One thing I've noticed throughout my scribing career is that I haven't really had to work at being unnoticed; people seem to forget me just fine. I am happy about that- at least in regards to my work.
(My work is important. Most people keep a journal; I keep ten. My room is littered with books and paper. A bit of a fire hazard, I would imagine.)
To write is to be human, and my hands are made for it.
Like I've said before, I'm happy about being unnoticed. The weird thing is, however, on the rare occasions that I do not attend class, the teacher never seems to address me about it the next day. That bothers me a little; but overall, I'm happy.
I think.
After skool is through for the day, I manage to hop on a bus heading to the downtown. As bus engages, the hydraulic-driven doors hiss shut, and the strained roar of the engine loudly broadcasts its opposition to movement. I sit down and scribble my notes for the day.
Mercy Central is my stop. The vehicle screams to a halt.
I walk through the entrance. The sliding doors fail to activate, so I have to walk through them. Inside, people appear and flutter by as if out of a need to constantly move, operating not unlike a mega-organism. The soft noise of doctors and nurses' rubber shoes squeaking on the linoleum as I pass by heighten my senses. I note their expressions and demeanor for later.
I slip into a nondescript room, pen at ready.
At first, I notice only white and shine. My eye shortly becomes accustomed to the unbroken patterns of the white, and I begin to pick out a body amongst it all.
Dib's eyes are shut loosely; his body relaxed around the wires and machines. The only thing paler than his skin is the bandage around his head. His breathing is even, and his heart, (at least according to the machine) continues to beat.
I wonder what machine is keeping him alive.
I sit in a chair parallel to his feet, in the corner. I prop my chin on the palm of my hand and wait. Murmurs and whispers of the intensive care nurses as they attend their duties lull even me into a trance-like state. I begin to wonder.
To wonder what makes him Dib. (Of course, this is for the record, so that people will remember his existence.)
He must feel so alone. (This isn't a mere entertainment of my fancy, but a hard fact. I can only tell you want I see, not what I think. I am a historian. I MUST be objective.) He has no friends. I myself, have observed other children laughing and jeering at him in whatever context one can imagine. I don't pity him, or with anyone else with similar concerns; I cannot. Plus, one can grow accustomed to it.
I frown.
He rants and raves about UFOs and aliens and ghosts with such obstinate faith that everyone assumes he's insane. Faith, I suppose, is equated with crazy. I don't believe he's mad, but I write what I see.
Regardless if what I see is the truth.
His chest rises and falls with the machines. He doesn't move.
Hours later, I look up at the night sky, wondering just what it is that I see there.