This story has been bothering me so much that I decided to rewrite it so that I can actually bare to look at it. Because what I wrote the first time around is worth nothing but the recycle bin.
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Chapter 1: From Life to Insanity
Villages tumble and kingdoms fall, one by one across an entire land where warfare rages across the world. I walk among each of them, shaking the hands of the famous warriers who have each won and lost their share of battles. They greet me warmly, saying, Catty, it is a pleasure to meet you at last and I bow my head, honored to meet them. They have all come together from across the world, the generations. They come from the Civil War, WWI and WWI, just to shake my hand because I am the only one who cares enough to learn of their horrid pasts...
"Catherine Evans!" The voice rises me from my daydream and brings me back to the presnet. I glance up at my teacher with hazy eyes. It isn't my fault that biology bores me. "Maybe you can tell the class the difference between active and passive immunity?"
I shake my head and blush when the whole class bursts into laugher. If I have to guess, I'd say that they don't know the answer either. "Sorry Miss Hinton, I've got no idea."
There is a look of disapproval written all over her face but I don't really care. She won't be the first person who I will ever disappoint nor will she last either. I must be the queen of disappointment, a social outcast and a geek all at once. Maybe the three go together, I've go no idea. All I know is that I want the bell to ring so that I can go to history class.
Really I am a nobody, the kind of person you see standing alone before homeroom in the hallways, the person who is always by his or her self at lunch. I have no friends, no one to talk to, and parents who could care less. By now I'm used to it. After all, I have been pushed aside for as long as I can even remember. I'm just a geek with dark hair, brown eyes and wireframed glasses. No one ever looks at me as I go from class to class and whoever has to work with me on a group project is considered unlucky. Call it a cast of fate, I just think of it as life.
....Everyone is gathered from new and far, all across the years of hate and war. I have planned this for a long time, thought of what I want to say to each of them. They are all here, from Joshua Chamberlain of the Civil War to Raoul Lufbery from the skies of WWI, to the foot soldiers of WWII or the Vietnam. I walk up to them, eyes wide, almost lost for worlds. But they welcome me, like no one has ever welcomed me before...
When I think about my schoolwork, I don't really know what to think. I do alright in my classes, B's mostly, although if I daydream less that could easily change. The only class I really enjoy is history because that is the one thing that keeps me going. Everyone thinks it's strange for a 16 year old girl to be interested in wars but I don't think it's strange at all. It is just a part of who I am, a thread of my very being.
As soon as the bell rings, I leap to my feet and stuff my binder into my bag before dashing into the hall. I hear mumers of people complaining as I push my way past but have long sense learned to ignore such things. If they had places to be then they surely would rush as well. And I have a place were I just have to be.
....."What took you so long to come and see us?" They all ask it together and I shrug, tell them that I haven't thought about it for at least a month. That I've been thinking about meeting them but that I never really had any plans. I'm not one for plans.
My history classroom is more interesting then any other place in my entire school which I have to say, is not saying much. The whole school is dull and often times all I want to do is escape. "Good morning." I flash a grin at my history teacher as I pass, one of the few times I smile during the duration of the day.
Mr. Darrison looks up from his desk as I enter and smiled back at me. "Good morning to you as well Catty."
Everytime he talks to me, I am filled with happiness. It is this strange obbession that I have with Mr. Darrison, one that is impossible to explain or even put into words. I sit down at my desk and pull out my book. I've read it so many times and it's called "The Killer Angels," written by Micheal Shaara. However, it isn't that I really want to read it right now. I've just learned that it is better not to be looking up when the other students arrive.
The field is wide open, one can see clearly across the entire thing, a mile of ground. They all know how impossible it is and yet they still charge, because it is an order. Longstreet knows the attack is doomed, no 15,000 men can take that ground, no matter how good of soldiers they are. I'm sorry Pete, I wish that I could help you. Everything about war is wrong and yet you still have to fight. What is it about us humans?
They file in, still talking in their little groups but I don't even try and meet their eyes. I am different then they are and I've learned to respect that. When no one wants anything to do with you, you learn to deal with it very quickly and you keep your head down. If you don't, the other students will only find an excuse to be even meaner.
It is a world were everyone is nice to each other. Is that really that hard? They all look at me and for the first time they see me for who I really am. They say that they are sorry, that they were in the wrong. I tell them that's it's alright, that everything can be forgotten, that it is possible to move on. But it's only a dream.
Before I can even blink my eyes the day is over, lost in pointless daydreaming and events of the past. It is the only way I can see to live my life as those who are on the quiet side tend to at times vanish into another world. I view my other world as the past and in the place wars raged, killing innocent people. At times I wonder where my obbession comes from but some things can never be explained. I've long ago given up searching for it.
They are all charging, I can see them through the smoke as I move closer. Cannons echo in my ears, shouts and screams of the wounded. A man in front of me rises his gun and then his finger closes on the finger and I look up at him and recognize him. He is my brother and he's...
As soon as I step onto the driveway, I notice his car and I run up the front steps just as the door opens and I jump into my older brothers arms. I can't remember the last time I've seen him as David is in college now but the close bond we feel can never be broken. "How's it going Catty?" he asks me, grinning wildly.
"The same as always," I reply, moving around him into the house and dumping my bag on the floor before turning to run my eyes over him. Dave hasn't changed one bit. His hair is still almost black and his brown eyes are still just as gentle. He's grown some over the past year so that it's safe to say that he's close to half a foot taller then me. Our eyes me, his twinkling in amusement and I grin back at him. "College going alright?"
"Same as always." He copies my answer so that I have to hold back a fit of giggles.
"Very good answer," I say as I turn towards the kitchen, "Very good answer." It is close to a quote from my favorite movie of all time, Gettysburg. The scene includes General Winfield Hancock telling his boss, Meade who commanded the entire army that the ground was a good place to have an army.
I can tell from the expression on my brother's face that he has picked up on my quote. After years of listening to me talk about it, he has no choice but to learn some of it as well. It is a fate that calls to anyone who gets to know me too well but it is something my parents can never except. They won't be bothered with learning history. What fools they are.
"Tell me something Catty." Glancing up, I notice a worried look on Dave's face. Does my quiet, slightly always saddened mood really come across that clearly. "How do mom and dad treat you?"
That is a painful question for him to ask me and I turn away. The truth is, they hardly ever even look at me, let alone talk to me. It beats getting yelled at but at times it makes me awfully lonely. No one can ever understand what it feels like to be lonely until they hardly have anyone to talk to. It forces one to lock themselves in a shell and never let anything step inside of it. There lies the mystery of my life.
Everyone turns and watchs me walk by but I don't pay any attention to them. They all whisper behind my back because they think that they can get away with it but this time I don't let them. The first person that I hear say something mean to me, I spin around the punch him in the jaw. If only I was brave enough to really do it.
My brother is watching me but I don't answer him, just hurry up the stairs and shut the door of my room. He has no right to ask me questions such as that and busy himself into my very soul. The only one allowed into my soul is myself and I hope to make that very clear. No one else understands anything that goes on in my head. So why should they even bother trying?
I flick up the switch to turn on my light, then put my radio on. Music can always help me think, no matter what the situation is and so at times I wonder if I live for it. But this time no music comes on. With a sigh, I assume that it is on commursal break and that soon something good would start playing. then I actually hear what is being said.
"This tourbus is my officer..." That could be normal to a point although I do have to question the persons reasoning powers. Who'd use a tourbus as an officer? But it gets better the two people actually start talking about guiters, fighting over driving the bus and more. On the radio? Is the whole world going insane? I turn it off and mutter to myself. "What a bunch of nutcases."