during school. Though Decker's friends sometimes picked on Gym, Decker usually at least didn't participate. Once in a while, Decker would even stick up for him when things were getting to rough, reasons for this unfounded by Gym.
Gym thought for a moment, deciding it would be better not to ask an obvious question of 'are you okay?', at risk of gaining a short tempered answer. He instead resolved for the more inquisitive, "What are you doing out here?"
The rain was starting to subside. Decker looked at Gym for a moment, his eyes lined with thought as he seemed to weigh whether or not he should confide to him. He then scoffed, and snapped his head back, facing the street, "What do you care? It's none of your business," the boy sniffed and wiped his nose on the trench coat sloppily.
The sky was now only sprinkling water, and it was darkening to a dim yellow toned color behind the grey. The sun was closer to setting. Gym decided it was best if he just left the boy alone, "I hope you feel better," Gym said, guilt about leaving the clearly upset boy behind seeping into his voice.
Decker merely sniffed and looked away as Gym departed.
Gym was soon home, and his life was going at a hyped pace.
He had learned his parents were in a car crash, and now at the hospital in critical condition.
He didn't get a chance to visit his father before brain damage killed him, and his mother died not soon after. Gym had at least one final meeting with his mother.
His mother had an oxygen mask over her lips, the large machine pumping air into her. Feeding tubes were up her arm, and she had bruises of purple and black on her paled face and head. She looked at the foot of her bed slowly, then at Gym. They were alone. She whispered, "Gymmy," she had always called him that, "... do you see it? Standing at the foot of my bed?" this came at a tone slightly odd in her condition, she almost sounded excited.
Gym had been looking at the floor the whole time, not being able to look at his mother. He slowly looked up, and saw the dark figure. It seemed almost a shadow, but it was far to dark to be considered such. It emitted some calm, though also deep despair and regret. It was a presence both easy to ignore, while overwhelming when he stared at it straight on.
Gym's eyes were wide, and he nodded his head slowly and looked back at his mother, into her eyes. Her eyes, he had once remembered, had the light dance off them. They seemed so much lighter then. Lighter than they had been, especially when compared to those years where she slowly eased herself away from her son. Almost rejecting him as his tendencies became more of an issue, while getting caught up in a busy social-life and career. They had turned much colder, more harsh. And now, they were as dull as lead. But as soon as he locked gazes with her, they welled up with tears. The hospital's florescent illumination, lit her eyes enough to dance erratically through the thick tears.
"I can see it, too," she said softly, and with a hint of relief; not blinking as the tears trickled down her round cheeks.
The tears stopped from her eyes, and the dullness engulfed her mahogany irises once more. A small smile etched on her features as a final breath was taken.
The dark presence now faded into nothing.
"Mommy?" Gym said after a moment of realization, coming out as a desperate whine. That word, and it being said with such dependence has not passed his lips in a long while. His eyes started quickly welling up with tears.
When his mother's corpse didn't answer, the tears stopped, and he simply stared at it. Mouth once agape, now slowly drawing up.
He didn't hear his aunt come into the room, sobbing as she discovered her sister, now deceased. She ran up to Gym, her thick body soon cushioning his head, "Don't worry baby, I'll take care of you," she cooed, between her sobbing and gasps, not trying to hold back her desperate sorrow.
Gym barely nodded at this.
A/N: Please leave reviews or comments. Encouraging or critiquing. Thank you for reading.
Edited for grammar and formatting.