《Senseless Noise》


 The party

    Now that I¡¯m calm, I have decided to tell you the full details of my situation, which are,


    frustratingly, both mundane and unreal. Though it¡¯s been years, time¡ªmy time¡ªhas passed


    breathlessly fast.


    It¡¯s now clear to me that I was wrong in thinking that I had anything figured out, that I


    could figure anything out with just a few pieces, that I could think my way out of this nightmare


    while I was so deeply invested in it. I paid for that mistake with more lost time and still-tender


    mental wounds. I pay for it by living in the dreadful shadow cast by the thought of what I could


    have been.


    I¡¯m not sure how much you know; sometimes I think that you know more than I do, but


    then I second guess you, wonder if you¡¯re simply too vague and confusing to be seen as an


    authority. At times I even fear you, as I would anything so deeply mysterious and unnatural.


    Though, for a few brief moments I found your presence comforting.


    So, I either hope that, in reflecting on this period of my life (no matter how much it still


    pains me), something will begin to make sense; or that you¡ªwhatever you are¡ªwill then be in


    the position to offer more clarity (which would be quite the change of pace).


    It seems to have begun at that party.


    ¡°Oh Kate, honey,¡± my mother said, arresting me in the short walk between my bathroom and


    bedroom. ¡°You know I would never try to make you join me in any of these little gatherings, right?


    But would you please come tonight, just this once?¡± She had clearly gathered up a lot of nerve for


    this request.


    ¡°What¡¯s so different about this time, then?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯ll be growing up and leaving soon¡ªwhich I¡¯ve mostly accepted¡ªbut in all the


    times I¡¯ve had a chance to show you off to my friends (now that you¡¯re not a kid anymore,


    anyways), you¡¯ve hidden away.¡± There was a moment of silence, peppered lightly by the hum of


    the air conditioner. ¡°I don¡¯t want to make assumptions, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t,¡± I said, loudly and precisely, not wanting to chance either word going


    unheard. I followed up with a gentle ¡°please,¡± hoping to lighten the effect of my harshness. Her


    silence and dejected look betrayed to me my failure.


    After another moment during which the humming air conditioner had the floor, I spoke


    again. ¡°Well, alright. I¡¯ll come if it¡¯ll make you happy.¡±


    ¡°Yes! Yes! Don¡¯t you worry honey, my dearest, sweetest little drop of golden sunshine, I


    just know they¡¯ll love you!¡± she shouted in glee. I was happy that she was happy, yet I had to


    escape before she got carried away: before she made any more predictions on how I would be


    received and reviewed by her friends. As I went to close my door, I wondered, why should I care


    whether they love me or hate me, anyways?


    Rummaging through my not-so-extensive selection of dresses (all hand sewn in a state of


    inspiration drawn from a guide book that, like all others I could find, focused exclusively on


    dresses, but was nevertheless beautifully illustrated), I grabbed the one with the least bold colors.


    Alright, so maybe I cared if they loved me, a little bit. Well, it¡¯s not that I wanted their love exactly;


    it was just that, in my experience up to that point, the more I was as they expected me, the smoother


    everything went. I was simply preempting possible social speedbumps that could make the evening


    more of a chore.


    Despite all of the ravings about humans being social animals, no one would dare have


    called me social with a straight face. By my second year in high school, I had taken full advantage


    of the newly introduced option to take any class online. (I very well could have been the poster


    child for why such a thing should not be offered.) It wasn¡¯t that I didn¡¯t get along with other


    students; we actually got along fine during the few classes I had to attend in those nondescript


    buildings, which I considered only a tier less depressingly drab than a hospital. I had simply grown


    somewhat indifferent to them. Not the scary, lack-of-empathy indifference, though; I just never


    became invested in the culture. The dramatic fluctuations between accepted and outcast, the


    exciting moments of underdeveloped fist fights and verbal brawls, the pervasive paranoia of


    gossip¡ªit all began to fade into a disinteresting background. Not that I felt myself above it or


    more mature by any means¡ªthe passion of high school drama has actually been alluring at


    times¡ªit just wasn¡¯t for me.


    Early on, my room became my world. I know it was held by rigid walls, but in my mind it


    remains boundless. With every new hobby it seemed to expand. The progression never got old:


    each new activity would begin with an endearing, clumsy ignorance, like searching through a


    murky lake; then suddenly I would stumble upon a little nodule, beaming golden light, which


    elucidates just a small bit of my surroundings. Whether it be the first note of an instrument, a new


    mixture of paints, or the first comprehendible paragraph in a book about an esoteric subject¡ªthis


    is the point when my room would lose all borders. I would become so impassioned that I seemed


    to lose those nagging feelings unique to humans: that time was passing, that I am an animal directed


    by neurochemicals, et cetera.


    I grew quite fond of the idea¡ªprobably a fantasy¡ªthat I had grown formless in that room.


    My identity essentially became wrapped around the idea that I had very little stable identity, the


    idea that I could not be pinned down to simply being a student, nor a musician, nor a painter


    (though painting was my chief interest when all others failed). Whereas some may have seen my


    constantly shifting focus as a restless inability to feel fulfilled, I felt fulfillment in the flux; I felt a


    great deal of control each time that I side-stepped the sort of consistency that others seemed to


    value. Ironically, now all I long for is the warm comfort of consistency. Or to at least get back to


    my room, if I still have one.


    Once in my dress, I looked down at it and tried to see it as my mother¡¯s friends might.


    Seeing the sloppily-stitched-on blossoming rosebuds popping out of a fine entanglement of dark


    green stem-like threads, I felt as though I had failed to prepare for the battery of impressions that


    were to follow. Yet, looking up and into the reflective moving painting ahead, in which I was


    situated surrounded by walls that were splattered with paints of blue and pink, like a cotton candy


    machine gone haywire, my dress seemed relatively subtle.


    Right before I left my room, I became lightly transfixed on a long-ignored framed


    photograph. Within the frame, which was blue like a clear day¡¯s sky, stood my mother and I. There


    was a humorous contrast between her soft, kind eyes, smoothed down hair, and earnestly plain


    smile; and my eyes, spread wide in an ironic rejection of being made to pose, erratically unkempt


    hair, and shaky smile, which was straining from underuse. I appreciated her, though we were not


    exactly close; we had been when I was younger, before I discovered the wonders of being alone


    in my room.


    Of course, where there is a family photograph of two, no matter how full or empty the


    situation on the ground is, some make the assumption that there is an absence or purposeful


    omission (in the current year and country I live in, anyways). I suppose, to complete the picture, I


    should mention that I do have another parent¡ªa father¡ªthough I don¡¯t see him much anymore.


    From before my parents¡¯ separation, I have little memory. After the divorce, when I used to see


    him on weekends and all that, I can only remember bits and pieces. He had a lot of opinions, as


    most self-help style speakers do. People paid thousands to hear how he felt they needed to


    improve themselves, or how society needed to stop its stray from whatever he felt was essential


    and proven by time. I¡¯m unsure of why he began seeing me less, though I imagine my increasing


    time spent in my room, not to mention our shared lack of pliability, made his eventual move not


    all that difficult. I don¡¯t have any hard feelings over it though, unlike a lot of children of divorce.


    Outside, before getting in the car, I took a look at the sky. The clouds likely were sure of


    themselves just an hour ago, I thought, when they stood proud in an expanse of blue; yet now they


    have been swallowed by the unforgiving darkness of dusk, their inner details easily mistakable for


    borders. If they covered the entire sky or just a small patch, it hardly made a difference. The


    singular force of the night, the moon that is, was nowhere to be seen. I was unsure of whether it


    had become obscured or if it had never been visible in the first place. It could very well have not


    existed at all that night.


    On the ride over, there were more nonverbal reassurances given than words were spoken¡ª


    at least on my end. ¡°You haven¡¯t seen Janine and Steve since you were little, have you?¡± ¡°Darcy


    will love your dress, she loves those sorts of dresses.¡± In between these brief dead-end


    conversations, she would look over, smile wide, and beg with her eyes for confirmation of


    something unknown; I would meet her gaze with forced smiles, which deteriorated in quality as


    time went on. I¡¯m sure her last plea was met solely by my pupil sauntering lazily to the corner of


    my eye, but that didn¡¯t matter. As we arrived, her excitement revved up once more.


    The front door opened, and I was alone on a stage, several spotlights searching my every


    inch for reasons to applaud or boo (or so it felt, those first few minutes). We were greeted one-by-one by several women I¡¯d never seen before, whom I would be spending the night dancing around


    (or for). Each stood expectantly, anticipating their part in the ritual, concealing their unnatural


    postures with manufactured warmth. When it was her turn, she must offer up some new meat for


    the others to pounce on. ¡°Oh my god! Isn¡¯t she so mature?¡± Their impressions of me would then


    ping-pong around the cramped post-front-door-pre-living-room area: ¡°So mature! And so


    beautiful!¡± ¡°She¡¯s delightful! She¡¯s like a little version of you,¡± one said to my mother nauseatingly


    through straightened teeth. I stopped listening after that one.


    The living room was cozy enough, but a bit drab: the colors of the walls were vague and


    creamy, and the accents would have been baseline in a more inspired home. The style would best


    be described as, in my expert opinion, old. This wasn¡¯t your everyday, incidental sort of Old that


    comes to possess a home by extension of the inhabitants being old and having bought their things


    a long time ago, before they were old. No, this living room proudly displayed its datedness: more


    grandfather clocks than any nuclear family can logically have grandfathers, furniture that


    predates the term retro, and so much wood¡ªframing those creamy walls and making up the


    floor and chairs and shelves¡ªthat I can imagine the owners wished they lived in a time before


    concrete was invented. This wasn¡¯t just an appreciation for Old¡ªthis was reverence. My dress


    unfortunately lost all subtlety in this context.


    Everyone there was in their forties, like my mom. When I was younger, I remember kids


    of all ages saying how they hated these sorts of parties, where they¡¯d be made to hang out with


    parents. I didn¡¯t really see a difference in being around younger or older people. From my point


    of view, whatever annoying shortcomings groups of older people had were present in younger


    groups too, just dressed in different clothes.


    The stock conversation that most of the adults greeted me with for the first portion of the


    night was roughly, ¡°Oh my goodness gracious, you started one age, but now you¡¯re another!


    How special! How is high school?¡± Except, before I could respond, they would¡ªmore often


    than you might have believed¡ªlaunch in about their own high school experience. ¡°Oh, high


    school is just so special. When I was in high school, I had such a group of friends. We would get


    into so much trouble!¡± I began to suspect that these were not fully their memories, but an


    amalgamation of several coming-of-age stories more sloppily stitched together than my dress.


    Eventually, once this introduction sequence was run through, I would unlock a personalized


    question, usually related to my appearance or whether I remember something from when I was


    about eight months old. I was able to maintain a convincing smile during the first few of these


    interactions, but eventually my face began twitching, and I abandoned smiles unless they were


    accompanied by the rare laugh.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Appetizers were served, and their gravity tightened the unorganized mass of twelve or so


    into something nearly choreographed. My range tightened too. I was relieved to be done


    bouncing between introductions. Most found themselves seated on the couches, which


    surrounded three-fourths of the coffee table. On the table laid a green dip and squares of flakey


    shell baked around brie cheese.


    I wanted one of the brie shells, yet traps came and went in the conversation. ¡°Garbage! I


    turn on the radio and exclusively hear trash,¡± said one man¡ªof the oldest, with his silver hair


    shining proud. He then turned to the youngest woman, who was caught vulnerable while leaning


    forward for some dip. ¡°Even you must agree, right? It¡¯s mind numbing!¡± The creaking of wood


    was louder than her half-hearted response. I was almost her, I thought, having to decide between


    placid agreements or representing all younger generations in this particular cultural battle. I¡¯m


    surprised my life didn¡¯t flash before my eyes.


    Once that man and another left to refresh their wine glasses, I made my move. With


    unprecedented grace, I swooped in for two brie shells (a concession between wanting to stock up


    and not wanting to call attention to myself). Then, the unexpected struck me.


    ¡°How are you liking them?¡± a voice sung, rising into the question mark as I bent myself


    up from the coffee table. I swung around, blurring all the half-bored faces which waited for new


    action. I felt as though they must have been watching us, but did not look to confirm.


    I met the smiling face of the hostess. Thank god it¡¯s you, I thought. Her thin, angular face


    was comforting, with its deep wrinkles that seemingly appeared before they were due. I had not


    seen her earlier, as she was hard at work in the kitchen. She looked into me as if she knew what


    trials I faced getting to where I was now, at the appetizer covered coffee table.


    I popped one in my mouth, gave it a chew, and followed up with an ¡°oh,¡± as if I had just


    been overwhelmed in receiving some divine jewel from the gods. I played my enthusiasm up for


    her; I felt she deserved it (for more than simply making a delicious appetizer).


    Once pleasantries were truly tapped out, I was only included when my relatively unique


    perspective was wanted, or when one of them wanted to express their less-than-unique perspective


    at me. That¡¯s where the trouble began.


    From across the room, one of the men told some dirty joke, then proceeded to laugh like it


    was the funniest thought that had crossed his mind in weeks. Admittedly, it was pretty funny, but


    I stifled my smile for fear of appearing to approve of it. I must have done a much too effective


    poker face, because one of the older women sitting across from me removed her disappointed-but-not-surprised expression from the man and aimed it at me.


    ¡°Typical men, they can¡¯t stand being civilized for one short night. Are boys like this in


    your school, too?¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure of what exactly she was getting at, having not spent much time around boys


    at my school. ¡°Everyone is like that in my school¡± I said. From my perspective, this was true: on


    days that I showed up, I heard plenty of dirty jokes enjoyed by my classmates, regardless of


    demographic.


    ¡°Well that makes sense, since you¡¯re so young¡­¡± she said, seemingly searching for


    something on the back of my head despite speaking to the front. ¡°Maybe some girls, before their


    brains have fully developed, might laugh at those jokes due to pure shock value. But eventually¡ª


    when you¡¯ve been around that tired, old, vulgar block as many times as I have¡ªthe shock and the


    charms that accompany it fade into an ugly color. Girls your age can be forgiven for their lack of


    experience, can¡¯t they?¡±


    I tried to process what she was getting at for a moment. What exactly was she saying I


    should forgive girls at my school for? For laughing? Before I could make sense of it, she must


    have picked up on my confusion.


    ¡°Yet it seems like men never grow out of it, does it not?¡± she said as if she were taking my


    hand and leading me somewhere.


    I gave her a smile and a nod, then turned away. I hoped that that would be enough to satisfy


    her. The way she spoke made me feel odd: a slight nausea or unrest bubbled in me; in the moment


    I couldn¡¯t quite place what it was. It felt as though she was trying to aim me while I resisted,


    twisting her brow while searching for a way to get me to assent. It was as if she weren¡¯t speaking


    to a person, to me, but struggling with an object that wasn¡¯t complying. What did my agreeing to


    her stance on this silly issue matter to her?


    I could still see, from the corner of my eye, that her body was practically facing me. Maybe


    she¡¯s already had a few drinks, I hoped; maybe her body is just a bit heavy; maybe she won¡¯t keep


    trying¡­ I should have known that she would.


    ¡°Well, keep in mind, just so that you don¡¯t make the same mistakes I did¡ªwhich is of


    course why I¡¯m even bothering you with talk of these kind of jokes, which should generally be


    ignored instead: so that I can give you the benefit of my experience. Just keep me in mind when


    you¡¯re a little older and start looking for a husband¡ª¡±but before she was finished, I blinked.*


    When I opened my eyes, a man was staring at me, quite expectantly.


    ¡°I, I¡¯m sorry, could you repeat what you said?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Oh, well I was just asking about what you¡¯ll do when you graduate. Do you have any big


    plans? Or are you more a ¡®go with the flow¡¯ kind of person?¡± he asked with a friendly smile.


    Before I could think of my answer, the woman sitting close to his left, who may be his wife


    and who may have been only half listening, decided to weigh in. ¡°Go with the flow? I¡¯m sure Mary


    won¡¯t appreciate us filling her head with dreams, Dave,¡± she said with a sharp, resolute tone.


    The silver-haired man who hates modern music chimed in from several chairs away, ¡°A


    head full of dreams means a wallet full of dust.¡± He turned away from us again as if he had been


    activated strictly to say that line and nothing more. The woman nodded with conviction before he


    had even finished saying what he said.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure she already has plenty of dreams, hon¡¯. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± Dave said.


    I forced a smile of approval at him. Unlike most, I was glad to give it to him. I only needed


    to force it because I was still feeling a bit confused as to my situation. Had we already eaten? I


    was feeling a bit full and sitting at a dinner table. I should get away from here, I thought, maybe


    regroup in the bathroom. The woman then began leaning over the table towards me, about to


    continue.


    ¡°Excuse me.¡± As I said this, her opening mouth snapped shut. ¡°I just need to use the


    restroom.¡± Getting up, a beige cloth napkin fell from my lap. I motioned for a split second to lean


    down and grab it, but confusion propelled me awkwardly forward. I quickly passed the grandfather


    clocks that stood guarding the hallway entrance. In my peripheral vision, painted porcelain blurred


    into a line, as if they became lanes on a road pathed with a dizzying damask.


    After what felt like several turns, I halted at a dead-end. I was surrounded on three-sides


    by closed doors, unsure of which was the bathroom. I indecisively turned back and forth a couple


    of times, until I felt hands grasp at the flesh of my arms. They turned me around, and my likely


    bewildered face met the woman from whom I had just escaped.


    I was trapped, enveloped by closed doors and her eager arms. Why do I feel so small? I


    wondered; she can¡¯t be that tall¡­ It felt as though she took up most of the hallway.


    She gave a fresh squeeze and brought me in closer. I could smell the white wine on her


    breath as she spoke. ¡°Oh, are you not sure which door to choose? Well, I¡¯m glad I found you here!


    Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll show you just where you need to go.¡± She turned me to my right, and as I faced


    that door she leaned in and began speaking into my ear. ¡°Oh, by the way, about what my husband


    was saying¡­ Well, you really shouldn¡¯t listen to him. He¡¯s sweet, but, as I¡¯m sure you know, no


    one ever made any money going with the flow¡ªcertainly not him, at least. Of course you¡¯ll head


    off to college so you can make a good life for yourself, for your lovely mother¡¯s sake at least.¡±


    I spaced out again, her last words ringing in my dizzy, mildly aching head. It was as if


    someone was pumping helium into my skull, increasing the pressure and making it feel floaty and


    partially detached from my body. I must be getting tired, I reasoned to myself. My eyes were


    unfocused, my brain was foggy; it made perfect sense.


    This time, I came two within the gaze of the younger woman whom was accosted about


    music at the appetizer table earlier. Her eyes were focused on me, but in an innocent, inquisitive


    sort of way. Around the living room, the herd had thinned: there were half as many people, all


    scattered, and the only ones talking were my mother and the host. It was then I realized that I had


    no recollection of being with my mother the entire night. But we must have at least sat together at


    dinner¡­ Then a new thought struck me: Could someone have put that drug in my drink, the one


    that makes you black out? But that didn¡¯t make sense¡ªI didn¡¯t even have anything to drink in the


    first place!


    I became a bit more at ease upon remembering that I was no longer near that stressful


    woman who grabbed me in the hall. I relaxed for a moment, leaning back just an inch before


    realizing that this younger woman seemed to be awaiting a response. This realization must have


    shown on my face.


    ¡°No, you don¡¯t even have to answer. I would feel a bit out of place here if I were you.


    Don¡¯t worry, no offense taken!¡± She deepened her smile and crooked her head a bit. ¡°I walked by


    the boys¡¯ rooms a little bit ago. I wish they were here! Don¡¯t you?¡± She asked.


    ¡°Oh, oh, of course,¡± I said. I don¡¯t think I had ever met these boys, or was even aware of


    their existence. She must have assumed I¡¯ve been to one of these little get-togethers before. I must


    have really been nailing looking like I belonged.


    ¡°I kind of wish their mother left their room preserved. I always got a kick of how messy


    they are,¡± she said.


    After a moment, likely spurred on by boredom and wine, she continued, despite my lack


    of affect or response.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure when you head off to, wherever, your mom won¡¯t disturb your room. She is too


    fond of you for that.¡± She paused a moment, then began again as if to correct herself. ¡°Though,


    she probably wouldn¡¯t have to do anything to it, anyway.¡±


    This roused me a bit. There was something hanging in her words, something left unsaid. I


    was too worn out to resist my own impulses, unfortunately, so I entered the conversation.


    ¡°What, has my mom talked to you about my room?¡± I looked over at my mom, who was


    still talking to her friend. I may have looked a bit suspicious.


    ¡°No, no, she would never complain about you! I was just thinking that it probably doesn¡¯t


    need much cleaning. I¡¯ve got a daughter, you know,¡± she said.


    ¡°I can barely walk through my room, though. What does your daughter have to do with


    it?¡± I asked, genuinely curious, though slightly indignant.


    ¡°Oh really, you are slobbish? That¡¯s surprising! Aren¡¯t guys usually the messy ones? Don¡¯t


    be modest; I¡¯m sure you aren¡¯t that bad.¡±


    Like a switch was flipped, the color drained entirely out of the scene in front of me. That


    woman was still there, frozen for a moment while everything was still clear. She was mostly a


    vibrant white, like that of a photonegative shining eerily. Other prominent objects once in my


    vision, such as my mother and her friend, the sharp edges of close furniture, were also bone white,


    though their vibrancies varied with distance. All else was a deep black which let little light escape.


    Sharp edges were soon lost: they began to disperse, becoming fuzzy like high gain sine waves are


    when viewed on a spectrometer. After this moment, the brighter and darker whites became


    intermingled, mangling the forms of objects and of people at whim, making the scene lose the


    appearance of even being three-dimensional. Sometimes they swirled, combining to make grays


    as ominous as wrathful thunderclouds seeking violence in the distant sky; other times they rushed


    forward or shifted lazily around, as if they were objects lying in the bed of a moving vehicle. The


    result became akin to static¡ªsenseless noise: meaningless, eye-straining, indecipherable


    nothingness.


    Her words hung in the air for the same moment that her form lasted, before becoming


    elongated and unrecognizable, soon joining a chorus of sounds. Each piece of this harsh chorus


    seemed to be a fragment of what was said but in different pitches, speeds, and clarities. The


    ensemble of syllables, twisted beyond comprehension, seemingly folded over itself again and


    again, compressing into an unimaginable density; the result was simply an ear-bleeding roar. That


    interwoven cacophony of sounds inconceivably loud and layered never quite ceased, but it did at


    times become a dull rumble before rushing forward in full intensity, like ocean waves.


    It was what I would imagine it would be like if, while watching a movie, it suddenly


    became a black and white still-image. While you are caught off guard by this, the projectionist


    loops a few frames of the scene, and then starts hacking at the spinning film with a razor blade, or


    maybe sets fire to small sections. The loops progress slowly forward as they become progressively


    unrecognizable. All the while, the sound technician decides to have a bit of fun too and turns the


    gain up to inconceivable volumes, causing mounting distortion. He then exacerbates the issue by


    jamming a sharp metal rod into the speaker cones. Or so I sometimes like to imagine it, to make it


    seem more familiar, like it could really belong to the reality that I knew.


    At the onset, I felt an emotional jolt of surprise. This became quickly buried as my brain


    stretched as wide as the horizon to understand what it was experiencing. Yet neither the visuals


    nor the sounds relented enough to allow for any coherence. For a little, it was almost intoxicating;


    there was never a dull moment, yet as it or my brain reached a plateau I felt little to nothing.


    As I became used to the light show and noise ensemble, I noticed that my body felt as it


    does when I am on the verge of falling asleep: floaty, numb¡ªas if it were not connected to my


    brain. My benumbed body did not feel like itself, and all I could understand of those numb tingles


    was a vague direction: up or down, superficial or deep within me.


    All perceptions quickly lost context, and by extension significance, in my mind. Sounds


    entered occasionally, though I hardly noticed them in my hypnotic daze. Even if I did notice them,


    they only held clarity for a moment before being subsumed into the nightmarish rage of sounds


    past.


    Within this state, or dimension (I will call it a state of being rather than me being


    somewhere else), there was no time¡ªat least not as far as I was concerned. But in the resulting


    visual madness I occasionally could parse a human shape, or maybe my own hand. This was my


    first clue that life, my life, went on without me. I got my second clue when I came two.

 College/Remembrance

    ¡°What the hell does that even mean?¡± I growled. A woman¡¯s voice was echoing in my head, though


    I couldn¡¯t remember her words at the time, only the vague image of a messy room. I looked around,


    taking stock of where I was. This room was brightly lit, with laminated posters shining on the


    walls. The only one I remember is a picture of a plant growing out of a crack in the sidewalk, with


    the word ¡°Persevere¡± written in bold text below it. Across the expanse of cheap wooden desk sat


    a woman who was older than I was, but still fairly young. She looked at me with concern and


    crossed her arms, as one does when they encounter a tough problem.


    ¡°It just means that I, we have to check in to see if first year students are happy, with their


    majors¡­¡± she said, trailing off as if she might have more to say.


    ¡°First year student? I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. I¡¯m a senior.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she shuffled some papers around. ¡°Did I call the wrong person? Katelyn Smith? I


    did call for a Katelyn Smith, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    I was confused. I quickly began to put the pieces together: first year, major, office full of


    cheesy posters. I was not at my high school, but at a college; not only was I at a college, but I was,


    somehow, in college, enrolled in it. Unless there had been a mistake. There must have been a


    mistake. I needed to get out of there to process what was going on.


    ¡°Right, my major; yes, it¡¯s fine. No troubles here, just getting used to, to being in college


    at the moment.¡± As these words left my mouth, I impulsively shot up out of my seat.


    As I headed towards the door, she shakily blurted out, ¡°Sorry, there¡¯s just a few more things


    we¡ª¡±


    ¡°Right, um, please just put me down as whatever you need. Whatever is easiest for you.¡±


    Before she could respond, I was out the door. There were bored looking students in the lobby for


    a moment, then a flight of stairs, then a pair of easily persuaded swinging doors.


    My head was swimming. My thoughts became a pool, mixing and precipitating into


    nothing satisfying or useful. I plunged my arms in, elbows deep, trying to grab hold of something.


    How could I be in college? I had nearly a year before graduation. I grabbed handfuls of


    information, but everything quickly slipped out of my grasp (as liquids do) and fell back into the


    pool. I haven¡¯t finished high school! I wasn¡¯t even set on going to college! I¡¯ve never been set on


    anything! I began plunging into the pool and grasping more rapidly. This only made the waters


    more chaotic¡ªfrothy and unreadable, my thoughts sat in the wake. I just want to go home, I


    thought; I need to be alone in my room.


    ¡°Where do I even go¡­?¡± I spoke and heard echoed back at me. I was in the middle of an


    empty, circular courtyard. I was the first germ in that expansive petri dish, implanted there against


    my will, far away from my colony.


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ªI just don¡¯t want to be here.¡± This time, no echo. My words were quickly


    swallowed by hundreds of students (or so it felt) coming from the infinite corners of that circle. I


    began to panic. I needed to leave before I became part of that rapidly growing culture. I reached


    into the outer portion of my backpack, as if I¡¯d done it dozens of times. My hand quickly landed


    on a keychain, which read College View Apartments. Attached was a key which said H22. I typed


    the apartment in my phone¡¯s map just before I was overwhelmed by students, then started walking.


    I was relieved to have gotten away from the crowd; this part of campus was nearly empty.I had a short chance on my walk to evaluate my new surroundings, where I assumed I must now


    live. I thought: my home town blooms with fuzzily branched oak trees shaking their hands above


    all walkways; above the walkways of this campus juts more walkways of glistening metal, which


    adjoin off-white, monotonous concrete classrooms. This view was disheartening, and made me


    long for my colorful room all the more.


    I approached the building, which was one of many groupings of apartments in a seemingly


    mid-grade, made-for-college complex. It was an uninspired, washed out pastel yellow. The


    management may have been aiming for a south-of-the-border sort of look, though they came up


    incredibly short. I placed the key in the door and turned the knob with trepidation. Why did I feel


    like I was committing a crime? Oh, right¡­ Because for all I knew maybe I was committing a


    crime.


    I opened the door to a living room which was furnished with couches on the right, placed


    in a semi-circle in front of an entertainment center, likely designed to promote interaction between


    roommates. I quickly scurried past these and met an unkempt, cramped kitchen, adorned with the


    usual piling dishes and unsatisfyingly small countertops seen in more honest depictions of college.


    The surface of the white counters was painted in places with lovely yellows and reds¡ªcondiment


    stains or not, these were the only colors to catch the eye in that otherwise cookie-cutter apartment.


    I still didn¡¯t know where my room would be, or if I even had one, but since the cramped


    kitchen funneled unmistakably into an even more claustrophobic hallway, I trudged deeper into


    the depths. To the right, at the end of the first short hall, there was a closed door.


    I grew nervous suddenly. I hadn¡¯t considered how the different combinations of door


    statuses (open or closed, to the power of how many doors there are, or is it the other way around?)


    would leave me vulnerable in new, exciting ways. What if they¡¯re all closed, do I try them or just


    leave? Where would I go if I left? Which would I try first? I decided to wave these minute fears


    away for the time being.


    But just as I set these anxieties to simmer, new ones boiled over. Upon turning myself to


    the left at the dead end of this first section of hall, I caught the glimmer of a mirror. This sent me


    down a new spiral which I hadn¡¯t expected. (Relative to all else that Life has seen fit to throw at


    me, it¡¯s quite funny to me now how much distress a sideways glance at a mirror can bring.)


    A thought rang out without my permission: I don¡¯t even know what I look like, do I?


    Another thought met its challenge in a surprisingly snarky tone: How much different could you


    even look? Then, from seemingly the same place as the first questioning thought came another in


    meagre reassurance: Right, right, I¡¯m still me¡­ Yet inwardly that voice dropped out and spiraled


    down a hole of self-doubt, in a way which couldn¡¯t even find an internal voice. Yet a new voice


    felt the need to narrate some of this spiral, I suppose for posterity¡¯s sake, or to toy with me.


    ¡°It must be at least two years since you remember seeing yourself,¡± it said.


    ¡°I know that,¡± said another voice.


    ¡°You picked a college. You weren¡¯t even set on going to college. You don¡¯t even know


    what major you chose. You haven¡¯t the slightest clue what it could be. If all that changed, what


    hope can you have for your looks? Is that even worthy of concern? Are you even worthy of


    concern?¡± These thoughts picked and picked at fears which didn¡¯t need to be articulated. I needed


    to end this and move on.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± I spoke aloud, clearly so lost that I was not concerned with any


    inhabitants of this apartment hearing me. I suddenly turned the corner towards the mirror and


    started walking, expecting the worst. Yet I did not see myself. The mirror ahead of me was


    positioned at a forty-five degree angle, which reflected the main walk of the hall, likely to ensure


    that no one runs into each other when turning corners. I shuffled down the hall, passing a second


    closed door, and happened upon a final door which was cracked open slightly.


    I entered, bracing myself to find a stranger in it, or worse: for all my things to be in it,


    which would confirm that this was all real, that this was my life now. The room was neat, creepily


    neat¡ªfar too perfect for me. I¡¯ve always resisted organization and generally insisted on keeping


    important things in piles (which were quite dynamic, as the most necessary elements stayed near


    the top, and those with little use withered beneath in crushed obscurity). Yet, to my


    disappointment, there was the picture of me and my mother on the desk.


    Another aspect of my room, if it could even have been considered that, that weighed on me


    was its stark white walls. They were undecorated, and I found no posters in my sparse belongings.


    There was nothing beautiful to take in, and I found this quite draining. I could have gone out and


    bought some decorations, but instead, I hid in that room for days, mostly sleeping. I think my brain


    was exhausted from the overload of sensations I experienced in that state. Even days later, when I


    closed my eyes I could see the dancing afterglow of static. I also had bouts of tinnitus and


    occasional vertigo. Sleep helped when it became too much.


    I didn¡¯t dream much, but when I did, it was always of storm clouds, buzzing and crawling


    with so many sparks that it resembled that purgatory from which I had just escaped. The clouds


    passed with unnatural speed, yet I was always frustrated in them never exposing a spot of sky, not


    even for a moment. What was strange about this dream was that I wasn¡¯t really experiencing it


    from my own first-person viewpoint. Nor was I experiencing it from that odd sort of semiomniscient, third-person viewpoint that your dreaming brain can slip you in and out of. It was like


    I wasn¡¯t really there, like I was that spot of sky anxiously begging to be revealed amidst the storm.


    I wondered if this¡ªbeing inexplicably older and in college¡ªwas also a dream, one that I


    would finally gasp awakened from in my lively, paint-splattered room. Yet I always awoke in that


    dim and pale apartment bedroom. I still hold out hope that I am in fact still dreaming the most


    convoluted and arduous dream ever dreamt.


    I told myself I would leave once I had done some thinking, straightened out what I had


    experienced between the party and now. This was of little use, so I looked briefly online for


    answers instead. Of course, no credible sources seemed to describe what I experienced (my


    experience is admittedly more incredible than credible). Amnesia doesn¡¯t work, because I


    remember something, the unexplainable part: that horrible nightmare. A fugue state doesn¡¯t fit


    either, as I haven¡¯t quite taken on a new identity. My unconscious actions were normal. They


    would be considered the normal things for me to do, and no psychologist or loved one would find


    anything amiss in them.


    Eventually, I decided to face the world. This was a peace offering to what I assumed was


    my new life, or just a new segment of it met unexpectedly soon.


    I¡¯ve always been quite stoical. Though I¡¯ve never read more than what was required of us


    in high school¡ªsegments of this or that Ancient Greek man, born either of squalor or immense


    power¡ªI felt that I intuitively understood the gist: focus on what you can control, which may only


    be your attitude to a given situation. So basically, think your way out of despondency.


    I reasoned: I shouldn¡¯t spend my time just sleeping, which is tempting; and when I¡¯m


    awake, I shouldn¡¯t spend all my time wallowing, which is even more tempting. What could I really


    have missed? The ending of high school, the last summer of nostalgic brightness and sentimental


    goodbyes shown in coming of age stories, those didn¡¯t apply to me: I¡¯m a real person (though


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.some of my details have become far-fetched, I¡¯ll admit). I figured I must make the most of this


    ¡°new beginning¡± and ¡°take life by the reins¡± or some other clich¨¦. I had a chance to make myself


    anew¡ªor not quite anew, since I wanted to be me, just more of me, maybe with a few friends and


    a few actual memories. Of course, memories were the thing most tentative, since I had just lost at


    least a year¡¯s worth. But I wasn¡¯t allowing myself to focus on that.


    So, I headed towards the main campus, intending to get to know this new town.


    I walked past the jungle of concrete pavilions and metal walkways and eventually found


    something much more pleasant. A large lawn, students lying on the grass under a few imported


    banyan trees. They all looked so loose and free (the students, not the banyans; those were kind of


    stuck there). The pair of young women laughing at something on a phone; the group of students


    splayed out in a loose circle, lazily rolling a ball to each other; the three students dressed in mostly


    red, intensely taking turns reading passages aloud. They all seemed so uninhibited, soaking up


    youth or whatever else drives them. The energy felt different than it did in my hometown, and with


    the air each breath brought with it a hopeful feeling.


    I figured that I might as well attend a class, since I must be paying for them. But not one


    of my classes, not yet¡­ I hadn¡¯t fully accepted that I had classes I needed to be dealing with


    (which I guess isn¡¯t too different from many students¡¯ freshman experience).


    I approached the door of a building in what seemed to be the main plaza of campus. Peeking


    in, my suspicions were confirmed in the form of bodies in seats, though no lecturer was up front


    quite yet. I slipped inside and sat down in the second to last row (for fear of attracting attention in


    the way that kids sitting in the back in television shows did). The projector was displaying some


    technical subject that my brain took no interest in committing to memory. After a moment I


    realized that two boys behind me were engaged in a heated argument.


    ¡°Not a word? What do you mean it¡¯s not a word? Did you not understand it?¡± the one in


    my left ear asked in an indignant tone.


    ¡°I looked it up, it¡¯s not in the dictionary¡± said the one to my right. He sounded confident.


    ¡°To me, if you can understand it, it¡¯s a word. I don¡¯t really give a shit whether it¡¯s in the


    dictionary.¡±


    ¡°Well you should.¡±


    The student began a monotonous, low hum. ¡°Oh great Lords Of The Dictionary¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up¡± the one on my right said, elongating ¡°up¡± until it became just a crackle deep in


    his throat.


    ¡°Great lords of the dictionary, hear our prayer,¡± the left boy¡¯s voice was growing more like


    a cartoon preacher with each word. ¡°Please bless this word, so the blessed among us may be


    blessed upon saying it in thine honor, aye-men.¡± I was enjoying this argument; it really added to


    my image of what college is like, in the moment.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just go making up words whenever you want.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°There has to be objectivity in these sorts of things. If you could just make up words


    whenever you wanted, then everything would fall to chaos,¡± said the right.


    ¡°Chaos? Don¡¯t you think that¡¯s maybe, slightly, just a little bit of a ridiculous thing to say?¡±


    asked the left.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t; you just have to follow it to its logical end. Sure, if you make up a word or


    two, that¡¯s okay; but if everyone did it, then no one would get anything done. Everyone would be


    constantly translating each other,¡± said the right.


    ¡°Well, of course if someone is intending to be perfectly understood, then they have to be


    careful with what words they choose. That¡¯s the beauty of it: when you don¡¯t need, or want, to be


    fully understood, you can bend words to your liking.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t want to be understood? Hello? What would be the use in that?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s just more interesting. Like art, you know? Haven¡¯t you ever read a poem?


    To mystify, to transmit meaning at a deeper level than plain definitions can. If words were concrete


    and never changed, then we¡¯d have already run out of every way to say everything. Dictionaries


    can only ever catch up to language, they never innovate¡­ Or maybe¡ª¡±


    ¡°But you still need to be understood¡ª¡±


    ¡°Or maybe,¡± the left one was giggling trying to get it out.


    ¡°No matter how creative you think you are, you still need to be understood.¡±


    ¡°Or, maybe, when I¡¯m arguing with pedantic nerds and I don¡¯t feel like continuing, I can


    just use all my words wrong, and that¡¯ll stump you,¡± he said. I could practically hear the corners


    of his lips crank back to expose his teeth. I smiled a bit too, and maybe his friend noticed, because


    he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and met his eyes, which barreled into me intensely


    beneath his crossed brow.


    ¡°Well, are you hearing this guy?¡± he asked. I looked down, to avert myself from his stare,


    then I looked over to his friend, who sat looking casual (possibly on purpose).


    The one who asked me the question noticed where my eyes went, looked at his friend, then


    threw his hands up and said: ¡°Oh, well I should have known!¡±


    ¡°Known what? What was the word?¡± I asked, unsuspecting and amused, happy to be


    talking to someone.


    ¡°Well if you think the word matters, then you¡¯re probably on my side,¡± said the one now


    on my right. I smiled and looked down.


    ¡°I guess I am. I do like the thought that I can use English in a personal way, even though


    so many other people use it, if that makes sense,¡± I said.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± said the one on my right, more cocky than ever.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± parroted the one on my left, looking up and away from us. ¡°Exactly what I


    thought. I knew before I even asked.¡±


    ¡°Oh come on, don¡¯t be rude,¡± said the one on my right.


    The one on the left turned to him and continued. ¡°You know what I mean!¡± He turned to


    me again. ¡°No offense or anything,¡± now back to his friend, ¡°but I could tell by just looking at her


    that she¡¯d agree with your artsy words don¡¯t mean anything bullshit.¡± He might have gone on, but


    I didn¡¯t hear any more of it.


    The squealing moan and rough clatter of my surroundings melting, or perhaps more accurately


    being ground into a fine, unrecognizable dust, stopped being ear-splitting and settled into the


    background, as it had before. The array of colors in the room bleached and became a strobe of


    phosphorescent white which slices through deep, void-filled black (something different in quality


    from a black that is a void, that seems to hold nothing). The contrast instantly strained my eyes


    and made me a bit nauseous, but these feelings soon passed, as they had before. And, as it had


    before, my body became lifelessly detached from its place in the world.


    Though the first time I had no capacity for it, being too shocked and weakened by the


    bombardment of sensations, this time I was able to do a little thinking. Well, maybe I wasn¡¯t ready


    for full thoughts: these were more recollections. I vaguely wondered if this had happened to me


    before that party. Was there any evidence that I ever lost any time or experienced anything like


    that which now lit up my senses? After a mindless pause, I was confronted with a memory.


    I remembered what was likely the last time I truly played with the other school children.


    We were playing this game in a big circle. I don¡¯t really understand the point of it, but I¡¯m sure at


    the time it made perfect sense to us. There was a large crowd, in a circular sort of proto mosh pit.


    Everyone in the group would chant the first part together, which was an alternating phrase.


    ¡°My mother says¡­¡± then ¡°my father says¡­¡± the children on the periphery would repeat.


    The children diving into the circle completed the phrase with what I assume was whatever


    command they could think of on the spot.


    ¡°My mother says to grow up strong,¡± one would shout, trying to steady their words while


    flying across the circle, only stopping when received by the children on the other side. The rhythm


    of the game (children¡¯s games must have a rhythm) was quarter notes on each word, as if it were


    written in standard time. As most children said six or seven words, creating syllables as necessary


    to fit, there was a rest at the end to allow the next set of brave children to ready their phrases and


    their bodies for the bliss of motion.


    ¡°My father says don¡¯t talk too loud.¡±


    ¡°My mother says please brush your hair.¡±


    I hadn¡¯t thought I wanted to plunge into the middle. I was too timid, too afraid of running


    into somebody, maybe worried about not being able to think of anything to say. Yet the longer I


    was part of the circle, the more the allure grew. So much energy, everyone was building up, then


    letting loose after a long day of straining to remember the twelfth letter of the alphabet. And the


    children who launched into the middle, look at how much fun they had! They got to really feel


    their limbs flop about gracelessly, to lose their sense of space and time for just a moment. Why


    shouldn¡¯t I feel that too? I¡¯m just like them, I must have thought to myself.


    ¡°My father says don¡¯t run too fast.¡± I should go next.


    ¡°My mother says I can¡¯t talk back.¡± This time, for sure. My feet felt ten times their weight,


    my shoes sticky.


    ¡°My father says make lots of cash.¡±


    ¡°My mother says just be your-self.¡±


    Finally, I bounded forward. All I got out was the beginning. ¡°My father says¡ª¡±Suddenly,


    I crashed into another child making their run at the same time.


    ¡°My mother says,¡± I heard on one side of me, then he ran into me, then on the opposite


    side, ¡°follow the rules.¡±


    I was staggered in the center, too confused to know which direction to go to escape, too


    confused to know any direction would have worked. I felt surrounded; I was surrounded. I was


    tumbling in the rough wake of children, unable to find my footing. Even with my eyes closed, all


    I could hear was their chants all around me. As kids flew by, their gusting wind mixed with their


    phrases.


    ¡°My father says re-spect your elders.¡± Tears smudged my vision; the children became


    runny blots of colored ink, taller and more significant than their true forms.


    ¡°My mother says good girls don¡¯t yell.¡±


    It all became too much. I lost consciousness after half a minute. I awoke to a concerned


    nurse asking me some questions about how I felt. I had always assumed I passed out, yet going


    over it again, while I was in that state, I began to have my doubts. This upsetting memory led me


    to another one, of a comforting person.*


    From reliving the experience of being tossed about amongst that crowd of children, I then


    shifted into watching a scene that from a distance didn¡¯t look much different. A singular flowing


    body diving into and out of a shouting crowd, though for her there would be no distress or


    passing out. She was my one real friend in those years; her name was Sam.


    Throughout elementary school, we would meet up at recess. I can still picture it in a vivid


    sort of way that no other parts of my childhood evoke. The sun sat so high that there were


    practically no shadows; there was no obscuring yourself, even under outstretched trees. On those


    afternoons, she would make me promise her silly things. ¡°Promise me you won¡¯t look away from


    that butterfly standing on the growing grass until it flies away.¡± ¡°Promise me you¡¯ll hide behind


    that curtain of palm fronds until I tell you the coast is clear.¡± I would always oblige her, no matter


    the request. I knew her promises would never hurt me, in the way other promises like ¡°promise


    you won¡¯t get mad¡± or ¡°promise me you won¡¯t wear that in public¡± might.


    She would glow in the sun, sometimes reflecting it, sometimes eclipsing it at whim. She


    would make time flash by with her energy, those longed for thirty minutes. She was unlike the


    other children, with her large eyes and dancing form. I knew she didn¡¯t see things as they did. I


    never felt myself tossed around carelessly when we played. I felt that there were no hard lines


    drawn between us, nor anything taken for granted. We played together and I felt free in that way


    one can only feel as a child.


    But she would often spend the first ten minutes of recess amongst the other children, doing


    whatever they did. I¡¯d spend that time just watching her carefree shape, bouncing between the


    petty mobs which were almost always homogenous in gender, age, bus stop, whatever other little


    divisions they could come up with. I¡¯d catch just a little of their resistance.


    ¡°Why even try?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll just lose.¡± ¡°You¡¯re too this-or-that,¡± they might shout in the midst


    of whatever battle they created for themselves that day. She never floundered, though I shrunk for


    her whenever I caught any of these jabs.


    Afterwards, she would stride over to whichever tree I tried hard to obscure myself behind.


    ¡°Hey!¡± she would say daily through a smile. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you join?¡± Just that question


    nearly brings me to tears in retrospect. I don¡¯t know if she knew I would never join. Maybe she


    did and simply wouldn¡¯t show it, or maybe she truly didn¡¯t; maybe she saw me anew each day. I


    don¡¯t need to know the answer.


    ¡°Hello¡­¡± I would stammer, in awe of how dry she was, despite the heat and the running


    and the pressure exerted by those cruel children. She would drop down gracefully next to me and


    pull a book out of her waistband. (I don¡¯t know exactly how she didn¡¯t lose it in the middle of


    play, but that was just the sort of person she was.)


    I specifically remembered one afternoon when I had finally needed to ask it, the question


    that burned in me every recess. How could she stand joining those groups, how could she stand


    facing their little remarks? Didn¡¯t it make her feel bad that they thought she was weak, a weak girl,


    or the opposite as they would sometimes switch to¡ªa tomboy? Didn¡¯t she fear all that they said


    she was?


    She just smiled, never taking her eyes off the page she was about to flip, which was made


    somewhat transparent by the high sun, and said, ¡°I can be whatever they want me to be. I just want


    to have a little fun.¡± She said it like it was nothing and went on reading.


    Within that state, as I recalled her words so vividly, the senseless scene of noise and


    nothingness trembled resoundingly. I felt the warmth of a smooth fire as I held her words in my


    mind for a while. Then the first cool breeze of fall refreshingly swept over me, pushing the warmth


    to my other side. These comforting temperatures danced around my once benumbed body.* And


    so I sat in that entrancing little diversion, which was not seemingly relevant to the problem at hand


    then, just as it isn¡¯t really now.


    This peaceful moment, if there ever could be anything considered peace in this chaotic


    mess, was shattered by a voice. The voice was not Sam¡¯s, and it was not in my mind.