So I've been considering writing a novel(la) for the past couple of weeks and I just yesterday decided to go for it. Here's what I have so far; I may just scrap it and start something else if (when) I realize it's not as good as I originally thought it might be. This is only the beginning if I continue it, so if it seems like there's absolutely no plot or it ends at a strange place, well, you're perfectly right. These 1,264 words took a bit longer than it should have/might seem because every name and almost every description has a meaning behind it (not sure if some of the less obvious ones are clear now, but anyways, cookies to people who get why I said/named/described something a certain way). Don't be disturbed by the random poem in between chapters; I'm either going to do that for every chapter or take it out entirely. So on that note...
Smiling are the Stars
one
Drops of dew feel their way up toward the moonlight only to be disappointed by its absence - what little light the moon would already emit is suffocated by an army of dark grey clouds shifting endlessly across the night. The stars are hiding from me, refusing to allow me to see their beauty.
I push myself from the ground and begin to walk across the asphalt that reflects only darkness. Shining dully across the street, my house looks forsaken, abandoned, unloved. But, nonetheless, it welcomes me in to escape the wind and the grey, and I find myself in bed again, staring at the sunflower-yellow of my walls and wishing tomorrow could wait.
My life is perfection, but that's not saying it's perfect. Perfection is just an obsession. My unattainable standards tear me apart each day, and the only thing worse than being imperfect is knowing I will always be flawed. It's a symptom of my obsessive-compulsive disorder, one that I have to live with, accept, ignore. I wish I could say it was getting better, but to tell the truth, it isn't. It's not as though my dad helps much; he just has to pretend not to notice the weird things I do, like washing my hands randomly throughout the day or always pausing before I talk, just to make sure I don't have to correct myself. In my nine years of having OCD, I have never disdained it as much as I do now, now that I can't look in a mirror without fixing every strand of hair from standing straight, now that I can't enter a room without making sure the door is closed behind me, now that I can't walk away from my locker without checking at least four times that it is indeed locked. Every time I do one of these things, the bit of paranoia inside me is assuaged momentarily, but I can never help it from returning stronger than before. Since Summer died, my freedom has been taken by anxiety. And I hate myself for it.
Summer Hope Aureolin was born on January 13, 2003, and died just a few hours later after she was discovered to have been born with only part of a lung. I caught only a glimpse of her, gasping feebly, seconds before she was taken away to who knows where only to give up her struggle for life soon after. Even in those few moments, she was perfection. Her tiny, frail limbs did not flail as another child's would. Her cry was not shrieking or piercing, but soft and serene. Her eyes were brown, but not dull or dark. They had flecks of a lighter color, almost a burnt orange, in them and still shine brightly in the night sky. Summer's birth led not only to her death but to my mother's as well. I guess she took with her any chance I had at living a perfectly normal life, too.
My eyes close tighter with the passing minutes and I feel myself fall asleep before long. The stars that usually permeate my dreams are clouded over. I guess that's just the way it is.
two
Waking up this Saturday morning, I find the light has broken through the dense foliage of the night and found its way into my room, shining off one wall opposite my bed. The deep blue of my comforter bathes in the warmth, providing an oven-like heat between it and the mattress. As always, my door is shut and I hear no noise from downstairs, as my father is most likely still asleep. The dry draft that blows over the one side of me when I force myself from the bed brings with it smells almost of plastic, as though someone has rubbed several balloons against the wall moments before. I cross to the other edge of the room past my walk-in closet and dresser to the door, open (and close) it, and proceed downstairs into the kitchen. The linoleum floor is as dusty as ever – Lord knows when it gets cleaned – and the ash walls are aged to the point of looking vintage, if walls can even be vintage. Who knows.
The pop and hiss of a can of Mello Yello, even at ten in the morning, is satisfying. I wash my hands two or three times while drinking it – the sticky stuff that's sometimes on the outside of the can is particularly bad – and turn on the TV while absentmindedly planning my day. Which doesn't take long, considering I have absolutely nothing I have to do – it's only my first week at Howard Hughes High, meaning no homework, just a weekend to wish it was June again. I decide on at least calling someone to see if he's interested in going somewhere in Gainsboro today, so I take out a file card and write exactly what I plan on saying. Better to be prepared.
“Hello, Missus Cress? This is Sonny. May I speak with Jude, please?” My shaky voice makes up for the fact that my words are so formal. Something about phone calls makes me nervous.
Sonny isn't actually my name, but it's what everyone calls me. I don't know why; I guess it just sort of happened.
Anyways, Missus Cress tells me that sure, honey, he'll be on in just a sec, and so I hold onto the phone for a few moments until I hear his voice on the other end. Jude Cress has this really unique, distinctive voice. It's sort of high but clear and not nasally, like he was pushed slightly too fast through puberty. Jude has an almost-unnoticeable lisp, but you can hear it if you listen closely or you've spoken with him a lot before. It's the type of thing where I wouldn't even know it was there if he and I hadn't become friends two years ago.
Jude is slightly taller than average, with wavy brown hair and clear, bright brown eyes below thin, pristine eyebrows. He's skinny, but not what I would call lanky, with a face that looks as if it was carved out of marble. His eyes can look straight through you, but they're not unkind. A good number of people at school think he's my brother – he's just a bit shorter and skinnier than I am, and my face isn't as straight-lined, my cheeks aren't quite as sunken.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jude, it's Sonny. I was wondering if you wanted to do something today?” My words are again disconnected from one another. I hate not seeing the person's face whom I'm talking to. They sound so much older over the phone.
“Yeah, of course! I'm free all day; what were you thinking?”
I pause, thinking about my next words, trying to make them sound natural. “I dunno, I guess just come over and I'll think of something.”
“All right, see you in a bit then.”
After saying good-bye I put down the phone and go to wash my hands of whatever has been on that phone before. Tired but anxious, I lay on the red-and-brown patterned sofa, staring blankly at the television. Today is going to be a good day.
Smiling are the Stars
one
Drops of dew feel their way up toward the moonlight only to be disappointed by its absence - what little light the moon would already emit is suffocated by an army of dark grey clouds shifting endlessly across the night. The stars are hiding from me, refusing to allow me to see their beauty.
I push myself from the ground and begin to walk across the asphalt that reflects only darkness. Shining dully across the street, my house looks forsaken, abandoned, unloved. But, nonetheless, it welcomes me in to escape the wind and the grey, and I find myself in bed again, staring at the sunflower-yellow of my walls and wishing tomorrow could wait.
My life is perfection, but that's not saying it's perfect. Perfection is just an obsession. My unattainable standards tear me apart each day, and the only thing worse than being imperfect is knowing I will always be flawed. It's a symptom of my obsessive-compulsive disorder, one that I have to live with, accept, ignore. I wish I could say it was getting better, but to tell the truth, it isn't. It's not as though my dad helps much; he just has to pretend not to notice the weird things I do, like washing my hands randomly throughout the day or always pausing before I talk, just to make sure I don't have to correct myself. In my nine years of having OCD, I have never disdained it as much as I do now, now that I can't look in a mirror without fixing every strand of hair from standing straight, now that I can't enter a room without making sure the door is closed behind me, now that I can't walk away from my locker without checking at least four times that it is indeed locked. Every time I do one of these things, the bit of paranoia inside me is assuaged momentarily, but I can never help it from returning stronger than before. Since Summer died, my freedom has been taken by anxiety. And I hate myself for it.
Summer Hope Aureolin was born on January 13, 2003, and died just a few hours later after she was discovered to have been born with only part of a lung. I caught only a glimpse of her, gasping feebly, seconds before she was taken away to who knows where only to give up her struggle for life soon after. Even in those few moments, she was perfection. Her tiny, frail limbs did not flail as another child's would. Her cry was not shrieking or piercing, but soft and serene. Her eyes were brown, but not dull or dark. They had flecks of a lighter color, almost a burnt orange, in them and still shine brightly in the night sky. Summer's birth led not only to her death but to my mother's as well. I guess she took with her any chance I had at living a perfectly normal life, too.
My eyes close tighter with the passing minutes and I feel myself fall asleep before long. The stars that usually permeate my dreams are clouded over. I guess that's just the way it is.
two
Waking up this Saturday morning, I find the light has broken through the dense foliage of the night and found its way into my room, shining off one wall opposite my bed. The deep blue of my comforter bathes in the warmth, providing an oven-like heat between it and the mattress. As always, my door is shut and I hear no noise from downstairs, as my father is most likely still asleep. The dry draft that blows over the one side of me when I force myself from the bed brings with it smells almost of plastic, as though someone has rubbed several balloons against the wall moments before. I cross to the other edge of the room past my walk-in closet and dresser to the door, open (and close) it, and proceed downstairs into the kitchen. The linoleum floor is as dusty as ever – Lord knows when it gets cleaned – and the ash walls are aged to the point of looking vintage, if walls can even be vintage. Who knows.
The pop and hiss of a can of Mello Yello, even at ten in the morning, is satisfying. I wash my hands two or three times while drinking it – the sticky stuff that's sometimes on the outside of the can is particularly bad – and turn on the TV while absentmindedly planning my day. Which doesn't take long, considering I have absolutely nothing I have to do – it's only my first week at Howard Hughes High, meaning no homework, just a weekend to wish it was June again. I decide on at least calling someone to see if he's interested in going somewhere in Gainsboro today, so I take out a file card and write exactly what I plan on saying. Better to be prepared.
“Hello, Missus Cress? This is Sonny. May I speak with Jude, please?” My shaky voice makes up for the fact that my words are so formal. Something about phone calls makes me nervous.
Sonny isn't actually my name, but it's what everyone calls me. I don't know why; I guess it just sort of happened.
Anyways, Missus Cress tells me that sure, honey, he'll be on in just a sec, and so I hold onto the phone for a few moments until I hear his voice on the other end. Jude Cress has this really unique, distinctive voice. It's sort of high but clear and not nasally, like he was pushed slightly too fast through puberty. Jude has an almost-unnoticeable lisp, but you can hear it if you listen closely or you've spoken with him a lot before. It's the type of thing where I wouldn't even know it was there if he and I hadn't become friends two years ago.
Jude is slightly taller than average, with wavy brown hair and clear, bright brown eyes below thin, pristine eyebrows. He's skinny, but not what I would call lanky, with a face that looks as if it was carved out of marble. His eyes can look straight through you, but they're not unkind. A good number of people at school think he's my brother – he's just a bit shorter and skinnier than I am, and my face isn't as straight-lined, my cheeks aren't quite as sunken.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jude, it's Sonny. I was wondering if you wanted to do something today?” My words are again disconnected from one another. I hate not seeing the person's face whom I'm talking to. They sound so much older over the phone.
“Yeah, of course! I'm free all day; what were you thinking?”
I pause, thinking about my next words, trying to make them sound natural. “I dunno, I guess just come over and I'll think of something.”
“All right, see you in a bit then.”
After saying good-bye I put down the phone and go to wash my hands of whatever has been on that phone before. Tired but anxious, I lay on the red-and-brown patterned sofa, staring blankly at the television. Today is going to be a good day.