Scars: Part One: Dreams (Chapter Two)

MANY MONTHS EARLIER AND TWO WEEKS AFTER MEETING NAOMI:1

My head droops at the monotone of my history teacher, Mr. Hanson. I cannot stay awake, and I feel saliva slowly dripping out of my mouth onto the cool, grey desk. I don't care. Nothing matters anymore... I lay my left cheek on the desk, too, just as Hanson yells at me.2

"Lemmy! I expect you to pay attention in my class!"3

I wipe crust out of my weary eyes and mutter: "Yes Sir."4

It was pointless, however. My head, seemingly composed of lead, droops once more, and I sink into a light sleep. Naomi's sparkling chestnut eyes drift onto the black canvas of my eyelids and her angelic silhouette is before me, too, haunting me, beckoning me.5

My head spins around and around her and still the light from her face shines on. Oh, those glorious rays. They were lights of hope, beacons to me.6

Her cheeks form the sky blue tint of a graceful butterfly, and the image before me slowly changes. Her eyes morph into the purple pseudo-eyes on the wings of the butterfly, and her hair shapes into antenna.7

The butterfly flaps its wings gracefully and flies away, a taunting motion. She stays just ahead of me, always. I can feel my hand reaching up to capture it, but still the butterfly stays ahead of me, just out of my reach.8

Then, all of a sudden, it flies on. It grows smaller and smaller as it flies farther ahead. My hand is fully outstretched now, aching from the stretching.9

The false eyes of the butterfly still gleam brightly, however. With each flap of her wings, the eyes seem to open and close. Then another pair of eyes mirrors those of the butterfly. Two great, big, green slits filled with malice grow into huge jade spheres marbelled with power, hunger, might, control. They were the eyes of the true king of the jungle.10

The lion's brass fur came into view next, each hair a unique shade that quilted into the masterpiece that was the mane. In places it was darker than others, but it was still beautiful. It was still his mantle of masculinity.11

Ah, the mane. Such a glorious symbol of testosterone. It was a reminder that he was King and thus controlled WHAT he wanted, WHEN he wanted, and HOW he wanted it. No one messed with the King because everyone wise enough not to challenge the lion knew he had a jagged row of piercing daggers aligned viciously within that magnificent maw of his.12

All of a sudden, that magnificent maw opened, and in flew the butterfly, not even knowing what danger lay within that black hole of a throat. No living thing that had gone through that particular abyss had ever returned, yet the docile creature seemed unaware of the great beast's evil intentions.13

A chill bristled up my neck as the lion roared tyrannically and snapped his mighty mouth shut around the butterfly. Each sound richochetted off my eardrums. The roar sounded like a menacing, growling siren. The snapping shut of the jaws sounded like a bear-trap catching its helpless prey, which was, essentially, not too far off. Finally, the silence sounded like the simultaneous reaping of all the crops in a giant wheat field all at once.14

These sounds rang in my head. They rang so loud it hurt. I tried to block the agonizing noises out but I soon came to a realization. The ringing I heard was really a test of the school's fire-alarm system. I raised my drowsy face up and looked around the bland classroom. Nothing. No one was here.15

Had they left me? Why would anyone, especially school officials and my peers abandon me? Not only was no one present, but there was absolutely no trace anyone had ever been here.16

There were no papers on the desks, and all the seats were stacked neatly on top of the desks. That didn't make sense. The chairs were only stacked in that manner at the END of the day. What the hell was going on?17

A wave of fear washed over me, splashing up against my crumbling mental barrier. I started to panic, thinking I was all alone in the building. And not knowing how it happened made everything even scarier.18

I slowly stood up, half expecting something to happen, someone to tell me to sit down in a not-so-nice manner. Still... Nothing. I was dissapointed. I almost wanted Hanson's dry voice yelling to me, signaling another form of life.19

Looking around the room, I noticed the door was unlocked and ajar. I advanced towards it, cautiously. I was sure to be alert in case some other sort of intellegent life was to notice me.20

My soft footsteps crept across the lenoleum, edging towards the phantom portal. I extended my hand to pull the door open further, but as I did, my palm seemingly melted there on the door handle.21

"Jesus Fucking Christ!!!"22

I glanced at the handle again and saw flames reflect their amber glow into the dull silver of the handle itself. If I looked even closer, I could've seen the magenta acryllic paint peeling off. I gave a quick kick to the bottom of the door, and saw some of the waxy paint stuck to my shoe as I peeled away, tainting it a deep purple colour and bubbling there on my foot like a dying maniac's evil grin. Needless to say, it was hot.23

Poking my head out, I glanced around as if I were a groundhog sticking his head out of his hole to try and see his shadow, but nothing was there. No one was there. The only thing that filled these empty halls were blaze orange flames at the far left end of the hall, crawling ominously up the wall in a lustful squirming motion, attempting to lick the ceiling.24

It was already searing hot from where I stood, so I knew I had to run. My legs pumped hard as they hit the equally hard floor. My calves rippled as they moved.25

I felt the white hot flame on my back as I fled. It only got hotter... And hotter... And hotter... I began to wonder if I hadn't caught on fire...26

"It sure as hell feels like it," I thought to myself, then thought of the irony in my words.27

Out of nowhere, I heard a bone-chilling rumbling sound. Glancing behind me, I noticed the floor caving in. The goddamn floor was caving in.28

I ran faster, trying to escape the menace, but my silly putty legs couldn't move fast enough and melted. I collapsed on the floor and started to cower away, clawing at the waxed floor with my too-short fingernails. I felt so helpless.29

The fire must've burned out the beams that supported the floor because, just then, the floor gave way. I fell into the blackened hallway below me, fell thirty feet down to hit the ground and be buried up to my waist in burning rubble. I couldn't move my legs. I scraped off the massive chunks of concrete and broken lenoleum off of me and looked at my useless limbs. My attempts to move them as embers seered into my thighs and kneecaps was futile, and I could only scream.30

"Nooooo!!!! This CAN'T happen like this! I refuse to die this way!!!" I found myself screaming.31

A loud crackling sound, like dough being slapped onto a cutting board to knead, or the loud smash of a wooden bat at a baseball game when a grand slam was hit filled my ears, foretelling my fortune... One of death. I was going to die.32

The flaming beam above me gave way, plunging straight at me. As it swooshed through the air, everything decellarated. I could hear the beam falling and it sounded like a flag flapping briskly in the wind.33

Everything... moved.... so.... slow... I have heard, as have a great of other people, that your whole life flashes before your eyes just before you die. The only image that fluttered on my eyelids was Naomi's face. It was an icon of feminism. It was the kind of face that plastic surgeons used in the "after" sequence in before and after models. It was perfect if for no one else but me.34

It visually crescendo'd closer, her right eye socket still shrouded mysterisouly in the shadows of my mind. Brief images of as-of-now non-important events flickered for less than half a second across an ebony canvas, but I could barely recognize them, and they didn't really matter to me even if I could remember them.35

My first steps in my first shoes, my evolution of physical form through the years and grades. The minor tribulations of puberty...Driver's Ed; Finally, meeting Naomi. Other than this, that was as close to heaven as I ever got. None of those things were sentimental to me save the last. I only cared about Naomi.36

Each image reverted back to her peaceful face. Her face was the default image for my brain, the image that was ALWAYS on my mind. She was embedded in my head forever.37

I don't think this came as a suprise to me. I did not ask myself why this was. I knew why. I did not ask myself why my life wasn't flashing before my eyes like it should. It was. Naomi was my life. I lived for her, and now I was going to die thinking of her.38

Speed was reset to normal. My surroundings came crashing down. The support-structure continued its dive, plunging into my chest.39

The crunch of my bones and the collapse of my chest coupled themselves with the constriction (and the eventual ceasing to beat altogether) of my heart and the receding from the tangent universe, the light fading into darkness of all things physical, especially visual images. These images which, up until now, I had percieved to be real, presented doubts in my mind, making me question their authnenticity. Were they hallucenations after all? The floor, the wall, the ceiling, the flame... even the pain I was feeling. Was any of it real? And would I ever find out, even in death?40

I told myself I would soon find out. Then all the colours I saw were stained black as night. Serenity filled me at last as I breathed away my final breaths.  The last sound I heard as darkness usurped my life was the school's bell ringing.41

*         *          *42

A shrill sound filled my head, vibrating between my ears. I could even feel it in my cheeks.  The school bell was rining, signaling a new class was about to start. In my case, I had lunch next.43

I gathered my thoughts, and school-things together. I scooped my head up off my desk and wiped away the puddle of drool off my desk with the sleeve from my polyester jacket/ sweatshirt. It was black, so there was no stain. 44

My eyes were still blurry and I had trouble seeing. I could only make out certain shapes and faded colors. Walking, too, was a problem because of a combination of status the of my sight and my light- headedness. God, I hate headrushes.45

I started walking out the doorway and on with my life. To my suprise, I felt a gruff, yet paradoxically feeble hand on my chest, stopping me like a fly-swatter to the unsuspecting bumble-bee.46

"Hold it, Mr. Brownings," squawked my history teacher. I said nothing.47

After everyone had gotten done reporting to THEIR next class, and he had withheld me from going to mine and stuffing my face with pepperoni pizza, and downing it all with a cold Pepsi, he still held me there, hand on my chest, looking around for ghostly apparations or something.48

"Don't fall asleep in my class, Lemmy," the bag spoke coldly.49

"Yes sir, Mr. Hanson."50

"Do it just one more time and you're gonna be after school with me, understand?"51

I nodded. 52

He continued: "You are here to be educated, to learn, not to be baby-sat and given nap-time. Now run along."53

This last sentence told me he was a fool. He told me he wasn't going to baby-sit me, but with his last statement he also told me, though indirectly, that he thought of me as a kid.54

Once again, I started making my way down to the lunchroom, thinking about about Hanson's behavior and, more importantly, the meaning of my dream. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn't even see the girl I almost ran into next. Her name, I later found out, was Sharon.55

Sharon was, although I didn't realize it at the time, the prettiest girl in all the school. She was late for class and I probably made problems proportionally worse by bumping into her and spilling out all the contents of her spiral-bound notebooks onto the floor.56

"Oh, man, I am so sorry," I ejected.57

"It's okay. I was late anyways." She never looked up at me.58

To tell the truth, I didn't look much at her, either. I just half-finished helping her with her things and kept on walking, not thinking of her again for a long time.59

I got to the lunchroom and sat down next to my nerdy friend, Anne. She had big, black, square-shaped glasses and pen pockets in all her shirts. Sometimes, she even had the sniffles and for some reason would always push her glasses up her nose with her slender index finger so she wouldn't speak in such a nasally tone.60

"Hey, Anne," I said.61

Nothing.62

"Anne?" I repeated.63

"Yeah?"64

"You alive?"65

"No," she finally smirked.66

"That's what I thought."67

"Don't be a smart-ass."68

"Can't help it. I am by nature."69

"Suuuurrre you are. And that's why you're FAILING half your classes?"70

"Am not."71

"Are too."72

"Like you know all my grades?"73

"It's not too hard to figure out that you suck. Just gotta spend five minutes with you, that's all."74

"Fuck you. For your information, I happen to be doing really well in all my classes. No warnings or anything."75

"They haven't even come out yet," she muttered. "Anyway, anything new?"76

"Yeah, I just ran into Sharon Charley upstairs."77

A short, hearty laugh erupted for a brief second from her lips. She looked at me and smirked. I looked back at her and shook my head.78

"How'd that go?" She finally asked after a few intense moments of visual probing.79

"I don't think you understand, Anne. I RAN INTO HER."80

"Yeh, I know Lemmy, I'm not stupid. That's why I was laughing."81

"It's not that funny."82

"Well, nothing else seems to be entertaining me right now."83

"So I'm your time-filler now?"84

"Yes, you're mine and I'm yours."85

"Glad to know we share something so special."86

"I know, isn't it?"87

I glared at her, but she only smiled. After a long, yet oddly enough, non-awkward pause, I spoke, poking at the barrier of slience between us.88

"Do you believe dreams mean something, Anne?"89

"Yes."90

"Well... What do they mean?"91

"What do you mean, what do they mean? It all depends on the dreams, silly."92

"Well, I had a strange dream in history class last period."93

"You had the balls to sleep in Hanson's class? I don't know whether to kiss you, kill you, or both."94

"Kill me," I said, zoning out.95

"What?"96

"Oh, nothing, sorry."97

Anne gave me a sidways look.98

"You're weird," she said.99

"I know," I replied, still zoning out.100

Silence again, at least between the two of us. I meant it though. I wouldn't mind if I died at this point. I had seen a glimpse of what leading a real life was like. If I was only with Naomi, I'd be alive, because I'd have love. But I was dead inside and every smile I pasted on was only a facade.101

Ironically, it was at this moment that Anne decided to ask me: "So, have any weird dreams lately?"102

I always told her about my dreams. She always listened, too, even if she laughed. At least if she laughed, that meant she heard me. And she always laughed with that geeky snort of hers. But I still told her my dreams because no one esle would listen to me.103

I once tried telling my mother of a dream I had of her... In it, she was weeping on a stump in the middle of a meadow and I was standing next to a wilted willow tree behind her. She wore her light green nightgown (she always wore nightgowns), the one with the buttons down the back. Her hair was flopped in front of her and she was crying into it. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her everything would be okay.104

"No" was all she said. After that, the clouds turned black and start to weep themselves. The tree withered and draped, dying onto my shoulder. The stump rotted before my eyes, and my mother turned pale. She shriveled up with my hand still on her and died, curled like a leech after bathing in salt.105

I told my mother this, and all she said was "oh." She never payed attention to me. Sometimes I thought she believed in the old saying that children are to be seen and not heard. But then I wondered why she never enforced it, just kept on ignoring me, neglecting me.106

Well, Anne, no matter how agitated I got for her "holier-than-thou" attitude, she never did that. Even if she scoffed at me for thinking a certain way about my dreams (or aspirations for that matter), she always asked me the same question every day, because deep down, she really did care.107

"So, have any weird dreams lately?"108

"Yes, Anne. As a matter of fact, I did."109

"Well, do you want to tell me about it?"110

I told her everything, leaving no details out. I never left any details out. Actually, sometimes I'd add details in, just because. Perhaps it was because I knew she'd laugh, and although her laugh was just a scoff, I loved to hear it.111

I told her of both dreams. I told her of a beautiful girl (whose name I omitted, letting her think she was a figment of my imagination). I told her how Naomi's face had morphed into a butterfly and how the lion had ruthlessly swallowed it, with no remorse.112

I also told her of my other dream. I told her how real it all felt, how I could smell the putrid smell of my own flesh being burned off my bones and the sizzling sound it made as it dripped to the floor. I told her every little detail-- except Naomi's name. 113

I should've figured she'd ask me about it. I should have known that this girl whom I've known for three years would see right through me. But for some reason, I didn't see it coming.114

"Well?" she asked supiciously.115

"Well, what?" I asked in return.116

"Who's the girl?"117

"The girl?"118

"Yes, the girl."119

"How should I know?"120

"It's your dream, tell me who she is."121

"I don't know who she is, Anne."122

"Yes you do."123

"What makes you say that?"124

"You don't dream that vividly about someone and not know who they are, that's just common sense." 125

I looked at her.126

"I don't know who she is," I said.127

"Fine, have it your way. I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway."128

"What do you mean, it doesn't really matter?"129

"Well..." She played with the french fries in front of her. She took about three and placed them under her hamburger bun that also lay on her styrofoam tray, the hamburg smothered in ketchup, like the fries.130

"What...???" I inquired.131

"You want me to analyze your dream for you?"132

"Since when do my personal wants prevent you from doing it anyway?"133

More silence. She looked at her hamburger bun.134

"Fine," I said at last. "Yes, Anne, I want you to analyze my dreams. Please do so, oh wise one." I added a sarcastic note on the end of my request and rolled my eyes for dramtic effect.135

She started pulling some of the sesame seeds off the bread and placing chunks in her mouth, so delicately. So... coldly, yet so playfully.136

I sighed and said "Yes," once again rolling my eyes.137

"Okay," she said. "But you're going to have to let me start at the beginning."138

"Okay," I consented.139

Anne had about five to six books on the analysis and interpertations of dreams, all written by famous psychics or astrologists. She had bought them into school once, or at least some of them, and showed me. They looked pretty important with the hard covers, blending colours and thick, gold, lettering. Maybe that's why she had them, because they made her feel important. That aside, however, she continued her interpertation.140

"The girl, despite your protests, is someone I think is very close to you."141

I didn't argue with her. It was unusual for me to question her theories out loud, but not unusual for me to question them.142

"She is obviously, by your description and the events surrounding her transformation, very beautiful to you. But there is something, more probably, some-ONE that is preventing you from being with her. In your eyes, they will ruin her life, or at least, she might as well be dead to you if you let this thing pervert her, because it will destroy your chances of ever being with her."143

I nodded, but secretly wondered how she knew that the love I felt for Naomi was more than just friendly. What indication was there that I loved her in that manner? I saw none. She observed my questioned look and for a second I thought she would continue with her explanation undaunted.144

However, she stopped talking and asked "What's wrong?"145

"How did you know I loved Naomi like that?" I asked.146

"Naomi, huh?"147

Shit. Shit. Shit. I had spilled the beans. Now Anne knew her name, and knew that I was really in love with her. Had she planned this? It didn't matter, I couldn't let her find out who she really was.148

"Uh, yeah," I fidgeted. "That's what I decided to call her just now."149

"I see." A light in her eye twinkled teasingly.150

"Just... Go on."151

"Alright, alright." She put her hands in the air, as if she was giving in, or refusing to play a game we both knew she was still playing.152

"You still want to know how I know?" She looked at me.153

"Yeah," I admitted shamefully.154

"I just know you too well."155

Sometimes I hated her.156

"Will you go on?" I asked impatiently. She chuckled.157

"Sure, Mr. Ancy-Pants, I'll go on." I smiled fakely.158

"The fire dream, I think, is connected to your other dream. I think when you wake up all alone in the classroom, that signifies feelings of lonliness, that all your friends have abandoned you. The school burning could be your academic dreams going up in smoke, if you'll excuse the pun. I find it strange, too, that in your dream you die in school. Maybe that's an insinuation that your education will be, if not the death of you, than a major hurdle."159

"Well, I suppose that's comforting."160

We both stare off into space for a short second until Anne looks up from the floor to me.161

"So that's that."162

I pause. something doesn't seem right. Something is left unexplained, off-kilter. There is a loose end I want to tie up. If only I knew what it was. Suddenly, it hit me.163

"But why would I DIE though?"164

She looked away.165

"Anne?"166

"I don't know," she lied.167

"Yes you do. Tell me."168

I stared at her sternly, and just as sternly repeated: "Tell me."169

"I think... I think that you dying like that... alone... is just what it seems."170

"What do you mean?" I prodded.171

"I think that that part of your dream signifies dying alone."172

"By which books are you going by? I want to look at them."173

"That's just it, Lemmy. These are my personal thoughts and theories, not some book's. These are amateur dream interpertations, Lemmy. I'm probably wrong." Her tone was soft.174

I sank back at the lunch table, astonished, staring at nothing. Her look was unusually tender and caring after a good days' dream interpertation. Was that sympathy I saw in her eyes or was it pity? Both, maybe? What was the difference. I didn't know.175

Again, as I sat in yet another chair, feeling sorry for myself for the millionth time it seemed in the past week, the only truth I hold dear was that I loved something, someone I couldn't have. Naomi.176