Title: Where I Must Be
Author: Casshirek
Summary: Another introspective Chisa fic, leading into the suicide. First chapter. c.c Characters, and so on belong to appropriate people. Enjoy
* * *
But on the telephone line, I am anyone
I am anything I want be,
I could be a super model or Norman Mailer,
And you wouldn't know the difference,
On the telephone line, I am any height,
I am any age I want to be,
I could be a caped crusader
or a space invader
And you wouldn't know the difference
Or would you?
-- "Santa Monica", Savage Garden.
You can be yourself on the Wired.
You can be the person you always wanted to be, that glamorous person to which everyone flocked, that person who radiated all the charisma others longed to have. You can be the person you know is on the inside, the poet who had no voice to sing his rhymes. There are no stereotypes on the Wired. You are gauged on your abilities, on the intellect that shines through the words that glisten neon-bright on the other screen. The flesh, the imprisoning flesh, no longer matters.You are what you are, not the body you were born into.
A person can be reborn on the Wired.
* * *
Rain glistened in argent rivulets from outside her window, a moderate shower that made ghost towns of playgrounds and homes into prisons. Chisa stared into the grey clouds with a mild expression, her lips pursed into a contemplative frown. Fingers stroked her chin, running across the pale flesh in thought even as she turned her attention back to the screen. In her mind's eye, she could see the boys in the rain. Slender, rangy adolescents that splashed carelessly through the muddy park, unaware of the gift each housed within them. They would be playing one game or another; it didn't matter which it was. They could do it.
She could not.
Frown dipped into something colder, her features tensing in remembrance. Years ago, she had travelled outside to play with them. Her eyes closed against the memories that played themselves out. Once more, she saw the exhuberant beginning, the sudden exhertion and the collapse. She had almost died, her mother said. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have done such a thing to herself?
It was unfair.
The world was unfair.
The boys were the stupid ones. They were the ones who had the lowest marks, the ones who never studied or tried their best at things. But they had the power of health. Why? Why was the world so unfair? Chisa was much better than them. Her results were poor because she had nothing but depression to bouy her efforts. She could do so much better. She was better.
Unfair.
Lithe digits ran smoothly across the keyboard. Concerns were related with infinite care into an online journal. She was a poet, a poet of the highest caliber, a rare genius that had no outlet in the real world. Chisa smiled as she perused her own writing, pleased with the exquisite flow of green along her screen. She was one of a few, one of the rare. The world could never see that. She tapped the enter button impatiently and leaned back as her words were processed. On the other hand, the Wired appreciated her. There were people there like here, people who sympathized with her plight. They knew her worth, they knew things about her that no one in the world did.
Chisa loved the Wired.
On impulse, she typed a plea into a highly-populated chatroom, one of the many she frequented to connect with similar souls. It was stupid, it was sad -- but surely, someone knew what she meant? The Wired would understand. It always did.
* * *
SadAngel writes,
How do I become a part of the Wired?
* * *
~Fin
Author: Casshirek
Summary: Another introspective Chisa fic, leading into the suicide. First chapter. c.c Characters, and so on belong to appropriate people. Enjoy
* * *
But on the telephone line, I am anyone
I am anything I want be,
I could be a super model or Norman Mailer,
And you wouldn't know the difference,
On the telephone line, I am any height,
I am any age I want to be,
I could be a caped crusader
or a space invader
And you wouldn't know the difference
Or would you?
-- "Santa Monica", Savage Garden.
You can be yourself on the Wired.
You can be the person you always wanted to be, that glamorous person to which everyone flocked, that person who radiated all the charisma others longed to have. You can be the person you know is on the inside, the poet who had no voice to sing his rhymes. There are no stereotypes on the Wired. You are gauged on your abilities, on the intellect that shines through the words that glisten neon-bright on the other screen. The flesh, the imprisoning flesh, no longer matters.You are what you are, not the body you were born into.
A person can be reborn on the Wired.
* * *
Rain glistened in argent rivulets from outside her window, a moderate shower that made ghost towns of playgrounds and homes into prisons. Chisa stared into the grey clouds with a mild expression, her lips pursed into a contemplative frown. Fingers stroked her chin, running across the pale flesh in thought even as she turned her attention back to the screen. In her mind's eye, she could see the boys in the rain. Slender, rangy adolescents that splashed carelessly through the muddy park, unaware of the gift each housed within them. They would be playing one game or another; it didn't matter which it was. They could do it.
She could not.
Frown dipped into something colder, her features tensing in remembrance. Years ago, she had travelled outside to play with them. Her eyes closed against the memories that played themselves out. Once more, she saw the exhuberant beginning, the sudden exhertion and the collapse. She had almost died, her mother said. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have done such a thing to herself?
It was unfair.
The world was unfair.
The boys were the stupid ones. They were the ones who had the lowest marks, the ones who never studied or tried their best at things. But they had the power of health. Why? Why was the world so unfair? Chisa was much better than them. Her results were poor because she had nothing but depression to bouy her efforts. She could do so much better. She was better.
Unfair.
Lithe digits ran smoothly across the keyboard. Concerns were related with infinite care into an online journal. She was a poet, a poet of the highest caliber, a rare genius that had no outlet in the real world. Chisa smiled as she perused her own writing, pleased with the exquisite flow of green along her screen. She was one of a few, one of the rare. The world could never see that. She tapped the enter button impatiently and leaned back as her words were processed. On the other hand, the Wired appreciated her. There were people there like here, people who sympathized with her plight. They knew her worth, they knew things about her that no one in the world did.
Chisa loved the Wired.
On impulse, she typed a plea into a highly-populated chatroom, one of the many she frequented to connect with similar souls. It was stupid, it was sad -- but surely, someone knew what she meant? The Wired would understand. It always did.
* * *
SadAngel writes,
How do I become a part of the Wired?
* * *
~Fin