"Faerie"

Chapter One: Algebra days

You know it's weird. Every day we go through life and learn new things that change our view on others, the inside of a cave for instance, did you know in that dark damp underground you can actually stumble upon gems? And we ask ourselves who would risk it? Go into that disgusting pit of darkness to search for a scratched jewel? There might be someone who was willing enough to try but failed and then what? Then life would go on. We keep believing someone will try to defy the dead hero's attempt and leave the rest to fate…we keep breathing.

I learned something new today that scarred me. Life was droning on and suddenly the T.V lit up, the classroom lights dimmed, and we learned of Alzheimer's. The video was about an old woman who died, in my eyes, isolated and broken like cracked skin. Even with her whole family around her she didn't remember a single one of them. Not a hair or revealing freckle. Not a past time or a glance at her son's face. She died with a "who are you?" drifting on her lips. Alone.

So I'm writing in here, and it may seem silly but I am using this as my protective shield.

My still thoughts engraved here.

I'm calling it my memory book.

So I never forget what changed my life.

So I never die like that woman, because I'm terrified that will happen.

So I always remember … at least one person or two. I don't want to be lonelier than I already am. Instead I'll keep dreaming like a long line of my ancestors that someone will excavate the hollow pit inside me and maybe uncover a tiny diamond I didn't even know existed in me. Then they'll stay in my memories. Then I guess… I can be with a part of them, forever.

September 30, 2010

My name is Farris. Farris Godden. I'm 16. I have beautiful blonde hair, Clearwater blue eyes, and a dog; I'm popular with perfect grades and a family who loves me. Loves me. Loves me.

They do love me.

…sorry…I lied. That's what I wish I could remember.

My name is Farris…I'm 16.

Mom works all day… and cries all night. She thinks I can't hear but I can. She thinks she's not much to look at and jokes about her "lion" hair to make me laugh. I think she's the prettiest in the entire universe. Sure she has bags under her eyes and her thin shoulders look like they carry the weight of the world. But she has sparkly hazel eyes to back them up. When she laughs her age lines seem to disappear to me even though she worries they become more noticeable. When I was little she used to braid my hair as she hummed a song from one of my story books. She told me I was special. Someone was gonna want to be my best friend soon.

I have black eyes. She says dark brown. My father says black. He would know. I got them from him.

My father cut my hair when I was twelve and said it was getting uglier as it got longer. No more braids. The age lines on my mothers face became more pronounced.

A few days later I learned what a drunk man looks like from looking at him. He came home at night and told me I was nothing. I was useless unless I went to buy him more of the poison that made his eyes blacker than black. Darker than midnight.

Mom's eyes stopped sparkling so much.

Every night he came home and made either me or my mom scream. He reminded us why we were there in the first place.

We needed him.

Mom's work would barely keep us living. His salary was our sole benefactor. I wanted to work at the bakery near our house just a few miles up, the grocery store, for Satan even. I wanted him away from her. She wouldn't let me. She smiled and told me to go to school. Her eyes had stopped glittering altogether.

So I'm school.

Looking for something to hide an ugly blue/purple bruise on my arm. I close my eyes and make believe time has stopped. I'm actually not in the bathroom on the second floor of this building. The bell won't and cannot ring and I don't have exactly five minutes to cover up the nasty part of my skin that tags me outcast.

Riiiinggggg.

A tiny creature's black eyes stare back at me from the sink-water stained glass. Strands of messy short black hair blend in. An ivory-skinned girl shrinking into the brick wall. She has no face. Only black shadows and an always pink nose from a cold that never goes away or crying when alone.

I swallow hard and run out the door.

I don't like that girl.

Riiinggggg.

First period is a fishbowl. Our class is encased by solid glass. Students peep in on the parts not covered by posters when on break. Teenagers glub glub inside and talk word bubbles that float above the surface. I feel like swimming while the algebra teacher talks about polynomials and monomials.

Sitting in the back it's easy to be inspired by the vivid signs tacked on the slightly-crusting bulletin board. "Keep dreaming of your future" and "This could be you's" are all over smiling back at us. I listen to bits and pieces of the lesson. Mr. Cramer is nice. He gives out stickers on good papers and stutters.

He's the goldfish of the bowl.

Class is filled with the buzzing of the back row. The front row is filled with similar buzzing but not so loud. They like Mr. Goldfish too, so naturally they can handle being polite. A little.

Algebra is good. These numbers will actually help us in life, to be someone and help out others. I want to help my mom. I want to work and make those numbers add up to money so I won't…so we won't need HIM anymore. The clock sings a broken tune. Tick Tick Tock Tick Tick…

The bowl tilts slightly suddenly and three boys enter abruptly. They're late. I glance up and my vision becomes impaired by the hair falling in my face. Mr. Goldfish doesn't look too happy, but since class has only gone on about ten minutes he lets it pass. I recognize all of them from afar but not up close. One's name is Harold, another Sam or Steve, and the last one Rod, Rodrick? Dirty blonde, red brown and black heads that usually sit in one of the corner lunch tables. A cheerleader snickers and her friend wiggles her eyebrows. The two take their seats but the one named Rodrick stands glaring at a kid who just got here today from Portugal. The guy is sitting in the middle row far corner. Bad idea. He says something I can't hear and the kid flushes bright red.

Mr. Goldfish stutters a few words and points to the seat in front of me. Rodrick shifts his glare before reluctantly shuffling to where I sit. I pretend I don't notice and hide behind the remaining strands of hair protecting me .His backpack thuds and makes my tummy jump. He throws a notebook on the desk that has scribbles on the cover. I make out an L and a D. This is where I make a big mistake. Without thinking I look up and his eyes seem to have a little glare left in them as they set on me. In the irises the shadow girl stares back at me. She blinks. It becomes hard to breathe. I look away quickly and he sits down narrowly catching a crumpled half-sheet the dirty blond throws at him. Mr. Goldfish mimics my acting skills, acting as though he saw nothing and continues talking about our next assignment. My hands write down the homework without feeling the mechanical pencil's pulse.

He has hazel eyes.