Gravity (10 page)

"Music," I wipe my mouth. "The music drowns
everything. Sometimes I can just do one person, but it's rare."

"Red can help, but you need to come with me.
I can use your help.”

I glance at Jake's front door. Pete and Jake
are still watching, but they're not as excited as before. They saw
me puke. I never leave parties early, but she is no ordinary girl
and I'm no ordinary guy. Jake will have other parties and maybe
I'll have a better story to tell about tonight. I want to go with
her. This is odd because there's someone named Red involved. If
he's real, then what does he have to do with Violet? Even if they
are involved, it won't stop me from trying to hook-up with her.

"Alex, I'm asking you to come with me. You
don't have to, but I know Red can help you. He needs your help and
he must have chosen you for a good reason."

There is something inside of me that is
making me gravitate toward her. Not her words, not her
looks—something else. Maybe it's something Red had said in the
dream. Why can't I remember? Either way it doesn’t make sense. I
have a migraine developing. I need to get into the party to refocus
on the music that's getting away from me or leave for somewhere
quieter.

"I'm drunk. You're hot—let’s get out of
here.” I pop a mint into his mouth.

As soon as we across the street, the voices
fade, leaving my mind to dive into Violet's.

"One more stop, then my place."

I like the sound of that.

“We can take my car—" I immediately picks up
disturbing images. Someone else is nearby; someone awful to cause
my stomach to churn again. I've never experienced thoughts like
these before. My food comes up again as the vile images continue to
infiltrate my mind. Hands on flesh; ripping and tearing of clothes;
someone is applying too much pressure around someone's neck; blood;
someone is sobbing; the flashing images and sounds are like clips
from a horror movie with a close up of the nasty parts. A feeling
of despair along with them is so sickening I lose my grip and vomit
again.

"Alex, are you ok?" Violet is at my side, but
she keeps a noticeable distance between us.

The strange thoughts continue. Misery has
never made me feel so sick. It doesn't seem like normal thoughts,
but things that had happened in the past. It's repulsive.

"I'm… okay."

I've never vomited twice in one night. I
compose myself and refocus on her troubled face. Girls usually
squeal and runaway when someone pukes. Violet doesn't seem
disgusted at all, but sincerely concerned. It's rather
comforting.

A kid, probably a grade or two under me,
stands up from the curb. His dark hair and dark clothes make him
look like a shadow that's come off the ground. The only thing that
stands out are his eyes which sparkle from the reflection of a
street lamp.

"Alex, this is Gabriel Black. Gabriel, Alex
Aisling. Gabriel's special too."

I back away as the images that made me lose
my dinner replay again in my head. It's from the strange kid.
Gabriel's eyes look to the ground like he's being punished. Did he
do those things or did someone do those things to him?

"It's okay Alex, just stay away from him,
okay?"

"Stay away? Does he bite?" I cringe. "Holy
shit."

"No—"

"I bite." Gabriel interrupts Violet.

I glare at him. Gabriel pulls his hood over
his head. The kid definitely bites. He's also been bitten as a
child. The haunting things I see in him are a history of torture.
He's a victim, but he's also dangerous.

I don't quite understand it. Violet and
Gabriel's thoughts are wide open; more shit filters through than
anyone else I've read. Honing in on each of them is easier than
it's ever been with anyone. I've never had a connection this strong
before.

Violet called me special like them. Maybe
that's the reason for the intense telepathy. There's something
strange about Gabriel that warns me to never touch him. What I've
seen him do is disturbing and what had been done to him is tragic.
I pull out of Gabriel's head before I puke again.

Violet puts on sweat shirt that hides her
body. If it weren't for her face, I probably wouldn't look twice.
Her mind is riddled with holes, no past just recent history. She
possesses something that's gotten her in trouble. From what I can
tell it has to do with touch. She's been alone for a while. Only
now she's seeking the help she needs. All under the direction of
the person she's seeking—the shopkeeper—Red.

Dash

The sunlight
captures
my full attention as
it absorbs the pen lines on my drawing. Staring at the sketch
paper's blaring white surface blinds my retinas. The disappearance
of my art is temporary as the sun makes its way across the late
morning sky. Nature produces the most fascinating anomalies. It’s
an honor to witness such a moment where the sun prevents me from
drawing.

It won't be
long before the sun will pass the classroom window so that I can
resume my sketch. Freeing my eyes away from the light, I've
forgotten I'm in Algebra II. I don't bother listening to Mr. Brown
talk about polynomials. Instead, I take interest in watching the
sun eclipse my work.

A kick in the back of my seat startles me.
Paper is being handed to me from the classmate in front of me.

“
Dude, you
mind?” The one who kicked
my
chair is impatient.

I
take the papers rattling in front of
me; take one for myself and pass the rest back.

It’s last
year’s test to use as a study reference for the upcoming one next
month. It’s completely unnecessary since I've never studied in my
life. I shove it under my textbook to resume my sun gazing. During
wasted seconds when I was rudely interrupted, the sun receded from
the corner of the paper. The best part of watching is the shade
gaining back its domain.

My
eyes rest upon the faces around me.
Half of them are asleep or bored to death at the monotonous voice
of Mr. Brown.

I
wonder if life will be like this
forever; just waiting for something to happen. There is so much I
want to do, so much I want to express, but no time, no energy, no
power to do it in this lifetime. Choose one college, one major, one
career path and be one person. I can't do that. To choose one path
sounds crazy.
'You
can be anything'
—they say it
to everyone. Well, grant me everlasting life and I will be
anything. I smirk as I shade the eyes of my Great Horned owl
drawing. I'd fly away.

"Mr. Carver,
since you've been paying
so much
attention why don't you find the solution." Mr. Brown shoves a
marker in my face.

I
hate being put on the spot. The
things expected of me are a waste of time. I just want to
experience life my way.
These
things will just keep me from my own plans. I want out, but there
is no way out, only to follow—what a mundane life.

I
take the marker and walk up to the
dry erase board in the front of the classroom. I roll my eyes.
T
his problem is too
easy.

I
write out the work Mr. Brown would be
expecting and walk away with my head down. My answer is correct of
course. Making an example of me won't work. Mr. Brown is just a
fool, but I'm not paying attention. I know this stuff, like one
would easily know what day of the week it is. Mr. Brown goes on
explaining how I had found the answer—at least how he
thought
I found it. I never solved it
—
it was
always there. I wrote out work that was expected of me. There is
more than one path to a solution. Everything there is to know I can
see in plain sight when it comes to math. Like a mother breast
feeding a child, it’s just comes naturally. I still had to learn
math like a normal child. Once the basic knowledge of a subject
took root, it grew into its own dynamic form.

I look up at the clock. There’s still time
left. School is a joke. Sitting through every class is time wasted.
Everything I'm told I need to know I already memorized permanently.
The work is boring. The teachers are uninspiring. Curriculum is not
challenging enough. I could've been placed differently. College
courses and various advance placement programs, but the same amount
of time is wasted. The end result is the same.

The sun
has
completely passed my desk
revealing my life-like owl peering back at me. The creature’s
hooded eyes drill into mine. I can imagine him circling the
classroom creating a much needed disturbance.

I
turn a page in my drawing pad and
decide to draw my Goddess. She's beautiful, o
f course; not like the cookie cutter females around
me.
I sketch the outline of her round face; hinting the
areas for her brow, nose and lips. I pencils in the dark tendrils
for her hair. I envision her smiling, playing shy violet with me.
She's soft when I fantasize touching her. Her lips taste like
strawberries. I visualize taking her small hand into mine. A
Goddess of my own creation is real in my world; my queen in a world
without limits.

I
smile as I imagine our first kiss.
I've imagined kissing before but with this drawing I can almost
taste her.

I wince at her eyes. I have to use an eraser
for them. I try not to whenever possible but I never make mistakes
like this. Her eyes are all wrong, and I can't seem to get them
right whenever I draw her.

"Mr. Carver?" A
hand swipes
my pad away as the
pencil skims across the paper, leaving a scar that destroys her
face.

Mr. Brown's forehead
wrinkles. "There are classes for this, Mr. Carver. I'm afraid this
isn't one of them."

The
class
giggles and hits a
nerve. My back sinks down into the seat as my face heats up like
kindling. The boring lesson suddenly has excitement—unfortunately
it revolves around me.

Mr. Brown takes
the pad and places it on my desk, flipping through my private work
before continuing his nonsensical teaching.

The line across
her face
—s
he's ruined—the nerve of that
guy
. My fingers curl tightly.
I snap my pencil in half with my thumb. I watch Mr. Brown now
occupying the board while the classes' eyes are still on me. It
makes me incredibly anxious. My peripheral vision is blurring. All
I can focus on is my drawing pad.
Would he keep it? I needed it. I needed it now.
Looking at the clock, there's fifteen
minutes left. Fifteen minutes is too long without my
sketchbook.

Too many eyes
on me. Eyes touching me.

Mr. Brown turns from
the board to face the class.

"Is there still a
problem, Mr. Carver?"

Everyone turns their
heads.

My chest is ready to cave in. My hands shake
so I place them under my legs.

There's more
giggling.

It's not funny.

Shut up.

Why is he calling
attention to me?

Stop looking at
me
.

I shut my eyes.
Brick after anxious brick, I imagine a wall to divide me from this
classroom. The whispering begins. I open my eyes to see Mr. Brown
staring. The kids in front of me turn around and gawk.

Don't look at me.

"Hey, you have asthma or something?" The kid
next to me chuckles.

"Leave him alone!" The blond girl in front of
him says. "He's freaking out."

Freaking out? Am I freaking out?

"Mr. Carver, do you need to use the
restroom?"

The class burst out laughing.

I grind my teeth. The lights go out for a
moment. I can't tear my eyes away from my drawing pad.

How dare he
look at my private
sketches.
He ruined my work
.

The clock's
minute hand spins faster and faster. The lights flicker again. Mr.
Brown and the class look around and whispering voices becomes a
heavier burden to my ears.

"Settle down
it's probably an energy surge," Mr. Brown sighs.

There‘
s a loud crack from
one of the windows. The glass explodes sending it's shards inward,
raining over the classroom.

I
get up and snatch my drawing pad and
leave the classroom. I walk down the hall as quickly as I possibly
can to my locker. The commotion continues behind me with doors
swing open and students flooding the halls. My anxiety does this.
The anger I hold inside still needs to be released. Crying in
school will only show how weak I really am.

My
lock rips itself away from my locker
like soft taffy and hits the floor. The locker swings open
violently before my hand reaches to open it. Loading my back pack
with other drawing materials I start to feel overwhelmingly
explosive. The water at the edge of my eyes begins to flood my
vision. My heart is drumming like death metal music.

Too many eyes on me.

I
head to the exit as quickly as I can
before someone sees me crying. I head home. Holding back the real
tears I'm so close to letting go—but not yet; no one can see me
like this.

They know it
was me.
He didn't have to take
it away.
I think ahead to what
the next day would be like.
Mr. Brown stole Dash's pervy
drawings. The weird kid freaked out. They wouldn't have known it
was me who blew the windows out, would they?