Radiohead - Fake Plastic Trees
Years ago...
…
— ...Our circadian rhythms are unique and exclusive as... as...
— Birthmarks? – A kid in the reading wheel raised a hand.
— Why, yes. Thank you, Rai. Birthmarks. Everyone has these.
— Teacher. – So did another. – I don't have birthmarks.
— Don't you, Lisa?
— Neither I. — Said Lisa's sister. I forgot her name. They each look alike.
— Oh, sorry. Bad example. Well, in a way, everyone has its own circadian rhythm.
— What is that? – I think it's Rai, again.
— I'll explain, kids. You know those people who wake up early in the morning, smiling and happy?
— I do. – Said a boy, with a finger on its nose.
— Yeah. – Said another, playing wit its tail.
— I hate these people. – That was quick.
— What can we do? Life's just like that, Arc.
— I am Desch.
— Right, Desch. – I can't remember their names by head. I mean, they look so much alike. Orphans... – So, like I was saying...
— ...Booooring! – I already expected that. – Why talk about sleep? That makes me... me wanna go. Yaaaawn!...
— Well, don't you kids want to grow up someday?
— Grow up? I don't think so. – Making fun of me? No, that was the boy before. This one is worried about growing.
— Yes. Grow up... And become, uh, Dragoon Knights.
— DRAGOON!? – They all come together and say it. No worry, I heard you, kids.
— Yes. It's why I'm telling you about sleep, and circadian rhythms. – Now they pay attention, with ears and eyes wide.
I don't remember seeing that much of interest for what I've read out a Daguerreo's book. Lindblum, Alexandria… they might have brought bricks and books to these ruins, but they don't have heroes to inspire their children such as...
— Dragoon Knights... I am one of them. Good people. We work everyday. It's a tiresome routine, not only strict to us. The milkman, the fisherman, the baker, they're important as well. People who wake up earlier than others, work all day and sleep at night. However, there are some who sleep during the day and work at night. These are writers, artists, musicians, these kind of people you do not care about, do you?
— Nuh huh. – Sorry, artists and musicians of Burmecia. But the kids have power here.
— Mister! Mister! – One raised a hand. It's Rai.
— What is it, Rai?
— Uh... What does sleep have to do with Dragoon Knights? Do you sleep?
— Good question. We do sleep, kids.
— Why Dragoon, and not Owl? Owls stay awake at night. – I see a bit of myself in Rai.
— Why not Onion Knights? – In fact, I see a bit of myself in each of these kids.
— Onion Knights? That's silly. – They have something I forgot about: imagination.
— Silly, your butt! – Some of them are yet to learn about good manners.
— Why do Dragoons sleep? – Despite the many voices, some are curious to learn out of one wise man. Wise man? I'm not even that old.
— Just to remind you we are human beings deep inside. – Geez, I feel old. Maybe mature is the word. And, speaking of human beings... Here's one at the corner of the room. – As you can see, when someone tries to change circadian rhythms, like staying awake at night, well... there are no good results when you do it. Right? Sleep at day can be a terrible defense mechanism, because it leaves us vulnerable to the slightest of ambient changes.
I look inside that cloak, knowing that beneath the darkness, some eyes have opened up. Tears falling like the dew of every morning.
— Good morning, my dear angel.
— Father? – She isn't even surprised.
— Kids... This is my daughter, Heather. Say hi to her. – Heather... she is so shy. I wonder if I am doing the right thing by showing her to everyone. Let them be friends to each other, it'll be the best
— Why don't you take the cloak out? – Like many, Lisa asked about my dear's cloak. She doesn't know.
— No, thanks. — It's better she doesn't know. I just want Heather to live a normal life.
— Why are your feet swollen? – But these kids, they insist on asking questions.
— My feet? No, it's nothing. – They insist on looking at her feet. Heather's damned feet.
— Can you walk?
— Why, I can! – My daughter raises the voice.
— Really? With these elephant feet? – Why am I not doing anything? Well, Heather clearly has hideous feet.
— What did you say!? – My... father saying these things. Well, she isn't even my daughter.
— Hi, Heather. – Try to be gentle, Fratley. Like Rai.
— Saying hi to that freak? – But I can't avoid fear as well, like Arc.
— Don't call me a freak! – Bad mistake. Bad mistake bringing my daughter here. She's about to cry, you don't even look ugly at them, or beg them to stop.
— Yeah, don't call her freak, you idiot! – Just look at my dear with any kind of human decency, kids. She's as human as you all are. A human with defects... birth defects.
— Idiot, me? Look at her feet.
— Look at the mirror! Your looks are the least ugly thing in you. – I took care of Heather. It's what I did for her. Take care of that thing... That thing? No, don't say it. It ain't right.
— Elephant feet! – You don't have the right to say it. She's your daughter. Freya's only daughter – elephant feet! ElephaAAAGH!
— How's that? You gonna say anything else, poopface!?
— Heather... – Now you look ugly.
— He deserved it, father. – My dear kicked Arc right on his crotch. Now Rai is scared as well. Afraid that he might be the next.
— What did I say about raising your voice, young miss?
— Father... let's talk about it somewhere else, shall we? – The way she says it, I am the one supposed to feel ashamed.
— That was a good kick, Heather. Wanna play football a day? – One of the boys got impressed.
— I'll think about it. – Maybe Heather made a new friend.
— Nah, with those toes, she's gonna empty the ball. Just like Arc's.
— Shut up! UUUgh... – One more to the list of injured. I'm sorry if that's the first impression you've had of Heather, Arc.
See, there's nothing wrong with Heather. She's just shy, that's it. Shy, and a kid who let herself be overcome by strong emotions. Like her mother.
...
Later that day...
Love.
Tangible and pervasive as the falling rain, filling the cracks within the sidewalk and the smiles between crowds. Smiles... I never thought I'd be seeing so many happy people on that very street where many died. A smile to warm the hearts of those who suffered, and ask when its enough. I smile at them as well, the Dragoon Knights do what is the best. On other times, I looked cold at them, for the sake of the very best to be done. The kids look at me, point, and I hear that they want to be like me. Like the Knight. Sometimes, I think I am only known because I am a Dragoon, a Sir as well, because if it depended only on Fratley... Brrrrr! My teeth are creaking, not a good sign.
Cold or not, it's not a nice job, no such job is pleasant, unless you like it by heart. And I've met a woman who did so, no longer with us. She cared so much, preferred to smile than cry. Moving on.
The many lights hanging around make me thing the stars fell from the skies and are now shining on Gaia. The lowest of Gaia, I mean. Like, whose hands built Burmecia's weeping walls? It's angels of stone, with indifference at sight? The Kings and Queens are regarded as the fathers and mothers of millions. Their names are in the books, but have they lifted all these blocks? Touched them, whatsoever? I wonder if there could be a kind of history where the names of everyone fits in all pages. I'm struggling to remember those names and the history each holds on, so do I with myself. It's Yuletide, the best time of the year. If you feel cold, someone is near to hold the tip of your icy fingers, wrap around tails, or kiss.
— Do these nuts burst inside the stomach? – Funny, when you take care of a kid, none of their questions sound dumb.
— Of course not. They only grow when we cook.
— Father, can I have some nuts? – Heather gently asked me. She can be nice if you don't piss her off.
— Why? You don't like nuts?
— And you are saying that I should learn to like things I don't. – Oh my... be careful with what you say.
— Okay. Go have it. – So I lended my dear a bit of my wage. A very tiny bit, why am I worried? Despite earning a lot, I still live a simple, quiet life. Too quiet, had not been for that little.
— Hey sir, I want some nuts. Gimme a sack! Gimme, gimme!
— Here. – The Burmecian vendor gave some of these cooked nuts to my daughter to try out.
— Do you want some, father? – Don't talk with your mouth full, I'd say. Not today. I have other things to say...
— Well... – It ain't everyday I see her so excited. Most of the time, Heather is on her own. One of the few times in a year that I bring her outside home, so... – I'd like to try.
Sir Fratley versus a nut, who wins? It's like eating popcorn, but very hot. Where these nuts boiling on a volcano? I blow them one by one but they're still hot. Heather stares at me and says nothing, judging in silence, which is way worse than hearing her insult me. And here it goes. Three, two, one... CRACK! Oh... I think one of my teeth broke. That 'CRACK!' didn't feel right. Or maybe I'm nuts. Haha, funny. You know when you are a certified dad when you make this kind of joke too which no one laughs at. Anyway...
— What a special girl you have, Sir Fratley. – The vendor spoke, looking closely at my dear. – I wonder what's inside the hood she's wearing.
— Please don't call me special... – Heather said, swallowing it all, without tasting any of the nuts.
— Oh, sorry.
— It's okay. It happens. Let's go, father – so my dear pulled me somewhere else, against my will. She is pretty strong, and could become a Dragoon someday. She's the daughter of one, after all.
— Any problem?
— Problem? You already know. Have you forgotten? – Maybe I did. Maybe I act all weird this time of year, with everything looking so different from usual, nobody notices how dark and gloomy are the shadows, how frosty is the rain when you pour some warm light in it.
— Heather? Do you...?
— No, Fratley. How many times do I have to tell everything I do is not pee!? – She's mad at me. It used to be easy when all Heather did was cry and either it was food, sleep, cuddle or potty. – I want to go home before my ears freeze, goddamnit.
— Watch your tongue, little. – My, from who did she learn that kind of language? Not me.
— Brthrthrthrthrth! – Heather blew a raspberry to me. – Sir Fratley, sometimes you are so serious it's boring.
— And sometimes, you are so... childish.
— What else can I do? I am a kid! – I think I got upset for a while. Sometimes (and I really mean sometimes!) Heather gets on my nerves, but I still love her. Her donkey-strong determination is both irritating and sort of cute. – I feel poor for those orphans. Who's going to adopt them?
— Well...
— You better not say YOU! Like, think about the one who's going to take care when you're out of home. – If there's one thing Heather didn't liked at all, more than Oglops, was the idea of taking care of a brother. – Yeah, that's right. No way, Fratley! I'm bad at parenting. I can't even take care of my rag dolls.
— Don't push yourself too much. You are only five years old. You are bad at everything. – It's risky to poke fun at Heather, but since I'm in a good mood, why not?
— You grow more warts than a frog does when I insult you, but when it's your turn to insult me...
— Thanks for being benevolent. – I guess.
— You're lucky, dad. I wasted all my energy on that Arc crybaby.
— About what happened today, darling... – These streets are cold, so does my stare. – I'd like to talk about your boorish manners.
— What? He called me elephant feet. I had to do something, dad. – As we walk home, Heather talks to me, giving her moral justifications.
— Yeah, but that doesn't mean you should have kicked him. That hurted. – Saying this, it's like I'm on the side of the boy. Arc, wasn't it? So many boys that got kicked by Heather, on same place. I'll have to teach the little rascal.
— And what about me, dad? It hurts everytime they say I'm... ugly.
— Ugly? Come on, Heather. You aren't ugly. You're pretty like a butterfly.
— You're speaking as a father! Doesn't count.
— I'm glad to be your father. I really am. – Then I stop, kneeling until I get to stay on her same height.
— Uh huh. If you were, why haven't you done anything? And why do I have to wear this cloak? I know it's cozy, but.. I feel that not showing my face, but my feet, doesn't do good.
— So... why don't you take it? – Somehow, I feel it's my fault she's that way. Only me to take care of her, nobody else.
— It ain't easy, father. I... I feel that, if I do, the people... they will notice me more than ever.
— And what's wrong with being noticed? Your hair...
— Don't touch my hair! – Ouch! Heather slapped me. I don't think that's a sign of affection. Come on, Heather is a rat, not a cat who bites. – Nobody touches my hair and no one can see it.
— Why not? You are so... so... – I'm out of words. I have never been fond of red hair in my life. Why don't you say she's pretty? Adorable, cute, anything...
— Hideous?
— No. Of course not. – Say anything, Fratley. To make her feel better, is that so hard? – darling, you are beautiful. Do not let people judge you by the flaws.
— You say as if it's easy. As if you were not judging me too! – Certainly, I could not avoid looking at Heather like others do. But I am her father. Even if I do not have the obligation to take care of someone else's child, they do not deserve to be alone in this mad world.
— Heather..
— Hnng. – She turned her back to me. And grunted.
— Listen to me, Heather.
— Hnng! – She grunted again. Should I be concerned by such ungrateful monosyllables?
— That's so silly... Heather, please.
— Hnng! – Another grunt, followed by an un-sylphlike bump! on the cobblestone floor that rattled the sidewalk. I'm used to water being splashed around me, this is Burmecia after all.
— Won't you listen to me, Heather Crescent?
— ...Hnng. – I can't translate that grunt I've been hearing over the years. I swear, Heather's first word was a grunt. Maybe not, I'm just joking. No time for jokes, Fratley Irontail.
— Look, Heather... I admit that, sometimes, I look at you and I see...
— My feet? – Gosh... I hate that kind of attitude, but who is to blame? Heather notices the disturbing ripples beneath her clumsy, weary feet.
— No. – I didn't knew what to say next, so I just said whatever came to mind. Sometimes, the heart knows what the mind does not. – You are a healthy girl, that's what matters. A healthy girl, who wants to make friends, have fun with them, be happy and... a special girl.
— Please, do not call me special. It's what they say when to noseless babies and old crooks who wet themselves. It's a good way of saying 'you are sick, anormal, but still adorable'. Oh, come on! I don't deserve this kind of appreciation.
— Heather... you are so special in many ways. And, as your father, I want your best. – The child looks at me with weepings eyes that ask if I am absent-minded. I knew the feeling of being a nobody no matter the skills, and to be noticed by the flaws. – Nevermind the bollocks, let them call you as they want to, it does not matter.
— Shame. That's what I am. Such a shame. – Despite my efforts at comforting my troublesome daughter, the pain never goes away. – It begins with 'oh, what a lovely girl! I heard about what happened to her mother... such a shame' and it doesn't end. 'Pleased to meet you, Heather! Oh, hey, your feet look like pretzels. Such a shame' and it doesn't stop! 'You are the daughter of Crescent, aren't ya? Such a shame'. They are in the right of being afraid of me, so why lure them with my last remaining bit of 'beauty'? They don't deserve to see who I'm not, but who I really am! A SHAME!
— ... – I have no idea of what to say next, or even what to do. I'm afraid if anything I have to say sounds negative or not as optimistic as it might be to my dear. Whatever, it does not even feel like I'm speaking with the mouth. – I'm not afraid of you like the others, Heather. Know why? Only because they do not know who you really are, but what they think you are. You are not a monster that eats children and hides in the woods. You are my daughter, Freya's daughter. That's true. Nothing they say, and how they say, will ever change it.
— ... – Heather said nothing. Not even a grunt. In silence, She turned at me, with a pale and downtrodden expression in face. I see through the hood's darkness, in a way – Dad... Sometimes, I wish I was dead. Like, to be born was a terrible mistake. It would be a lot easy for you, me and everyone if I was never born.
— Don't say these things, sweet. How many times have I told you the day you were born was one of the best days of my life? – I holded the poor girl's hand, to not let her go. She sneezes after crying a waterfall of tears. – Let's go home. We'll have pancakes. With honey, as you like.
— Pancakes!? – Suddenly, her eyes were filled with joy and light. – You better not be kidding me!
— Me? Nah. You'd go ninja on me. I can't take that kind of hurt. – That slap from before already left a mark on my cheek...
— Heh... I can't believe you are such a wimp, Fratley! – Heather tries to be such a hard-ass when she isn't deluged by insecure thoughts. I could say she is, indeed, my daughter. Yes, I could. – Hey! You heard me? There are times I wonder if you are really my father or not. You know... mom ain't here to tell.
The best day of your life, Fratley? The day your darling Freya, beloved of millions, died giving birth. Not my fault, or Heather's, or anyone's, but it feels like... damn. It comes to this, again. Terrible things happen, but why? Terrible as it is... You beat me to it, Freya. Until the end, you've followed your ideals, your duty and honor... The miracle of life, which cost yours. When I look at Heather, outside moments like these, I can't imagine... you've seen her for a minute, didn't live to see her hair grow, her eyes open up, her walk, speak, be mean with others... nothing.
— ...Fratley? Are you okay? — A wave of tiny claws before the eyes. – Hey, are you there?
— I'm okay, Heather. – I should be glad to be alive, that's what matters. – I'm okay. Let's go home.
...If I could be who you wanted...
...If I could be who you wanted...
...All the time...
...