Chapter 1: Wailing Flower

I did it again tonight… It’s because I couldn’t sleep. Yes, it’s because of that that my mind conjured up the wish for it again. It’s like I am on autopilot; I didn’t even realize how hastily I started. My eyes tried to follow the screen in darkness and my fingers found themselves onto the cold phone case. Before long, my mind was abundantly stimulated by those vile videos. I couldn’t bear myself afterward: I threw the phone down to the ground and went to take a long shower. The screen cracked. I told myself I would quit time and time again, yet here I am, writing. Perhaps I can get at least one more hour of sleep? Never mind. If only the sunlight wouldn’t pierce through my covers, blinding me so fiercely in my bed. Even the sun seems to mock me.

Mother left me money for lunch. I can’t remember the last time she had time to make breakfast before work. Ever since that promotion she hasn’t spent any time with me. In the morning she is already gone, in the evenings she goes to sleep. I would be lucky to have a conversation longer than two sentences now. I wonder if she is still my Mom, or a woman who commonly provides me allowance. I don’t like the office lady living in my house… I miss my Mother.

Crap, I didn’t finish my homework. Ah… but I promised. I swore I wouldn’t let it happen again. No, I can’t do it again – to be degraded before the whole class by miss Kennings. It’s the second time. Should I skip? No, she will call the Principal… and the Principal will call my Mother. I can’t. How much time do I have? Ah, the bus is here!

Why must it be 8 am? Every day I have to travel here only to learn nothing substantial. When was the last time I learned something practical? Yes, I will surely use the knowledge of Alexander the Great’s victories in my mundane life. From conquering the world to being stuck in a concrete box for six hours… That’s what I learned.

Breaks are horrible. No one could ever understand how loathsome it is to sit alone on an uncomfortable bench next to a person I don’t know. My eyes wandered across the dull linoleum floor in search of a distraction. Fluorescent lights hummed above, casting everything in an artificial, sterile glow, as if I were sitting in a waiting room rather than a school. Oh, if only my phone wasn’t low on battery! I probably looked like an idiot with my head down like that. Why do I even hold my hands like that? Probably those girls were laughing at me. They started chuckling only when they passed me. I couldn’t stop thinking about my room, oh, how attractive that usually dreadful place looks.

If God is supposed to be real, then I am sure he wouldn’t place two classes of literature one after another. How unnatural it is to sit in that classroom. Before every period the teacher always opens the windows during breaks, so the room remains terribly cold. This atrocity is carried out even in winters! As you step into the classroom you are punched with a wall of cold air, and as you sit with a shiver, you can feel your sweat turn into icicles. But worst of all, the greatest disaster is to remain awake. How unbearably boring these lessons are! For grueling 45 minutes we sit shivering in the classroom, listening to one of us read while trying to hold your eyes open.

And of course it had to be me today. Just perfect. For a little while the whole classroom fell into unbearable silence. The room was too quiet. Too still. My fingers fumbled, tracing the page’s edges. Suddenly, a raspy voice punctured the silence, “Lucas, you read.” I stumbled on my words like a third grader. My voice broke twice. I sounded like such a fool. My hands shook on the thin yellow paper, trying to follow the lines. Everyone hates when it’s my turn to read – I am sure of it; I know it for certain. Is it my fault that I have minor dyslexia? Why couldn’t a person who actually reads books be called? I hate reading. My voice rings unnaturally through the classroom, everyone heard the cracks in my tone. They probably became frustrated when I stuttered. How pitiful I am.

I was saved when the teacher called another student to read. But I could feel everyone’s eyes, like needles, puncturing my skin. A naked sheep among a pack of wolves. I could feel their relief, the unspoken gratitude that my turn was finally over. I could hear the girl in front of me sigh, she probably became annoyed with me. The classroom became unusually warm and I could not raise my eyes from my desk. It felt like the whole environment became perilous at once and if I were to look up, a great monster would await me. Not only that, but I can’t remember a thing I read. One would think that reading audibly leaves a mark on one’s memory, but that’s not the case. Oh, what do I do now, Alexander the Great?

That’s right. I have to complete today’s shopping, since Mother has a meeting today. I can’t help but miss the person she was. I know, it’s wrong, it’s not what a son should be thinking. But I hate this version of Mother. This old, taciturn lady that I feel like I don’t even know. I remember how happy she was, how her smile seemed to outshine the sun, her eyes twinkled fiercer than the brightest stars in the sky. And yet… now, when I look at this woman, I struggle to even say ‘I love you’.

Convenience stores… We have four in one little town. Is it the competition of these companies, or just foolishness to overrun the town with seamless stores? Four big stores shine on the horizon; four desolate buildings, all reaching for the same. I have never understood the need to travel to all; to me, all of them give products of reasonable quality. Even getting close to these buildings is a challenge in itself. The entrance must always be pointed in the direction where the most amount of cars passes. I was almost run over one time.

People. People everywhere. I don’t get why many walk around the whole store, even when they know everything they need. For me, I just want to get out of this people-prison as hastily as I can. So many individuals mindlessly walking around – they remind me of robots. One time, I heard a little family get into an argument over an item they didn’t play on buying. “Honey, but it’s on sale, I tell you!” the wife whined. The husband, with steam going out of his ears, turned the other way. A beautiful family, transformed into beasts over an item just because it’s on sale. All because of a neon sticker screaming, 'DON’T MISS OUT!'—as if the world would end without it.

Such little hallways, it’s hard enough to squeeze by mere people, and, lord help me, if they are with a shopping cart. I just need to open this little fridge for some ham – oh, it’s obstructed. Better turn around. One time, I got such an earful for pushing the cart by a few centimeters. My cheeks burned from embarrassment, and I remember the hum from the fridge better than the chastise. I constantly see people with shopping carts, and in them – no more than one product. I remember when I was a kid, I always carried this basket for Mother. I remember I was really happy to help… Well, where have they disappeared? And where have everybody’s hands gone?

One thing can’t go unappreciated though. Perhaps God is real, and he created self-service cash registers. I could bow down to the ground right now for the person that came up with such a genius idea. Since childhood, I’ve been repulsed by cashiers. All of these middle-aged ladies seem so judge me so wonderfully. Just as I stand ready to hand the cash, I can see their eyes gaze through my all being with pure hatred. They seem to mock my whole soul in its entirety. “This little idiot…” they think. If truly evil people exist I am sure they would be cashiers.

One by one, the products go into the self-checkout. One by one, I scan the products—under the watchful gaze of an employee standing guard, like a dragon protecting its castle. I can always feel goosebumps building on my arms from the sheer dedication to observe me as I work towards the purchase, but at the very least, I am not eye-to-eye with these beings. “What kid buys tampons?” she must be thinking. It’s my Mother’s list. It’s not mine. Oh, I just want to disappear from the embarrassment.

I always miss the bus when it’s my time to shop for groceries. My steps grow increasingly faster, clutching the uncomfortable plastic bag which painfully digs into my fingers. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, because home awaits me. Many monotone buildings pass by, many loud cars drive by, and the bag keeps swinging side to side in my hands. Home, home, home… I didn’t think of anything else.

I opened the door and my mouth released such a relaxing exhale. Socks litter the floor, trash piles up, and the smell is... manageable. Heaven, this is heaven, I tell you. As I step inside, the air is thick with the faint scent of old food and stale clothes, but it doesn't bother me. If anything, it welcomes me back. The bag is set on the kitchen table and I go straight to my room. Clothes are everywhere, bottles, cans, an unfinished bowl – my sanctuary. I connected the charger to my phone and turned on my computer. Finally, I could breathe, I could relax. I could feel the restrain abate from my muscles, the feeling of my musty rug. I clicked my mouse, and I don’t remember how I lost two hours of my life.

The last time I cleaned my room was… whatever. I always say to myself that I will pick up the dirty clothes from the ground, that I will vacuum my carpet. For two weeks, I kept telling myself to take out the trash. But I have no time. What difference does it make? I already got used to the smell of dirty socks and worn shirts… I could do it now, but I am writing, so I’ll do it later. For certain. I just don’t have enough time to clean.

What a blessing it is to have everything delivered at your doorstep! All hail technology, I can just place an order in an app and get my food in 30 minutes. No longer one must make unbearable exasperating calls to fast-food joints. Spare me the embarrassment. I turned on the app. The paralyzing glow of the screen, the silence of the room that ensued summoned forth a question that always visits me like an old friend: “What should I get?” With so many choices, so many available items it is like my mind became stagnant of choice at all. In the end, I didn’t order anything.

Mother came back home. Again, I have to deal with this nonsense. I got screamed at for not being “tidy”, for not doing homework, for not being “considerate”. To hell with all of this. I did what she asked, I bought the groceries, I even made dinner for her, and yet… Oh, to hell with this! Is it my fault I’m drowning in school, forcing myself to get good grades, to talk to people, to not chew my nails to the bone?! I can’t deal with people, I hate people. I hate socializing. I abhor it all, I can’t do it. Furthermore, even when I get home, even when I try to relax, oh, it is always my fault that the dishes are undone and the laundry is unfinished. It is always my fault! Well, maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the case if you paid more attention to your own son!

It is like the world is plotting against my downfall…

At times like these, I always watch the stars through my window. The cold air breeze always soothes my nerves, patting my skin with such gentleness. I love to talk with the stars. They twinkle happily above in the dark; If only I could drift among them, weightless, free from all this noise. I can’t help but reminisce about the past. One day, I will be looking at the night sky, and the stars will tell me how brightly I shine…