Four.

IV.

“Blast it all, Monty, this whole, 'write-a-book-to-keep-oneself out-of-trouble,' thing is failing miserably.” exclaimed a hunched-over young man of about twenty odd years, “I can't imagine what Professor Kraut was thinking when he told me to write a novel. I mean, just because English just so happens to be one of my majors, does not mean that I am destined to be a novelist. You know, come to think of it, the only reason I'm a double-major is for the bragging rights, and the only reason one of them happens to be English is because it was the first class to catch my eye after I signed up for Astrophysics. As for all this keeping me from getting into trouble, I'm getting so frustrated by the whole thing that I will very likely become insane before the weekend and then do nothing but get myself into trouble.” At this point our hunched-over young man takes a break from staring pathetically at his laptop screen and downs a small glass of something that looks very much like apple juice, but tastes altogether differently. After which he throws his head back and reclines.

“You'd think writing a novel would be a piece of cake, Monty, but this is not the case.” Our young man says ruefully, “I mean, sure, anyone can tell a story, but I feel that with this whole 'Liam' thing I'm pretty much just retelling my story, albeit with a little facelift. My parent weren’t all that nice, and although a plane crash is pretty tragic, its not quite the same as having them stabbed to death right in front of you. I felt like I had to add those details for dramatic effect. It's reminding me more and more of myself as I complete every paragraph—I went to go live with my aunt, this Liam person is living with his uncle. I keep trying to veer from my story, but it always comes comes back to, or reminds me of, me—Hmm maybe I am as egotistical as you all say I am. Well, its not really ego if it's justified—Ah, and all this is purely for the sake of having an original plot. I think maybe that the most original thing to do would just be to write it without a plot. But then what would be the point? I tell you Monty, all I want to do is blow this rubbish up. That's really what it is, Monty, rubbish!”

With this our subject slammed one of his desk-drawers shut and the figure who I think we are to assume to be Monty, betrayed himself by waking up with a snort and tossing his phone against the wall from whence it ricocheted into the rubbish bin. His build was that of a slim-ish teddy bear. I know those two attributes are not thought to normally be synonymic, but I can't think of a better way to describe him. He had the laughable look of bewilderment that one commonly finds on those who have been wakened under abnormal circumstances on his round, lovable face.

“Ohhhh, Colin,” Monty yawned, “what is it now? That 'story' of yours again?” He added with a chuckle.

“Ok, first off, its not a story, its a novel and I know you said that just to annoy me. Second, I'd like you to know you make for the most amazing moral support. This is the third time you've fallen asleep on me this week.” Colin replied while turning slowly toward his flatmate in his office chair.

“And this is the third time this week ended my evening nap prematurely.” Monty shot back with a wink.

“You know, why I still put up with you, I don't know.”

“Like I haven't heard that one before from you. You 'put up' with me for three reasons. I'm rich, I'm therapeutic, and I know just about every girl in the county. You wouldn't survive without me.”

“I know Monty. In all honesty, you are my sanity. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Its all right my man, everyone knows you're a bit high-strung. Its forgotten.”

“No, this time I'm going to make it up to you. I've just hit upon the most brilliant idea.”

A, “Oh, no, not again.” may or may not have escaped from Monty's lips at this point.

“And this time I promise we won't spend the next morning in front of the magistrate.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't counting on you botching the whole thing up. Besides, this time I've taken the possibility of your slipping up. There is no possible way it go wrong.”

“Thanks awfully for confidence, old boy. Now how about spilling this 'brilliant' idea of yours? What am I to do?”

“You?” said Colin as he leaned forward with a look of anticipative mystery on his face, “Practically nothing...which is yet another reason why it can't go wrong.”

“Thanks again.”

“You're welcome—you know Monty, I often wonder why you put up with me. I'm a perfect ass most of the time, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But really? Why ask me?” said Monty, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his pleasure, “You're supposed to be the brains of the establishment. You tell me.”

“Well, I guess its because if I didn't help with your studies you'd probably fail, which, in in of itself, wouldn't bother you, but your fire-breathing dad would almost certainly disinherit you and then none of the girls would go after you. Plus, you seem to revel in being verbally abused. There. Is that a fair assessment?” said Colin, with a half laughing, half guilty smile and another shot of whiskey. This time a self-congratulatory one.

Monty put on the most convincing critical face he could muster at the moment—which wasn't in the least convincing, by the bye—and rose from the throne of a recliner he had hitherto been occupying. He cleared his throat and said in an extremely judicious-sounding tone, "Upon weighing the evidence both for and against, I have solemnly rul--”

Unfortunately his ruling was cut sort because he and then Colin burst into laughter and by the time he had recovered, he seemed to have lost his train of thought for he sank back into his chair and started fumbling for his phone. “The rubbish basket, Monty, the rubbish basket again.”

“Again?” exclaimed Monty, “What are the odds.” After which he got up, retrieved his phone, sank back into hid throne, and said in a rather thoughtful tone, “You know, I don't understand at all why things just seem work out for certain people, you included. Nothing ever seems to go wrong for them, no matter how stupid the things they do are. Then there are people like me. The kind of people who always end up on the wrong end or with the short straw. It's just not fair.”

“Yes, perhaps you're right. Just remember two things to cheer you up: First, life is pain. Second, we 'lucky' people are generally extremely intelligent, or in other words, we make our luck, and there are many downsides that stem from being smart. For example, having to deal with stupid flatmates. I imagine its much more nice to be stupid.”

“You know, you really were right when you said that you are a perfect ass most of the time.”

“ Why, yes, of course. When am I wrong?”

At this point Colin turned back toward his literary undertaking, let out a bottomless sigh and began pecking away at his keyboard. There was a pause for about two minutes when at last Monty broke the chatter of the keys, “Alright, I'm giving in even though I know it's exactly what you want. What's the scoop.” The result was instant. Colin shut his laptop got up and put on his coat. “It has to do with time. Come on, I'll give the details in the cab.”

__________________________________________________________________

There it is. And I'm leaving for a road trip like, right now, so TTFN. (sorry if its typo-ridden, I don't have time to proofread)

Three. (A little late)

III.

Archibald Ellen, 2E 61^st St. New York City, NY was the address of my destination. Uncle Archibald. I had heard the name, but hadn't seen the man until the memorial service. He looked like an Archibald. He was 12 years my father's senior and although he shared with my father a slimness of figure, beyond that there was no resemblance. If I had to match his appearance to that of a bird, it would definitively have be a turkey vulture. And not only because he was bald and wore black turtlenecks. He had a loose head. That is, he could have fit at least two of his heads into the amount of skin that he had around his neck and scull. All this was further accented by his drooping nose and the horn-rimmed glasses he was always wearing.

I was sitting in the back seat of his Prius and we were just entering The City. As I peered out on the NYC afternoon, I saw for the first time the hustle and bustle that was to be home for me. Under normal circumstances I may have been somewhat shocked by the magnitude of it all, but I was quite used to abnormal circumstances by now, so this was pretty much a walk in the park, so to speak. We wove our way through the traffic in silence and--surprise, surprise--arrived at our destination in silence. He was, I think, preparing the speech I was to be the audience for upon our arrival at his flat. And what a destination it was! My parents had said he wrote books, but I hadn't thought doing that could have bought such a stupendous apartment. It was on the 17^th floor and overlooked Central Park.

The door latched behind us and I stood in awe as Uncle Archibald began his speech, “First off, I want to begin by saying that I am not a nice sort of person, Liam. I did not claim you from the court after all these months because I feel an emotional attachment to you, but rather because I felt a extremely inconvenient sense of Scottish duty toward my brother's son. You may be wondering why you hadn't met me before--erm--you know, and I can give you two reasons. First, I really am quite busy with my job and when I am working, I like to be alone. Second, your parents and I had conflicting views on certain things that made our relationship somewhat strained.”

At this point he paused, adjusted his glasses, twitched his nose, and continued. “ Now for a rule: you are not to disturb me between the hours of seven in the morning and six in the evening. This means no noise. Do you understand?” A hasty nod from me followed, in the hopes that it was over, but unfortunately my hopes were unfounded, as he went on, “Aside from that you can do whatever you want, as far as I'm concerned. I have also arranged the details of your education. I hear you have quite the little brain in there so I am prepared at all costs to cultivate it. The Spring semester starts next month and you will attend a highly touted private preparatory school which runs through high school. We will be going there for a placement test and a tour next week. Follow me and we'll get settled in your room.” He then turned to pick up my luggage and, as he was in the midst of lifting my suitcase, he paused and said, “Oh, and one more thing. You are not, under any circumstances, to call me, 'Uncle Archie', if you wish to remain living under the present conditions. My name is Archibald.” It did not seem that he expected and answer, so I made note of it and waited for him to show me to my room.

He led me out of the central living area and into a short hallway. Uncle Archibald's flat was decorated in a way I hadn't ever been familiarized with. There lots of lines, splotches, and irregular shapes in the enormous canvases that were placed on his walls. Some of them, at times, faintly resembled human shapes. That they could serve any purpose other than to confuse one's mind to me seemed impossible. My child's opinion of them held more truth than I realized at the time, as the opinions of one's younger years often do.

There were three doors in hallway, one on the left and two on the right. I often thought it would have made more sense to have one on either side and then one at the end, but I guess that would have been too symmetrical for my uncle. Instead of a door at the end there was a three dimensional painting which made the hallway look as if it continued on endlessly. As far as I'm concerned, the only good thing about that painting was that sometimes when Uncle was getting frustrated about this thing he called, “writer's block,” he would resort to Scotch Whiskey, get drunk, and almost invariably walk into the painting with a crash and a veritable torrent of words that I think it better not to repeat.

My room was more of the same. Complete randomness. Everything was made to look like it was upside down. The floor had lights in it and the ceiling was made of wood paneling. The only thing that looked normal was the bookshelf because you really can't go wrong with them. This may sound strange, but I became attached to that bookshelf. It was to me a beacon of normality; it was my Statue of Liberty, for within it's shelves it held the key to whole new worlds: worlds in which I could forget my world. Upon entering what was to be my room, I ran to the bookshelf and and placed Ferdinand and Winnie the Pooh next to the other books. My two books were dwarfed by the fifteen or so other books in the shelf in both size and width. Over the next few days, while I was waiting somewhat impatiently for the tour of my new school, I found that all the books were by written by the same author. Excited by this discovery, I asked Uncle Archibald about it towards the end of dinner. My not so confident, “Uncle Archibald?” broke a seemingly indomitable silence. An annoyed sigh escaped from his mouth and was followed by a disinterested, “What is it, Liam?”

“I've been looking at the books in my bookshelf and—and I was wondering why they are all written by the same person.”

“Hm, that's a good question. Well, its because they were all written by me.”

“Oh, so you pretend you're a different person when you are writing?”

“Yes, its called using a pen-name. I do it so people don't bother me.”

Now I knew why he was always writing—it seemed to me that if I were him I would want to pretend to be a different person, too. Thankfully, I had the sagacity to know to keep that thought to myself, so I merely said, “Oh, that sounds fun!” and ran off to my room.

The day of the visit finally arrived. It was a beautiful old school called, McGregorson Preparatory School. The campus building were all stone-cut per-Victorian style in architecture and everything was in order in a pristine and beautiful way. We met the Principal, Dr. Helm, a very proper looking lady, and, after making a tour of the campus, I took the placement test.

I placed in the fifth grade. Everything just seems to fall into place for me when it comes to learning and understanding. It seems that my mother's patient guidance in reading and elementary math payed itself off. I rather wish she could have been there to give me a proud hug and kiss. Instead, all I got was a stiff, “Well done,” from Uncle Archibald.

We returned to his flat in silence and made our way to our rooms in silence. Me to read and him to write. I found it hard to concentrate, though. For the first time in months I was excited about something. 

School. 

I couldn't wait to find out and experience what it held in store for me.

_______________________________________________________________________

....So yeah, sorry I didn't get it up last night...I've been really busy with training etc.

Till next time, 

-Thomas 

Chapter the Second.

II.

As if I needed anything else to cement into my mind the fact that I was the center of the universe; the eye of the crazy hurricane we call life—my mom told me not three weeks after our conversation that we were having a baby. Whether it was going to be a boy or a girl, we still did not know, but I was happy. I had gotten what I wanted and now I was sure that God and I were on good terms, even if I didn't understand what that meant.

The excitement and anticipation grew exponentially as Mommy's tummy did. By the time my 4^th birthday rolled around, it was so large that Kevin and I had started making snide remarks about it. She was one of the big mamas now. I even suggested going on walks in the evenings “So that you don't get too fat”, as I told my mom. In reality I wanted to go so I could try out the new bike I has gotten for my birthday, but I thought I was more likely get the desired response if I suggested it coupled with a motive for the party on whose consent the proposed outings hung. I'm sure she saw right through it, but we started going that very evening—that's the kind of parent she was; the best of the best.

Our evening excursions became the focal point of the day of me. Sadly, they were also to become a defining point of my life. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the happy walks. I would ride about ten feet ahead of my parents, always telling them to hurry up because I wanted to go “really fast.” They would walk side by side holding hands, and occasionally when I looked back I saw them with their hands on Mommy's stomach, smiling the most serene of smiles. We lived in a quiet neighborhood and the streets were lined with maple trees. It was all so beautiful.

Everything changed on August 2, 2007. You might even say that it was the beginning of a new life. That night I was dragged into a nightmare. Oh, the walk had started so wonderfully and yet—and yet it seems heartbreak and tragedy nearly always pay their respects when one is at the height of one's familiarity with happiness. We had just finished our dessert and were walking it off. The sun was just lowering itself behind the skyline and it filled the air with a cozy sort of light. But it was all in mockery. I remember the maple leaves rustling in the breeze. I thought it so wonderful, but no, they were whispering ominously of things to come. And come they did.

We were not ten minutes into our walk when it all happened. You might say it was bad luck, simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but luck is a myth; it simply does not exist. I remember a tall man in dark clothing with awful pictures on his sweatshirt walking towards me. The pictures on his clothing were nothing on comparison with the picture of his face, though, for it was animate. And yet at the same time not so. I see it in my dreams to this day: bobbing up and down with its wispy black hair contrasting an inhuman whiteness of complexion. It was like a confrontation with lifeless life for he was torn between those two extremes; he was in agony. His eyes were opened so wide that I thought they may pop out and his mouth was making formless but audible sounds. Even at my young age I could see that a storm was raging inside of him and that it was about to break.

My parents had taught me to smile and say, “Hello” to everyone we met on the street, just as they did, but I couldn't do it this time. I was far too scared. He passed. And I then heard a, “Good evening” from my parents. I can almost hear the smiles, too. Then came the outburst of rage in the form of a stomach-churning yell, and a scream. Mommy's scream. It seems so unfair that a woman of such love, grace, and beauty—that her last utterances came in the way of a scream, but life is not about fairness, as I have come to learn. I turned my head to look around. Everything was a mass of confusion. My mother was down on the sidewalk, apparently tackled by the dark man, simply for wishing him a good evening. He was over her, and his hand was wrapped around a small, dark object. My dad tried to intervene, he jumped between the victim and the assailant, trying to shield the victim and thwart the aggressor. The hand went down. The the hand went up. The hand repeated it's horrid actions for what seemed an age...down...up...down...up. One cannot blame the hand, it was simply doing its job; one cannot blame even the head inside that gruesome face for it was following its heart; a heart so warped by the world and humanity, one could hardly call it human anymore--the heart is a paradox, as is humanity. Once the hand had performed its commands, it returned the object to a pocket and the man ran off into the night, leaving all that was left of my family: three corpses.

I was in shock. As the realization of what had happened started to fill my mind, so did a dark and empty feeling surround my soul. Much like the pools of red darkness that surrounded the now lifeless shapes that, only moments ago, had been my family. You may have expected that I ran to them and buried my tears in their lifelessness, but I couldn't move; I couldn't cry. I was numbed. And, in a sense, left more lifeless than the remains of my family.

By the time my ability for perceiving reality slowly started to come back there was a crowd of shapes on the scene. Then sounds, then lights, then important looking shapes. They came to my family of corpses and I, and backed the rest of the shapes off. What happened before this I can recall only in a vague sense. I remember a car stopping, I remember another scream, eerily like that of my mother. I remember a phone call, and a well-intentioned woman trying to comfort me. That is all. The important looking people—who I, as my perception increased, recognized to be emergency personnel—asked me who I was, but I couldn't find words. They pointed at my mom and dad, “Are these your parents?” I nodded. They proceeded check me for injuries, wrap me in a strange blanket, and take me off to somewhere with a soft mattress, where I slept in a state of semi-consciousness for a long while.

I never saw even the bodies my family again. I was told later that the reason being that they were quite mangled. I will not go into details, both because it pains me and because I think your imagination is up to the task. Imagine as you will. I was also told the dark man was apprehended and convicted of three counts of first degree murder, assault, and possession of an illegal substance. He pleaded insanity and I hope with all my heart that he was. How a human being could do such a thing to a fellow human has been a cause of mystification for me. It is all just so backwards. And the man was barely a legal adult. In later years, I ascertained that he was an orphan who had been brought up by abusive foster parents. Once he was old enough to stand up for himself, at age fifteen, they booted him from their house and he was left to fend for himself.

The description, “Aged fifteen, male.” is not one that pops the words, “mature,” “independent,” or “responsible.” into most people’s minds. Rather, its much more likely that the opposite happens. Especially when the person being described has been forced to lead the gut-wrenching life my family's murderer did. He was in and out of correctional facilities until he was seventeen, at which point he joined a 'real' gang that kept him away from trouble with Cops, but got him into real trouble in the form of drugs, etc. Again, I will not go into details, but you can imagine as you wish.

I guess all this led him to be jealous of my parents serene happiness. In his torment he couldn't bear to see the peace and goodness conveyed by that simple kind gesture. It burst the storm inside him and he became the animal that mercilessly and mechanically carried out a truly monstrous deed. This all may make sense—even add up –to you on this page, but I saw it in action, and no words or thoughts will make sense of those actions for me. How? Just how can one get to that point? That point which is so incomprehensibly beneath the natural state of human nature; the state in which we are born.

And fate.

Fate left me an orphan, by the hands of an orphan who, as a result of being orphaned carried out the deed that left me an orphaned. Was I to share in the fate of that orphan? Was I to be abused and brought up under pitiful circumstances? Was I—could I possibly find myself, years later, burdened with the blood-weight of human life? That, only time told me, and that, only a smaller lapse of time and these literary formulations will tell you. 

Well this is awkward.

For some mysterious reason my computer isn't hooking up to the wifi here...so there are no guarantees for Chapter two tonight...it is ready, though, I just can't get it online. Sorry.

Things are going well here at camp-----and I'm exhausted, so ttfn.

Stay off the streets and outta trouble.


-Thomas

Train trip!

.....And the train has free wifi, so I thought I'd drop in. I've never really done this train thing before and so far I'm loving it. It's just seems so much more relaxed than a plane. Anyway, I'm currently speeding down the West Coast to San Diego for another training camp at the OTC. It should be good. The other cool thing about being on a train is that everyone stops for you. It makes one feel so important; all those cars lined up, powerless to do anything but wait while I pass, all whilst I smile and wave to them...ahhh! The power of it all!

Well, I would talk cleverly about stuff, but I have lines to get down and other things to write, so I'd better sign off.

Take care,

-Thomas