Hey guys! Wow, it's been such a long time! I'm so sorry for the late update! As some of you know, I'm applying for college and things have been crazy! Again, I'm so sorry for my late update!
I hope you guys like this chapter - I've divided it into three sections.
It's probably a lot shorter than usual... but still, enjoy!
-Blythe
Alvin's point of view:
When I was five, my mother and I would visit a church every Sunday morning while my brothers went to daycare.
There was nothing special about the church, so don't get too excited. I'm not about to tell you that this place is a temple of some kind of magical phenomenas where my mother saw scary ghosts or found buried treasure. No, this place was like any ordinary traditional house of God. The only difference was that no one was ever around when we visited - it was always just me and mother. There were no religious sermons ever going on.
At 7am, Mother and I would walk hand in hand around the outside of the property before we went in. She was always looking for something, stepping through the flowerbeds and felt around through the decaying remains of decomposing plants during autumn.
After that, we played a game called 'stack the rocks' where we'd go to the front of the church and pick up the decorative garden rocks, stacking them one on top of the other until mom found what she called 'the special rock.' There was nothing distinctive about the special rock - it wasn't shiny or golden and it wasn't unusual in shape. It was gray and had a flat bottom, just like the kind anybody could find in the woods or in their back yard. I never quite saw the significance of the game, but without fail, Mother and I played it every week. Some games of stack the rocks lasted longer than others - some took only a few minutes, others took over an hour. There were even times when Mom wouldn't find the special rock and we had to go home, but that only happened once or twice. Once she found the special rock, we put the rest back where they were before and went inside the church for a while.
The first few steps into the sanctuary always reminded me of a memory I'd never fully developed; of a time in my life and of people I never was fully acquainted to - mostly of my real father. The place smelled like how I remembered him smelling: there was a light scent of after-shave, old books and fabric. I only have brief memories of him, but the church was where I remembered him the most, however few reminiscences I had left of him stored in my five year-old brain.
You see, I never really knew my real father because he had passed away before I learned to talk. It was a car accident. All I've been told about it was that Mom was in the car with him when it happened, but she survived. I don't know much about what happened besides that.
Ever since Dad's accident, Mom and I went to the church because that's where the two of them got married. That was her attachment to the place - somehow, I think was the way she communicated with him.
When we were inside the sanctuary, we would sit in the creaky old church pews for hours, neither of us making any sound. As anybody who's ever been five or six years old would know, sitting for that long in one spot was agonizingly boring. At times, I brought along a penny in my shoe and used it to carve letters, numbers, and small pictures on the splintering pews. It helped me to cope with the insipidity of silence and sitting still.
Mom always talked to somebody while we sat, but I always assumed it was father. She never smiled, yet her voice was always light; delighted and pleased at whatever they talked about. In mid-sentence, she'd grab my hand and squeeze it tightly, then release it soon after.
Looking back on it now, the most memorable part about the place was the complex, yet elegantly constructed stained glass windows. They're the same ones in my dream except they don't make any movement. One stained glass window was of a shepard and his flock of several different animals of all sizes, shapes, and colors; each of them coexisting either sitting or laying on the grass. Another stained glass window was of children holding hands with one another, just like the one in my dream. Lastly, the stained glass window in the center depicted a glorious view of mountains, rivers, valleys, and many other landscapes all within the different shades of glass. If I hadn't been so used to seeing them every week, I would've wanted to stare at each window for hours at a time.
But one day, Mom and I could no longer go to the abandoned church and watch the stained glass; someone had burned it to the ground one day in August, 1984. Every single bit of it was gone, and that meant there was no option to repair damage unless someone decided to rebuild it from scratch. No one ever did, though - for now, that place remains as a barren patch of land with no evidence of what used to be there. If you walk around the patch, you could probably find burned metal screws and nails, but all the stained glass is gone, all of those pews, all of the wooden foundations... And the smell of my father - the only memory I had left of him.
Gone - just like everything else important to me.
Incidence one, Monday, 6pm
"E, E, E...E, E, E..." Hummed Alvin melodically as he carefully adjusting the pegs to his guitar. The bottom string gave a low twanging sound with each upward plucking of his thumb as he waited for the tune of the string to match the E tone he played on the piano. It'd been a while since Alvin last had the chance to pick up a guitar or instrument of any kind, much less his own. When Dave visited, he brought Alvin the instrument along with several changes of clothing and personal hygiene supplies while the two had the chance to catch up. The familiarity of the six strings brought a feeling of nostalgia to the boy as he polished the neck. Though Alvin still wasn't on the same terms with Dave, he appreciated being given back his one true creative outlet during his incarceration in the ward. Music was an irreplacable part of his life, and now he could finally go back to what he loved doing most; creating it.
Alvin tapped on the 'E' key on the piano and began humming again until the two tones finally matched. His gaze fell over the detailed grain of the wood, noticing the fade of it's vibrant color which had given way to age. Judging by the number of dusty fingerprints on his guitar, it looked as though the it had been sitting in the attic for quite some time! He dragged his forefinger over the curvatures of the instrument and collected a thick layer of dust.
"Ick..." he muttered, attempting to clean off the headstock. It was amazing how foreign and heavy the guitar felt laying over his lap; what once was a regularly visited stringed instrument was now a distant memory. He wasn't even sure if he remembered all the chords...
When he was finished cleaning and tuning it, Alvin stared down at the guitar and awkwardly tried arranging his hands over the neck, alligning his fingers separately on each string and fret. At first he hit a couple of sour notes, but as a few minutes had passed, he started to strum softly once he regained familiarity to the chords, straightening his back as he played more comfortably. He may not've been as good as he used to before his teen years, but he still knew how to play a decent tune if given time to practice.
Alvin began jumping from chord to chord, improvising his own music just as he used to when he was nine - he leaned forward, increasing the speed of his strumming and then added some fingerpicking, creating improvised riffs. After a while, Alvin couldn't even tell that he was still playing. In fact, he was so encompassed by his music that he'd forgotten that he was in the community room. That meant that he also didn't apprehend the number of eyes that gawked at him as the vibrations from his guitar reverberated off the walls of the confined space.
It was only when he suddenly felt someone sit beside him on the wooden bench did he notice he wasn't alone. He immediately halted, slapping his hand over the strings.
"Oh, don't let me stop you!" said a girl's voice. It was Ellie, the girl from group therapy, "that sounded so cool!"
"Uh...thank you," mumbled Alvin, embarrassed. As he refocused on the room, he could see how a crowd of people were beginning to disperse. Were they just watching him?
"How long have you been playing?" encouraged Ellie politely.
"Eh...well I'm quite rusty, but my Dad taught me when I was a kid. I haven't picked up the guitar in years until now!"
"Well you sound great. Can you play any songs?"
Alvin gave consideration to her question, thinking of all the possible acoustic melodies he could play. Perhaps there were five he could remember... no, maybe ten...fifteen? He brushed his fingers over a clean G chord.
"Um... yeah. B-but I barely remember most of things I learned back when I could actually play. So I guess that'll just have to come with time..."
"Oh," said Ellie, an intonation of disappointment in her voice, "Well you sound pretty good so far for someone who never plays!"
Alvin smiled bashfully, clearing his throat, "Thanks...um...Do you play music?"
"Um...well, I used to. My sisters and I had a band. I played bass guitar." Eleanor said, looking down at her feet, "But I stopped."
"Why?"
Eleanor adjusted herself awkwardly on the wooden bench, undoing one of her blonde pigatils and combing her hair with her fingers, "um...I mean, it was a lot of things, really. Mainly because one of my sisters-"
"Ellie! There you are!"
With just those few words, a recoil of energy surged down Alvin's spine. That voice! Surely it wasn't who he thought it was...
Eleanor stood up from the wooden bench, brushing off the wrinkles in her green sundress and tightened the ribbons in her pigtails. Alvin was visibly flustered; he was afraid to look up. The voice belonged to none other than the obtrusive boy from school - the one whom Alvin threatened and brought to tears a short while back: Theodore.
"Teddy, I'd like you to meet someone," began Eleanor, taking the familiar boy's hand in hers and leading him to the piano, "this is Alvin. He's new around here."
It was too late - Alvin would just have to succumb to the torture of looking the boy in the eye. With great hesitation, he rose to his feet, maintaining as little eye contact as possible.
"Oh... h-hi, Alvin," said the boy, "nice to meet you."
'Nice to meet you'? This was strange; did Theodore not recognize him? Confused, Alvin glanced up to meet his eyes. Yes, this definitely was the same Theodore from school, he was sure of it. Theodore's eyes glistened, as if anticipating something to be said right then - like an apology or an explanation of some sort...or perhaps an introduction. There was certainly recognition in his eyes as he spoke, but why was he acting as if the two had never met before?
"Nice...to meet you, too," replied Alvin politely, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "uh...haven't we met before?"
What came next was especially eerie: Theodore looked to Eleanor for a moment and then back at Alvin, shaking his head.
"I don't believe so...have we?"
Alvin stepped back a little, furrowing his eyebrows, "of course we have."
At that forward response, Theodore smiled politely, "oh! Do you mind refreshing my memory then?"
Unbelievable. Was this guy serious? Surely he was playing around or getting back at Alvin for the way he was treated a while back on the sidewalk.
"You went to my school!" Exclaimed Alvin, "We shared a bunch of classes together, don't you remember? You would sit with me at lunch...a-and follow me around in the hallway and walk me home every day! My father even used to let you come over to our house for dinner sometimes!"
Theodore seemed rigid, remaining stiff and inert. He guiltily shook his head again, "Uh...you must...h-have the wrong Theodore, Alvin. I don't remember any of that."
Alvin's feet were aching to pace. Right where he stood, he was as uncomfortable as he'd ever been in the common room; here he was, standing in front of a kid who tried hard to be his friend for all that time and now he was just denying the two of them even being acquainted? How could this be? The red-clad boy persisted.
"How do you not remember? Wh-what about a while back when I...when I threatened to beat you up for putting out my cigarette? Don't you remember that?! I made you cry and everything!"
The plump, green clad boy winched. This was evidence that he definitely remembered that incidence without question. Alvin knew when someone was telling a lie. After all, he had two younger brothers at one point in his life - anyone with a sibling would know what fibbing looked like, and Theodore was laying it on pretty thick! And he wasn't the only one doing this to Alvin. Dave was awfully secretive, too. There seemed to be so much being kept a secret that Alvin felt as though he was living with a blindfold on and being pushed in all kinds of directions at once. It was dizzying and precarious, making each step feel as though he would fall.
Searching for strategies in his mind, skepticism stuck to Alvin and overthrew him with memories and prickly impatience - exactly what reason would Theodore have that would justify lying to him? Was he afraid of getting hurt again?
"Listen," began Alvin, "I'm sorry about freaking out on you like that, if that's why you're acting like this. I didn't mean to explode for no reason and take out all my frustrations on you. I was...I wasn't 'alright' in the head, if you know what I'm saying..."
Theodore made no sound.
"But I'm a lot better now. I'm... I'm feeling a little better because I've gotten more sleep, s-so I won't beat you up, I swear. A-and... I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
He searched the green-clad chipmunk's eyes for something, anything at all that would give way to emotional recall. Nothing. He didn't flinch that time. This was beginning to scare Alvin. At wit's very end, he was desperate; he had to say something different.
"I guess, I'm just...I guess I don't understand... I mean, I thought we were f-...friends."
Just then, Theodore looked as if he an arrow had shot straight through his heart - as though emotion was cutting right though him like scissors through tissue paper. The air in the room was stale and sharp as the three of them stood in stillness; no one dared to move the conversation forward or away from what was being said. Alvin watched as the boy slowly began to crumble. Theodore's eyes filled heavily with tears.
"I'm sorry," said Theodore, staring at the ceiling and forcing away blunt emotions, "I don't...remember. And I.. I think my visiting time is up for now."
The boy turned on his heels and headed for the door posthaste, leaving behind a very stupified Alvin. Eleanor followed closely behind Theodore, calling his name and asking for an explanation for his sudden breakdown, but he didn't stop. On the other hand, Alvin was infuriated; he was fed up with being lied to, even by someone he never wanted around in the first place. It made him feel as though he was losing everything - namely his grasp on reality.
He returned to the wooden bench and picked up his guitar before sitting down, strumming open-stringed chords and trying to determine whether this was really happening or if he'd just imagined it. Still reeling from his confrontation, he was beginning to doubt his recognition skills; he was losing faith in his own eyesight - his capability to remember faces and things. Was his vision skewed in some way? No, it couldn't be... Something was wrong with everybody; little by little, everyone's lies were creating a colossal gap in his sanity. He still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Theodore, the kid who spent more time around him than any other kid his age actually denying they'd ever met.
But that wasn't the most unsettling part - the worst part about it was that it was plain to see Theodore was lying. The truth was practically leaking through the boy's pores!
Why would he lie? Why try so hard to disguise what was obvious?
He kept a mental note of this hunch and pushed it to the back of his mind. When he saw Dr. Walters today, he'd confess his suspicions in hopes of finally receiving some honest answers. This had to be some sort of misunderstanding - if he told Dr. Walters that, surely he'd agree...
...wouldn't he?
Incidence two, Tuesday: 9am, East Wing
Alvin's POV
It's half past nine and here I am once again sitting at one of those long, rectangular art tables in the group therapy room. For the third time this week, I've had craftmanship therapy. I'm not really sure what it s they're trying to get outta me by making me create stuff, but boy is it aggravating doing the same repetitive thing over and over again four times a week. Every day there are new people and new places and locations for my glorious schedule, but it's always the same damn thing.
This time, we're making decorative and scented candles. Candles with wicks that we're not allowed to light. Please tell me how that makes sense.
I stare down at the two wicks on the table in front of me; all they're made of is just nylon with a wax coating and last a good few hours before disposal, yet each of them are worth more than a pair of silver-tip shoe laces. To the admistrators, it's important that the art program at this god-forsaken mental institution gets the top-priority for candle wicks. I'm pretty sure it's so that the wicks work for a long enough time so that we feel the need to make more than what we've been so graciously given. But hey, we're not allowed to light them anyway...
Dr. Stevens sits at the front of the crowded group therapy room next to the easel and acts out the directions of candle-making like a flight-attendent demonstrating safety rules on an airplane. She has this irritating energy that is almost criminal to have this early in the morning... and she had teeth that look as impossibly white as the actors on colegate toothpaste commercials. Everything about her makes me feel as though I live in complete imperfection. I'll bet her house looks like one of those houses you find on the front cover of the 'Home Living' magazines stacked high on waiting room tables at the doctor's office. She probably owns one of those half-terrier, half poodle dogs and has a perfect husband, perfect children and lots of ceramic lawn furniture. I don't know why I think that, but I have a hunch. I get those sometimes.
"What're you making today, Alvin?" she asked as she makes her rounds to each patient. Was this seriously a question? I'm making a candle. What else would I be making?
"...a candle," I reply. She laughs.
"Oh no, I mean which of the candles are you making? Decorative or scented?"
I glance down at the art project in my hands - there was a mixing bowl full of ingredients and the crinkled instruction paper underneath it. I look like a two year-old playing their mother's cooking supplies. Hell, I don't even know what I'm making - and I could care less if one makes the room smell nice or if it's just there to add decor. Last week, I made two scented candles but threw them out because they smelled like old people and antique fabric when they were supposed to smell like lavendar and rose petal. The people who make these fragrances were born without noses, no doubt.
I leaned down to smell the concoction in front of me - it smells like plain old wax. I guess I hadn't added the perfume scent to the mix. I answer: "I eh...I think decorative?"
"Oh well great!" she chirps, "Are you almost ready to melt the wax bits?"
I nod. She walks to the front of the room and does more of her flight-attendant spiel, "Okay, so it looks like everyone is ready to put their pots on the stove! In a few minutes, we'll be heading off to the kitchen!"
Staring down at the soupy substance, I reach for the blue color dye. 'Blue Night' reads the label, but that wasn't true - this dye is dark gray. It doesn't look like night, nor does it seem to have the slightest tint of blue. The people who make these dyes don't have eyes - even colorblind people would say that this wasn't 'Blue Night.'
I stare at the block of dye until my attention is pulled away from it by a deep voice from the table behind me
"Hey. Hey, you!" says someone. His voice is adament, but I don't turn my head; I figure he's not talking to me.
"You in the red! Hey! Turn around for a sec!"
Reluctantly, I turn around to face the table behind me. At the table sits four guys, each of them more threatening and sketchy than the next: by the far right corner of the table sat the skinniest and most wiry of the four, toying with a rubix cube and chewing on a thick wad of bubblegum. Next to him sat a guy who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen with darker skin and a red bandana tied over his forehead. In his hands he holds playing cards, his eyes darting over each one as if he was making a life-changing decision. He played cards with the tallest of the four who sat across from him, a pale, jittery man with a long neck and countless scars covering most of his exposed skin.
Lastly, there was the guy in the blue-collared polo shirt - the most muscular of the four; he's the one calling to me. He sits at the table leaning on his elbows, waving his his hand toward himself as an inviting gesture.
"C'mere, kid."
I turn away, but before I can face forward completely, I feel something heavy hit the back of my neck. Immediately, I whip back around to face them; the one in the blue collared polo shirt is grinning widely, showing off a mouth full of perfect, pearly white teeth. He'd thrown a 5"x3" block of wax at me.
"What the-?! What the hell do you want?!" I snarl, slapping the chunk of wax on the table.
"Come over here," he demands. The guy in the bandana pulls out a chair and pats it invitingly, but I sit perfectly still.
"No. And stop throwing stuff at me," I reply. That probably wasn't the best idea - right after I turn back around, I feel more objects hitting the back of my body. The blocks of dye ricochet off my shoulder and wax scraps are being blown into my hair until I give up, whipping around again.
"I said stop throwing stuff at me!"
The blue-collared prick just scoffs, "or what?"
I silence myself once I realize that going against these thugs would mean a beating that I'm really not in the mood for. There's no doubt I'll lose - there are four of them and just one of me. Plus, causing a scene with these delinquents will most likely mean that I'll end up on the institution's 'naughty list' - that was something I've been trying to avoid at all costs. Mustering up the remainder of my patience, I try to ignore them again.
This seems to work out for me.. until I suddenly my head begins to feel cold. I touch the top of my head and discover in horror that something was missing: my cap.
I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking down my chair and storm over to the table behind me, my hands curled into tightly wound fists. The four jerks are practically giddy with amusement, but I'm too angry to care.
"Alright, give it back!" I demand, holding out my palm.
"Give what back?" asks the one in the bandana.
"My cap. Give me back my cap! I know you stole it!"
The four of them stir a bit, biting their lips to hold back snickers, "what cap?"
I'm not amused - not in the least, "my hat! You better give it back or-"
"Or what?" threatens blue-collared prick. Laying down their playing cards, the four of them rise to their feet. I notice that all of them are bigger than me and probably older, too. I'm suddenly faced with the decision to either suck it up and take the beating I'm in for or walk away. But who am I kidding? Why the hell would I walk away? That cap has been my most prized possession my whole life! Am I really going to let them keep it just because I'm afraid of a few scratches and bruises?
The tall one with all the scars cracks his knuckles, "you better use your manners, kid, or we'll turn you black an' blue."
"Yeah, little boy. When we're done with you, you ain't gonna have no teeth to chew with," threatened the one in the red bandana.
"You see, small fry," began blue collared polo shirt as his shadow loomed over me, "I don't like it when disobedient little punks like you contaminate my good mood. My mood is so very important to me, you know... and when somebody gets me in a bad mood, something's gotta give. So as punishment for your disrespect, I took the liberty of gaining ownership of something so very important to you." He puts on my cap, pulling over his neatly combed black hair, "an eye for an eye, as the saying goes."
If I were any angrier, I'll bet steam would be piping out of my ears; I want to tear this guy to limb from limb. He smile antagonistically, causing every hair on my body to stand straight up. This guy's just begging to be beaten senseless! I just don't get it. I thought that going to this kind of facility meant that I wouldn't have to deal with scumbags like these! I thought precautions would be taken so that I'd stay OUT of trouble, not have it come back again and again!
"Take it off. Now." I demand, clenching my teeth until I could barely say more. He responded with a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Make me."
Thanks for reading, you guys! I know I've been taking a while to continue, but I'll try to update sooner!
So what's the significance of the church in Alvin's life?
Why is Theodore pretending he doesn't know Alvin? What's going to happen to Alvin with these four thugs?
Reviews are helpful and greatly appreciated! Thanks!
-Blythe