Beware! *affects what she perceives to be a pirate's accent* Thar be foul language ahead, me hearties!

CHAPTER ELEVEN - - - - - - - - - - - -

Thursday, March 17

This... sucks some major monkey balls. Pardon my French.

But honestly, extra soccer training all next week/March Break with Tala Ivanov?! Couldn't he have suckered some other poor sap into playing right forward? He was obviously uncomfortable when he confronted (yes, confronted, with his three friends behind him, no less. Why were the short one and the almost-albino looking at me like that, anyway?) me about it, so why would he want to spend excess time with someone who causes him unease?

Evidently, he is more committed to the damn sport than most.

It's strange though. When he spoke to me, it wasn't with animosity or hatred or even indifference. There was some underlying tone in his voice... This doesn't have anything to do with yesterday's skirmish in the halls, did it? I mean, it was just an accident, could've happened to anybody.

That doesn't explain the blush that was on my cheeks (what the hell was up with that, anyway?!), though.

But, it's not as if he likes me or I like him. Is it?

Damnit. I hate not knowing. This is getting far more aggravating than it should be.

Let's do this the North American way: we'll ignore the problem, move on, and wait until it rears its ugly head and threatens to bring about the Apocalypse before dealing with it.

...And now I'm referring to myself as 'we'. Could this day get any worse?

What the... Oh, yes, yes it can. An art project. A bloody art project. 'Working with Graphite,' or some other such bull.

I thought art was about self-expression. By forcing us to draw, the curriculum is crushing our creativity (alliteration snuck in) with its obsession with evaluations. One who is forever thinking about what mark one will get instead of what's on the paper will surely not be applying oneself properly to the job at hand. Our artistic drive is being compromised for the ministry of education's sense of values. Therefore, I should not have to do this.

Sadly, my art teacher was not as forward thinking as I when I told her this. In fact, she looked down right offended.

Whatever.

I've decided to get this 'diary-entry writing' over with as quickly as possible this week. That way, I can ignore it until Monday or whenever. So, let's start babbling again, shall we?

They say the eyes are the windows to one's soul. You have no idea how badly I hope that isn't true. Because if it is, my soul must be the tainted color of dried blood. It's true. That's the shade of my eyes: a dark mahogany with a tint of crimson. And isn't scarlet the color of sin?

My eyes are as cold and jaded as the rest of my being. There is no sparkle of laughter in them, no glint of humor.

My eyes show nothing.

I'm not sure how much of it is nature, and how much is nurture, and it really doesn't matter. Either way, my irises are as impenetrable in their depths as a frozen citadel. There is no emotion there to betray my inner thoughts.

Unlike others, I do not impose my ideologies of the world upon how I view it; I take it at face value. Call me cynical if you want, I really couldn't care less. Every person is entitled to their own opinion, although there will always be somebody out there to disagree.

I've been told by various high-school counselors that I think too much and keep myself on too tight a leash. I've always walked away from such meetings with very disturbing mental images and nothing else. But now, I wonder if they might have been on to something.

...

Or not.

Bakuten High seems to be gearing down as we near March Break. There is a sort of lazy fervor (if that makes any sense) in the air, as students ready themselves for a full seven days of blessedly nothing filled, well, nothing. And then there's me, stuck playing soccer of all things, with Tala Ivanov, a guy I accidentally shared a kiss with.

My, my, haven't my thoughts gone in a circle.

And, look! It only too me a little less than two pages.

I am so very pathetic right now. Not that I'd ever admit it aloud, of course.

Oh, screw this. The guidance teacher wants to know about me? Let's see how much she can handle. I'm tired of keeping all this shit bottled up.

I've been scarred deeper and more often than I think is healthy for a sixteen-year-old child. Yes, child. Does that surprise you? Does it surprise you that Kai Hiwatari, the self-proclaimed King of Ice, the one who practically lives off the thrill of victory, still considers himself a child? Probably. But there is no denying the truth. I am still a child, and I know it well.

I'm still a child, because I can't grow up. The walls of cold stone and steel that I've erected to shield myself are also prohibiting me, trapping me. Unlike the see-through chrysalises others are fortunate enough to have and shed when needed, my opaque protection and armor will be my downfall. Eventually, I will have grown too large to fit inside my fortress, and will long to push out.

But I won't be able to.

Because by then, the prison will be too thick, too heavy to be destroyed. And I will be ensnared, caught up in my own being, lost and confused to myself.

The scars are not on my body, and not on my mind, but on my soul itself. They are inflicted by everybody I have ever known: my parents, in their ignorance. My former classmates, in their abuse. My former teachers, in their incomprehension. And myself, in my inability to open up.

Somewhere out there is a key. And I need to find it, before the drawbridge is completely lost to me.

You know, perhaps you were onto something with this diary, sensei.

In other matters, I should probably be starting on my art project. And yes, this entry is exactly half a page less than what you wanted. But seeing as what's written above is more honest and candid than anything I've ever inscribed before, consider yourself lucky I haven't burnt this notebook yet.

Actually, I just might.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

To be Continued

Shorter than I expected, but you have to admit, there's a helluva lot of character development in just this chapter.

'Sensei' means teacher in Japanese. Kai is talking directly to the guidance instructor who will later be 'skimming over' what he's written.

Thanks, as always, to all of you lovely readers. I could just hug you all! Or not. Piff.