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Sorry I haven't updated in a while! I really hope people are still interested.
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May 14th, 2007.
Hello,
There is a boy here, with dark, dark hair, who wears sunglasses because he's confused, according to Jaime.
On some days, the kid believes he is blind. On other days, he's afraid people will steal his identity. I imagine his Carer has it hard.
Jaime says the kid is perfect. I try to ignore the twinge of jealousy I get when Jaime starts talking about the guy, (who's as pale as a sheet and as attractive as a moose, by the way). But, it's hard to hide how upset I am, especially because recently, Jaime has been going on and on about his new amazing friend.
Let me list for you why this companion is so impressive:
1. He actually talks back to Jaime. He inputs in a conversation. He has views.
2. He is a gymnast. So, at the very least, he has one hell-of-a body.
3. According to Jaime he comes from a super-rich family. Like mega-rich.
4. He's not all that crazy, maybe even less than me, and he'll be 'getting-out' soon. Jaime is veryhappy for him.
5. He's not from the future.
It's not that I'm envious that Jaime obviously has more friends than just boring old me...it's just that, I'm sad at the fact that I've been here way more years more than him, and half the support centre and the residency already loves him...and I only know him.
I haven't been in his head, and I don't want to be...but I don't understand how he can be so influential, and amazing, and just get people to like him. Is it because he's charismatic? Is it because he has the best washboard abs in the history of muscle?
Probably not. I don't even know if he does. It's nice to dream, though.
But take, for example, this morning. We were eating bagels that had silk thin layers of butter on top of them. I think carers are afraid we'll choke on the fat as it leaks down our throats. Jaime's bagel was seemingly 'freezing to death without enough blanket', which was annoying the poor guy. He walked up to the canteen manager, they got talking, and he somehow came back with a tub of butter.
How can someone be so infuriatingly likeable?
Maybe it's because of his parents? I met them. I suppose that's enough evidence to declare that Jaime and I really are friends. To be honest, I was just there though, and he kinda dragged me along because he had nothing better to do. He did yell, "No time to explain! The saviours demand a meeting!" I just followed him in my confusion.
Anyway, his family is just oozing with awesome. His mother and father are both Hispanic, and his mom is a paramedic—saving lives every day? That's totally on my bucket-list. If I can't build the time machine, and get back to my time, that is.
Jaime's father is a wrinkled, calloused man, who has spent too many days turning to crisp in the sun...but he's also one of the kindest, most supportive men who I've ever had the pleasure of listening to, and notvoicing my crazy to.
Not that the family didn't try to get me talking. His sister, Milagro, made it her mission.
"Do you go to school?" She asked. "Have you ever been to school?" When I didn't answer, trying to swipe away from my mind my thirteen schools, and education during the future, she continued. "Can you even read? Did you never learn how to talk?"
Jaime hushed her angrily at that point, and she fluttered her eyelashes, and swung her legs, her pig-tails flying around as well.
"Do you know my brother is crazy? Why are you his friend? Are you crazy too?" Milagro pressed her nose against mine, her eyes boring into me. She was so innocent and naïve; I was pretty shocked that I wanted to back-hand her. (I didn't, by the way, Jaime didn't find it hard to shove her.)
"That's not nice." I finally said in a mouse-of-a-voice, raising my eyebrows. Milagro snorted, and I snorted too. Which made Jaime snort. To be honest, I'm not even sure if my opinion was directed at the bully of a brother, or his blameless sister.
Well, I suppose I can't say that. She adores him. She's supportive. She's childish because she's, like, seven.
Jaime's mother sent me apologetic looks for about five minutes afterwards, while Alberto spoke in a rough tone, but with kind words escaping out of his mouth of tanned teeth. He moved his glasses up his crooked nose, sometimes his gaze flitting over to me. Jaime listened to his father like he'd listen to the President. Full of admiration, and concentration. I half expected him to stand up and applaud when his father was done talking.
Even though hearing about the outside world was energizing, I started tapping the table. I can't sit still for long.
"So, Bart..." Milagro began, smirking, "How long have you –?" Her mother gently patted her daughter, reminding her 'not to interrupt her father'. I silently thanked her, with my green eyes aglow. I think I kinda looked disturbed; wide eyes and a tight smile on my face. I'm glad she looked away, fully placing her attention back on her husband.
After that, Jaime's mother passed Jaime a brown paper package, tied up with well-worn string. She winked at me, and smiled genuinely.
Jaime told me later that his mother had packed some things for me in the present, while we were sat on our bean bags in the casual room. "You're all she wants to talk about." He mumbled, a smile playing at his lips. "She's all, like, interested in you when I talk to her on the phone." He shrugged, "Yes, she is."
I really didn't know what to say. I haven't had parents for a while—as in, I haven't spoken to them, so it kinda feels like there's a void in my life.
A heavy book landed on my lap as my attention was diverted to the movie playing at that moment, Grease, I think.
"I told my mom you like drawing." I looked over the sketchbook, the paper quality over-whelming me. I had no idea how I'd repay the family.
I furrowed my brow as another negative thought swam into my stream of consciousness. What else had he told her?
As if reading my mind, in a substantially quieter voice, Jaime added, "I told her about...why you're here, too." He looked anxiously around the room. "Lately, the voices have listened in a lot." He passed me a mechanical pencil. "Mom said it was the most futuristic thing she could find."
I kinda died a little inside. I accepted the gifts, but a weird feeling washed over me. It was a mix of black and white. I was happy to receive gifts...but it frustrated me that I couldn't even thank Jaime's mother.
My Carer Bertha, the non-fun one, says I'm all take and no give.
Bart Allen.
May 26th, 2007.
So, I screwed up.
I screwed up so much that even Dr Miranda said that I should probably give it a rest for a little while.
And if you haven't noticed yet, my absence has been a little longer than usual. That's because I recently got my hands unbound (again!), since the person I hurt took a while to recuperate.
Now, apparently, I have to go through a number of diagnosis tests to determine if my ADHD and OCD and species-dysphoria are actually something else, like a compulsive aggression disorder or something.
I'm not a violent person, I just got upset. Normal people get upset. I've even heard, believe it or not, of completely average people punching other completely average people in the face. It's not just the crazies who do it.
It's not just me.
I guess I should elaborate.
Me and Jaime were prepping for a night of lazing around in the casual room. After meeting up at the vending machines, and stocking up on lollies and canned soft drinks with our weekly pocket-money, we headed over to a screening of Bambi.
We'd adopted two bean bags, which seemed to have become our permanent spots, over the weeks we'd been talking. When we get there, though, one of them was taken.
Interestingly enough, Jaime couldn't care less. He sat right down next to the thief; the sometimes blind, sometimes paranoid kid, who just so happened to be one of Jaime's many friends.
And it hurt. This feeling swirled around in the pit of my stomach, like a pacing lion, waiting for a glimpse of its meal, so it could pounce. Pretty much, I was beyond jealous.
I find it really fitting that the kids name is Dick.
I'm not really sure at which part I lost it. Maybe it's when Jaime asked me why I was taking so long to walk over, or maybe it's when Dickturned around and greeted me nonchalantly. Maybe it's when Jaime observed that I "looked ready to kill someone."
Long story short, I punched Dick in the face.
Bruce, the long-term carer, who was in his usual spot in the room, took a moment to comprehend what I had done. Dick rolled around on the floor, holding a bloody nose. I was freaking out over my bloody fist.
Bruce interrupted a motivational conversation with an inhabitant of the room, and blew his whistle, turning beet red. Jaime backed away, then clutched his head and yelled: "How did you know it was going to happen?"
The other residents threw themselves into frenzy.
I ran the hell out of that room. I'd always loved running. The feeling of exhilaration, wind in your hair. It was something I was good at. When you have Bruce on your tail all the novelty drains out of the situation, though.
Bruce is a bit like a bear with a chainsaw, only when he's chasing you, you suddenly wish he was a bear, because you're pretty sure it would be less scary.
I think the saddest part is that I don't think I have a friend any more. I don't even care that I couldn't finish a picture in my sketch-book, since I couldn't use my hands.
Dr Miranda said that it would be best for me to stop talking to Jaime. She says I shouldn't even apologise. She says if I should apologise to anyone, it should be to Dick. And even in saying that, she thinks it would be best if I did it in writing.
It would suck for the kid if he received his apology letter on a day when he's under the impression that he's blind.
Bart Allen.
Hope you enjoyed!
Thanks for reading.
-Fish