May 3
The thump of marching feet and a surreal moan of ethereal joy paraded through an endless sky with a bleeding sun sinking below some unfathomable horizon while the ghosts of dead men raked weary feet across a barren plain. He watched as a third party, wishing to do something and understanding his surroundings but his mind was cloyed with desperation. It wasn't right. Never had been. But he smiled and it was okay and the world was right and things were on the up and up and he could pretend it had never hap-
"Mr. Jones!"
A sickening swirl of all too bright colors collided with one another as his eyes fluttered and Alfred rejoined the world of the living with a jolt. Blearily, he looked up at Mrs. Chelles. A lazy grin was already beginning to form as he leaned back and stretched, shoulders popping and jaw going slack. He slumped and she frowned. It was comfortable familiarity.
Mrs. Chelles huffed, arms crossing over the thin fabric of her sun dress, "Honestly, if you're not going to pay any attention, don't bother coming to class."
He shrugged, crossing his arms in tender relaxation, "I'll take you up on that."
Another huff and she returned to the head of the class, explaining the intricacies of a fish's innards before tomorrow's dissection of a baby shark. Alfred didn't care for Marine Biology. The elective was a filler, meaningless and easily forgotten. Mrs. Chelles could fail him miserably and Alfred could care less. Such was the way of a high school senior.
Lazily resting a hand within his palm, an indecipherable gaze was thrown to the open window. Tree tops and blue skies and golden glow from the star lending its warmth to Earth. Alfred smiled softly, enjoying the view. The counters blurred and the books became caustic lumps of offending color upon a surface that no longer made sense as he lost himself. Marine Biology be damned; he didn't care. There were more important things, things like the tree tops and blue skies and golden glow from the star lending its warmth to Earth. Everything before and beyond lost validity and became inconsequential.
May 4
Grades and tests, quizzes and readings, assignments he could care less about and peers he held nothing but disdain for. The school was average as was the student body. The cliches were obvious and the food was horrible. Nameless, faceless, meaningless throngs of young adults shoved into a concrete hell of lectures and text. Do this, do that, Mr. and Mrs., go there, go here, stay away, get away.
Alfred heaved another sigh, hiking a juice box onto his bent knee as he leaned against the roof top fencing. The sky was clear and the breeze was a light touch against his heated skin. Gym had been another uneventful day of the athletically gifted flaunting the few skills that would carry them to a life of middle aged obesity and mediocre careers. Those who could not compete or chose to stand aside gossiped to one another, jealous and envious and wary.
"Alfred F. Jones! Get your bloody ass inside right this moment."
"I'm eating," he grumbled, half hearted.
Figured. Arthur would show up when he felt at peace. Red spilled across the loose gravel as his hold upon the juice-box loosened and it fell unceremoniously to its shallow grave. Brown bag desolate and forgotten, Alfred stood, swiped himself of any clinging debris, and smiled. Arthur didn't seem as pleased. He face pinched in rage as a scowl darkened his features: foreboding and commanding. Too gentle and too kind.
"Yea, yea, I'm suspended. Just wanted to eat before we went. Didn't figure you'd get here so soon," he chirped, hands deep within his pockets as he fingers twiddled the lint and he felt ashamed from toying with kindred spirits. "Job still shit because of the economy?"
"Don't talk to me that way, you fucker," Arthur hissed, pushing Alfred back into the building and towards the stairs. "Let's go."
"Yea, dad, let's go."
He smiled, wistful and ignorant and pained and serene.
He didn't remember and wouldn't allow himself. The faces of those with helping hands or harsh blows co-mingled with one another till one was no different than the other. She was beautiful as was he. Dark hair and dark eyes, light skin and calloused flesh. A rugged couple brought together by wilderness and separated only by who they were and what they could not become. Harmonious and all at once beautiful. It made him sick. Rolling hills and dipping valleys and a corpse to feed the wildlife.
May 3
They were to play soccer, teams split by random. Allies gathered on like sides and faced one another as the ball was brought into play. The P.E. teacher looked on, bored, as the students haphazardly chased after the ball and dove and kicked madly, hoping for a goal from half field. Alfred cut the ball off before it reached the goal, stopping it with his thigh as he brought it down, tripped, and ran forward. The others grouped around him, feet protruding in an attempt to trip him. A quarter way down the field one succeeded.
When he looked up, there was blue and violet and ashy blond and a mass of unfamiliar Russian smiling down at him as a teammate stole the ball back and continued with the offensive assault. He stood, smiling as his unknown aggressor smiled. Naive and innocent, warm and amiable. His shorts rustled as he stood, dirt clinging to his knees and blades of grass falling back into the arms of its brethren. Blue skies and an almost imperceptible height different. Warmth and a pillowing breeze.
His hand pulled back, cheap shot landing as he laughed brightly. Hands on hips and pleased smile gracing his lips, he watched as the strange student crumpled and fell onto the field. A mother long gone and social workers who no longer cared. Why should he give a damn anymore either? Heaven wasn't a place one went when they died. It was that moment in life when one finally felt alive. Alfred was floating on cloud nine as he watched the teacher phone for an ambulance. He left the field, knowing the protocol without being told.
Gym was already over and so was he.
May 4
"Why can't you just behave? I thought I raised a gentlemen, not some barbarian!"
Alfred shrugged, uncaring. With knees pulled to his chest and frame curled against the car seat, he didn't feel a particular need to answer.
"Honestly, you're infuriating. I'm ashamed to call you my son, lad."
"I know, dad," he murmured, staring out the window.
Clouds had moved in; the sky had been shrouded. He smiled.
"That's okay. You can always try again with another kid when I move out."
Arthur bristled, hands gripping the steering wheel as he hung a harsh right and sat straight, "Now, you know that's not what I meant. I love you, Alfred. You're just a handful."
"You should try an Asian kid next. He'd probably be well tempered," Alfred suggested, looking over to his father figure.
Light skin and calloused flesh and a corpse for the wildlife to feed upon, a carcass left in the bushes to be eaten by maggots. One with the earth, dark hair and dark eyes and beauty. They had been beautiful.
"Alfred!" Arthur was once more agitated, emerald gaze boring into his son's own stare. "Be reasonable!"
"I am," came the reply. Alfred nodded, turning his attention back to the window. His words were sincere and tone even, face pulled back into something akin to sluggish tranquility. Rolling hills and marching feet and helping hands. He couldn't tell one from the other and that was alright. "I'm serious. Not hurt at all. Can we just go home? I'm beat."
"Sure, lad."
May 7
"Hey, Matt."
"Al, it's four in the morning on a Saturday. Why're you up?"
". . ."
"Nightmares, eh?"
He smiled.
"Barrens fields and bleeding suns and rolling hills and dipping valleys."
"You sound like a bad book of poetry."
"You'd know, lit major."
"Shut it, Al. I'm tired."
"Rolling hills and dipping valleys, Matt."
There was reverence in his voice.
"Go to sleep."
"Alright, morning, bro."
"Night, Al."
He lay awake, staring at the stickers of the planetary system plastered to his ceiling. A tone sounded from the speakers of his cell, drawing out the distance that much further before everything fell back into a quiet lull.
There was a time when he was loved. The kids in school adored him, flocked to him, plunged their hands into the depths of everything he was and devoured the sparse individuality he clung to. Adoration was something like love, right? There was a hand on a cheek, stroking and gentle. Her skin was dark. She was dark. Like earth and bark and brown beetles. He had been freedom, independence and she had hated him. But there was love, adoration, the lines seemed to blur till the wasteland of morality stretched on and on with nothing to separate the opposites of yesteryear.
May 9
The appendage hovered lamely in the stagnant air of a high school far too quiet for midday Monday. His smile was warm and friendly, lacking malice and gleaming far too brightly. "So, no harm done? You just caught me on a bad day."
"Nyet."
Alfred lay on his back, staring at tiles and florescent bulbs. The right side of his face throbbed, a bruise no doubt already beginning to take form as he just stared dumbly. There had been a time when he was loved, adored, by Arthur, by Francis, by Matthew, by Antonio. But then a marriage doomed to fail fell through. He stayed with a heavily embittered Arthur and Francis fled to Quebec with Matthew in tow. Like all young love, Antonio had drifted, alienating himself and making goodbyes or we're overs trivial as he came to pursue a new venture: an Italian freshman transfer named Lovino. He hadn't particularly cared at the time. There were still kids at school who adored him.
The shards of relationships then soured drove deep into the soft tissues of his skull and began rotting away any sort of connection Alfred could maintain. Freshmen year, he had lost his friends. Sophomore year, he had decked a teacher, nearly been expelled, and was exiled by the student and staff body alike. Junior year, he had given up trying. Senior year, Alfred lost touch.
He laughed, the sound brilliant and clear. Sitting up on shaking arms, head reeling, he held out a hand, "Alfred Jones."
There was a moment of hesitation on the other boy's face before he extended his hand and palms clasped wrists. Alfred was hoisted back up, swaying, before he righted himself and they detached from one another. The Russian stood tall, imposing and a frightful sight. Alfred smiled.
"Ivan Braginski."
They departed with a sense of mutual distrust and comradeship.
May 11
Blue, blue, skies.
Rolling hills and dipping valleys and corpses and unmarked graves and memories and forests and wildlife and maggots and disease and hatred and elation.
Broken. Friend. Family. Relationships. Love.
Marching feet and a bleeding sun.
Ghosts of soldiers who died for some lost cause with their guns in tow, straps pulled too tightly around flesh and bone, cutting into soft flesh, with the cloying sweetness of copper and desperation lingering as they march on and joined a chorus of forgotten voices. A field of red roses blossom and he can see beauty. The petals wither and stems sag as the sun dies and there are no stars. It's dark and it is beautiful and he hates the stars. Where is here? He isn't sure. But it's peaceful and painful and he wants to get away but it's so comfortable beneath the finger tips of a weeping willow as a stream laps at his toes. Shot, bang, maggots. Rolling hills and dipping valleys. The ground is flat and he is lying in dirt and blood but it's comfortable and he breathes deeply and feels the earth shudder below him.
There's a moan of ethereal joy and it's his. His arm aches; his back aches; he wants to cry but knows it won't come.
He opens his eyes and isn't sure if the sheets clutched between weary fingers is real. The screams might be his but he can't tell. Dry wall and plaster and stained carpeting, they may belong to him but he isn't fucking sure.
Arthur isn't home and it's still so very early where Matthew is. Where Francis is. He wants to call his mother so he squeezes his eyes shut.
"Dear Father who art thou in Heaven- "
The words are bitter. He isn't religious.
"Please forgive me for my sins and deliver me from this hell."
What is sin and what is hell and what is he?
Alfred whimpers and curls against his pillow, unsure if he should open his eyes and chance the non-reality he's seated within. "Mom, I really need you. I need you really bad."
"Rolling hills," he whispers. "Dipping valleys, mom, mom, why'd you let him do it? Maggots and corpses and blood and trees and weeping willows and soldiers. Mom."
He cannot remember her but feels an inhuman attachment to her memory.
May 12
Alfred realizes Ivan is in his first class of the day a bit late. Before, he had been too engrossed in the sky to pay his surroundings much attention. Today, clouds over took the horizon and he could see nothing but tree tops and white clouds. His day was already soured. So, with a bitter curve of the lips, he turned his attention to Mrs. Chelles. He had no idea what she was prattling on about. He didn't particularly care.
A sway of ashen blonde caught his attention as his lazy gaze slid to the left and landed on Ivan's back. Muted peach and sullied white. The colors were dreary but they were interesting. He could buy into them, at least for the rest of class. With a small smile and roll of his shoulders, Alfred spent the rest of Marine Biology staring at Ivan's back. Whether his classmate noticed the attentions or not, Alfred found he wasn't concerned. Let come what may.
The third day of staring Ivan turned around. Alfred continued staring, smoldering violet adding itself to the mix of colors as he blocked out the outside world and focused solely on color. He couldn't tell what Ivan was attempting to convey through looks alone. The effort would have sapped what little energy Alfred still possessed. Feigning ignorance, he continued staring. When Ivan turned his attention back to the teacher, Alfred looked away.
Tearing a sheet from his notebook, he quickly scrawled out a message and slipped it onto the oak of Ivan's desk, leaning close and holding his breath. His note sat unnoticed till the end of class. He gathered his books and left the room. There was no significance to his written words.
He had to get to English. Alfred hated the class, but Matthew loved it. For that reason, he tried his best and still failed. Reading Shakespeare and King and Ellingson and Dickinson became too painful for him to properly pay attention and excel. He missed Matthew and wished his brother well. He wasn't religious, but he prayed that Matthew would realize how hard he tried most days.
And sometimes he wondered if Matthew understood though he knew his brother didn't.
Moran and Rhein and Portch seared into his flesh and tore the marrow from his bones as he shifted in his seat, raised his hand, and reiterated lines that were hypocrisy in ink and bitter truth on paper. No one understood and he never expected them to, but he smiled when Toris leaned over and clapped a hand onto his shoulders, silently congratulating him.
Toris did not understand though he tried. They had once been friends but Alfred had severed the tie between them. Like the rest, Toris left and Alfred wallowed in a shallow pool of self loathing while he exchanged nods and hellos with his former friend when they passed in the hall. He would raise a hand and give a hearty wave, a savoury smile, and the world would seem brighter but he would be breaking within and no one was the wiser.
"To all my family and friends, from whom I hear from now and then," Alfred read near the end of class, "Just wanted to say that I love you each and every day."
The teacher nodded, nonchalant and intrigued, "And what about that line, Mr. Jones?"
It's bullshit.
No one really feels that way.
It's a lie and it's pretty and it's what we all want to believe but it's a fucking lie.
"It's really touching, you know? Like, every person you've ever met you still care for and remember," Alfred began, waving the set of poems through the air as if beckoning some higher philosophical being to come into his body and help him not make such a fool of himself as the entirety of the class stared. "That no matter how little time you spend with those you were once close to, you still feel a kind of connection with them. It's optimistic and idealistic and I like it. Joy Flake must have been a nice gal."
It's a fucking lie but he smiles, leans back in his seat, and looks goddamn pleased with the half assed answer he was able to let spill across his lips. Only he knows that the words are hollow. Toris brushes his hand across Alfred's forearm, imploring and friendly. Alfred looks towards his forgotten friend, widens his grin, and throws the other boy a thumbs up. The Lithuanian laughs and goes back to diligently paying attention. Alfred goes back to staring at the chalkboard. Dirtied black with smears of graying white and muddied yellow.
He thinks his obsession with color borders on the insane but so long as no one else knows, it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters so long as no one knows. He can keep his secrets and they can keep theirs and the world will be right. Truth in lies and lies in truth. The lines are blurred and he can't distinguish between them any longer. Is this the here and now or has time collapsed? The here and now is bleak and it isn't real.
The scratch of rough cotton against his skin isn't truly there and the cool feel of polished oak beneath his clenching fists does not exist. This is not reality and this is not his body. His thoughts are not his own and the world is right.
Just wanted to say, that I love you and I hope you love me too.
A/N:This is a dinky, has really no effort put into it, story that may or may not ever be finished that I do when I feel like kicking a puppy but choose instead to torture fictional characters. I call it therapy. It gets less confusing after this. Anyway, there are a few notes I'd appreciate you all to read before reviewing (if you even do, cue pointed stare at readers). Over all, it's a commentary on the treatment of Native Americans, psychological disorders, and the broken American family. It will cover topics like sexual abuse, physical abuse, drug use, bulimia and other eating disorders, a psychological disorder called derealization, and probably a few other angst bombs I've forgotten or am going to throw in. It's overall America-centric and Russia/America; it's (sort of) a high school AU with human names being used. Mrs. Chelles is Seychelles (because I'm lazy and unimaginative). The poem material is "Family and Friends" by Joy Flake. Yea. Please, excuse any lingering mistakes in spelling, grammar, or word usage. English isn't my first language and I had to do the editing myself.