Disclaimer: I do not own characters or settings from Degrassi. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.

The Talisman

I am barely breathing as I finger the delicately-carved wood of Father's gun cabinet. When he is home, sometimes he takes me hunting. He teaches me absolute discipline, absolute silence. One sudden movement and the animal will be alerted to your presence. He teaches me to barely breathe. One sudden movement and the idea I have in my head will be alerted to my conscience: and then it will evaporate.

I want to kill someone today. Not an animal, a stark and beautiful creature without an ounce of hatred in her heart. But a person, a cruel and mocking individual who brings me this pain and humiliation, this burning all through my stomach, heart, throat, eyes. I will kill you, and I will make a cruel and mocking example out of you. All will see your blood seeping out on to the floor, and they will fear ever becoming you, a cruel and mocking individual who brings pain and humiliation to another. My killing is an act of mercy for the next pitiful target of your abominable spirit.

The cabinet door creaks a little and my breath catches in my throat. I clench my teeth to maintain control, to not allow my cool killing rage to escape with a rush of cowardly air from my lungs. But it is not the rage that escapes, no; it's a single sheet of paper, fluttering on to my feet from inside the cabinet. I glance down. Father's writing decorates the page.

I haven't seen Father in over a month. And when I did he hid his shame of me well; he spoke not of how my hot, uncontrollable jealousy put my dear girlfriend in a coma, but he thought of it often I'm sure. He swallowed hard and looked away from me and wondered how he had raised an almost-killer.

Now he would never have to look at me again. And he wouldn't have to wonder about that anymore. He would wonder how he had raised a full-blown killer.

I don't blame him of course. In awe I stroke the nearest, gleaming rifle. It isn't how you're raised, or your genes, or your environment. It's the thoughts you think, the good and the bad energies you produce; it's when you hate yourself so that others hate you too. Or if they don't hate you at first you believe so strongly they do and you punish them for it then hate yourself more. And make them hate you. And make others hate you.

And then when you think the bad energy's purged, that you're smiles and strength and forgiveness and hope, you find yourself barred in a windowless cell. Those others that hate you make sure you're in hell. If you no longer hate yourself, great! But the others still mock you, shove you, transform you into a pariah so anger leaks a cold and calculating fate.

My soft hands drizzled in smudged yellow paint fall upon the hand-gun that Father keeps near, that father cleans and inspects and re-loads when he's home. I rub the gun in satisfaction. My weapon of choice.

"Son." I hear Father's cracked, concerned voice.

But that's imagination, for Father's still gone. I smile, I'm safe, for the first time in months. I'll take control of my unrestrained strife. I'll take control of your piss-poor sad life.

I am barely breathing as I shut the cabinet door. But as I go to move away, I step not on the floor, but on to the paper that fluttered from within. I set my jaw in discipline; I must not give in. Yet I want to read my father's words; his last advice to a wayward son. I want to feel his falsely tender hand upon my shoulder one more time.

-

I will give you a talisman. I'm careful in the shower to use only one hand to bathe myself. I want the yellow paint on my left hand to remain for just today.

Whenever you are in doubt or when the self becomes too much with you, I comb my hair neatly,

apply the following test: and clench my fist, determined that the remaining paint will not come off as I slip into clean clothes.

Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man whom you may have seen I steal out the door and vacillate there, for the poorest is no man…

and ask yourself if the step you take I step into the sun.

shall be of any use to him. My pace is slow and steady first, then I break into a run.

Will he gain anything by it? My breath is not contained now.

Will it restore him to a control My mind is not constrained now.

over his own life and destiny? My life shall be my own now. I recall the face of the poorest and weakest whom I have seen many times before…

In other words, will it lead to liberation …the delicate, uncertain beauty…

for the millions suffering alongside you? …a reason to live, if not to die.

When I arrive I gaze through the window and feel my heart beating with hers.

I leave my handprint on the dirty glass and a note tucked under the door: "Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong. I do not expect your love or to ever see your beautiful face again, but know this: you are the strongest person I know. And the sun shines just in waiting for your eyes to one day open."

Terri was silent with slow, steady breath. She will not scare me away, no, I leave of my own accord. I do not return to the school, and I never will. I'm not sure what I will do.

Then you will find your doubts and your self

simply melting away. –M.K. Gandhi

But perhaps I should start by calling Father to thank him for all that he taught me.