Black Eyes and Whispers

Despite the little man in my ear, telling me I had been foolish and headstrong, I couldn't muster up an ounce of regret. All I knew was that Chris looked like he was seriously going to hurt April and I couldn't let that happen. After that my brain went on auto-pilot and I had no control over my fists.

The sharp throbbing in my eye almost made me remorseful though. I winced, fisting the cover of  April's couch cushion next to me.

April herself came sashaying in a few moments later with ice, all swishy hair and blue eyes. I couldn't help but stare at her like a fool.

"You’re an idiot, Michael," she stated simply. I smiled with only the left side of my mouth and took the ice off her. Carefully, with long and nimble, pen holding fingers that weren't made for fighting, I placed the ice against my eye, almost moaning at the instant relief it provided.

"Better?" she smirked, sitting on the coffee table in front of me and staring at me. I felt like I was being interrogated. Despite this feeling though, I couldn't look away from her big blue eyes. They weren't entirely blue. There were little specks of green dancing around the edges like gate crashers. Close enough to be associated but not close enough to be definitive. Her eyes looked like little ponds and I almost expected to see a fish poke it's head out.

When she clicked in front of my face, I was brought out of my reverie. Immediately, to make matters worse, I felt my ears go bright red.

"Maybe you have a concussion," she said with worry evident in her voice. I felt like going to find Chris again.

"Um, no. No concussion. I promise," insert nervous chuckle. "Just a little distracted, that's all."

"Well, if you're sure," she said uncertainly. I nodded in place of confirmation.

"By the way, the noble heroics and brilliant idea to swoop in and save me, the damsel in distress, is totally falling on deaf ears," she said flippantly, her gaze on my face steady.

I felt my cheeks lift in an involuntary grin, all fondness and mischief.

"Oh really?" I asked, lifting my eyebrow as my older brother, Mark, had taught me.

She nodded and lifted her hand to check her nails.

"Definitely. Knights in shining armour were never really my thing. I was always into the bad boy."

I couldn't help my snarky reply. "I guess that's why you were with Chris."

She looked up at me sharply and rolled her eyes.

"You wouldn't get it."

Now I was curious.

"Explain it to me then," I challenged, adjusting the ice so I could use my other hand. My right one had gone numb from the cold.

She bristled at the insinuation of my reply and sat a little straighter.

"I wasn't with Chris for Chris. I was with Chris for me."

I stared at her quizzically and she sighed dramatically flipping her long hair.

"Do I have to explain everything?" When I didn't reply she continued on.

"When I started dating Chris, my Dad had just moved out. Inside I was this boiling mess of emotions. Anger, regret, sadness, relief, pain; they all fought for control, twisting around in my head. Waves ramming into each other and splashing on the sides of my skull. I felt like I was drowning. And Mum didn't get it. Didn't get why I was so closed off. I was trying to deal with all these emotions wrestling in my brain. She didn't know though and she kept trying to reach out, kept trying to help me but I didn't want help. So I shunned her. She was a target for this anger pulsing through me. This burning anger at my own emotions, at my Dad, at the unfairness of the world. She was the only target I had and so I unleashed it on her. I wanted her to feel alone like I did. I rebelled. And how do teenage girls rebel? They get boyfriends their parents hate. Chris was loud, boisterous, rude. He was the perfect choice. And so I entered the thoroughly regretted Chris era of my life."

I stared at her for a second, trying to come up with a reply around my suddenly thick and unusable tongue. She looked at me expectantly. I wasn't sure how to respond. As much I had admired her from afar, April and I had barely spoken before this day, and now she was bearing her soul to me? Some advice I had received after my brother died drifted lazily into my head and I grasped at it desperately.

"It's okay to miss someone," I said. "And it's expected to be messed up for a while after you lose them. The world's a crappy place and whatever runs it takes whoever they want. It's usually the best people."

She stared at me like I was crazy and I almost lost my resolve but I pushed through, my eyes falling to where my fingers were picking holes in my jeans.

"But if you let it effect you like this, you let it win. You sink into depression and anger, you hurt the ones you love. You give it complete control. You gotta move past it, move on with your life and not let it effect you. You miss them the same way you miss a limb, but you have to continue your life as an emotional paraplegic." My eyes raised to meet her inquisitive blue ones. It was hard talking around the ice pack but I powered through. "Then you can put the whole Chris thing behind you. He doesn't define you, not in the slightest and I hate that you feel like he's a part of you because he's not."

She stared at me and I stared back. My heart was jackhammering in my chest and I wondered if I had crossed an unspoken line. The silence told me I had.

As this damning silence stretched on, a tight feeling filled my chest. The feeling of panic. I had ruined it. She had come out and shared her deepest secrets with me and I had repaid the favour by telling her how to live her life. What was I thinking?

"Look, if I was out of line, I get it. It was none of my business and why would you want to take advice from me anyway, right? I mean-"

"Your brother died, didn't he?"

I froze mid sentence and stared at her, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

After a few seconds, I managed to reply. "I-umm...yeah. Grade 5. House fire," I stuttered out.

She nodded and closed the few steps between us, kneeling in front of me. With feather soft fingers, she took the ice away from my eye and examined the bruising. I studied her face up close. Spattered across her cheeks and nose, she had very faint freckles. Just a handful. Like someone had dropped a container of them when designing her.

And her lips. All soft and round and pink. They were presently pursed in thought while she studied my eye and they were gorgeous.

"I think a bruise is inevitable, I'm sorry."

I shrugged and tried to play it off cool, even though I knew my parents would flip the desk when they saw.

"Why are you apologising? Besides, it's no biggie. Not my first one."

She laughed softly, covering her mouth with her hand. I winced and scratched my forehead.

"That obvious, eh?"

She just smiled at me.

"A little. You're a nice guy. You write poems and listen to ballads. You don't get into fights."

I scoffed. "How would you know? And for the record, I write stories. Never written a poem in my life. Ballads are good though!" She chuckled and sat back on the coffee table.

"Yeah? What's your favourite?" she asked. I felt like she was trying to change the topic but I was more than happy to comply.

"The Fray, maybe. Maroon 5 have a few good ones. Oh, and P!nk has a few that just, you know, speak to me," I mumbled the ending and felt my ears burn again.

She nodded vigorously though.

"Yes! 'Family Portrait' was my anthem! She's a genius."

I grinned and sat a little straighter.

"What do you like to listen to?"

She considered the question and answered.

"I kind of listen to everything. I went through my rock phase, my pop phase, my rap phase. There was even this one stage when I was obsessed with Bob Marley." We both chuckled.

"Bob Marley was legendary, don't be ashamed of that."

She regarded me curiously and I couldn't help but straighten my shirt self-consciously.

"You're an odd one, Michael." My heart sank to the bottoms of my shoes. She kept going though.

"I thought I knew you, or your type at least. But I've never met anyone like you."

I mustered up the courage I'd been feeling that night, left over from the quickly fading adrenaline, and answered.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Definitely a good thing."

"Well, you're pretty special yourself. And I get the feeling you don't know it," I countered, sitting forward.

She simply scoffed and looked down.

My chest filled with a tight, desperate urge to make her see how great she was.

"You don't even get it, do you? You're...you're different. I've never met anyone like you and I don’t think anyone ever will. When people meet you, they change. They become better people, more confident, happier. And that's all just you being you. And you don't even know…"

She was watching me intently, the whole power of her icy eyes fixed on me.

"What about you? How did I help you? If I'm so great, why do you have a black eye?"

I laughed.

"What?" she demanded.

"I have a black eye because you're so great. I wouldn't have done it if you weren't! I mean, the fact that you got me, Michael Johnson, to throw a punch first, speaks volumes about how you inspire people."

She still didn’t look convinced so I pushed on with fervour.

"I've only ever been this wimpy, skinny kid that takes moments and puts them into words and you turn up and I change. I throw a punch at the biggest, baddest kid in school. That’s the most exhilarating, fulfilling thing I've probably ever done. And it happened because of you. You single-handedly made my life more exciting."

She stared at me for a long time after that. Just studying my face. I kept it impassive so she would know I was serious.

After a while, she reached out with one hand and grazed mine. Her fingertips were cool and feather soft.

"Do you wanna stay here tonight, Michael?" she asked me. I went red and she chuckled.

"Not like that. Just so we're close. I just...I think I want you around for a while."

I was more than happy to stick around for as long as she needed me.

High School

Do you ever feel like you're moving but you're not really moving? 

Like, you're going to class but you're not actually going anywhere. 

You move along in this endless dance filled with classes and semis and teachers and extra-curriculars and  work experience forms and at the time it all seems like the most important thing in the world.

But when you leave school, when you enter the massive world, too big for you to comprehend and even then, tiny compared to the entire universe, none of the stuff is going to matter to you. 

You move so fast through high school, running to class, to the tuckshop line, to resource hire or the office but you never really go anywhere at all. 

You're stationery and everything that's important to you is an illusion that, in three years, you won't even remember. 

That's a scary thought.

Glitter

His eyes were filled with glitter.

He would trot down the road, turning his sparkly gaze on anything in his path. The trees, so tall and colourful, would fall victim to the rays of his luminescent eyes. He would see giraffes with manes, swaying with the wind.

The cars would become giant beetles, the houses were space ships, the people were pirates and ballerinas and astronauts and presidents.

Everything was his and his alone. He was the master of the world.

The adults didn't understand though.

When he told his teacher a tale of the alien he saw eating a banana on the way to school, she simply frowned and asked him to wait outside. Assuming she wanted more details on the alien, he complied, clutching his bag straps with dimpled knuckles.

She was less concerned about the alien though, and more concerned about him. She took him the Principal's office where they called his mother and father.

When his parents got there, his teacher gave him a book and told him to wait outside. He did as he was told, flipping through the pages and trailing his fingers over the colourful pictures. After what seemed like a lifetime to his idle mind, the door opened.

His mother came out with teary eyes and picked him up, placing him on her hip. In the way that mothers and their sons often do, they instinctively embraced each other. His soft, young arms wound themselves around her neck, and her motherly embrace tightened around him, holding him tightly to her chest. She asked him about his tales. He saw no reason to lie and told her of the things he saw. He told her about telling the other kids in his class. She got very teary at this point.

The Principal then started using words like 'psychologist' and 'delusion' and 'recovery.' The words scared him so he looked out the window and watched as the buildings danced in the wind.

After that day, he didn't go to school very often and when he did, the other kids would treat him strangely. When he offered to tell a story, instead of jumping at the chance as they once would have, they shied away and left him alone.

On the days he didn't go to school, the lady in white would come and talk to him. He didn't know why she always wore white. He thought that must get boring after a while.

She would ask him if he saw anything unusual in the room, other than them. He told her he wasn't sure if the lollipops stuck to the ceiling were unusual or not.

As the days wore on and his mother started giving him pills with his breakfast, his eyes became less and less filled with glitter. He no longer saw the pretty things as he walked down the street. He saw ordinary people, spilling their coffee or talking quickly into phones. He saw dull coloured cars with loud motors, and grey buildings. The world was such an ugly place when you took out the patterns and colours.

The boy grew as the years passed. He got a haircut, his dimples faded, he was no longer chubby. In the place of the young boy with a larger-than-life imagination, was a lanky, moody teenager with headphones and snarky replies. His mother would try to talk to him but he would simply put his headphones back on and ignore her. As his world had darkened, so had he.

He didn't have many friends at school, preferring to sit on his own at lunch. The teachers labelled him antisocial and his grades, once nearly flawless, were slipping, swirling down the drain with his morale and ambition.

The days grew long, the nights even longer. Sleep eluded him and he was forced to analyse the cruelties of life all night long, and god was he tired.

Day by day, he grew sadder and sadder, angrier and angrier. He was fed up, he was livid, he was melancholy. More than anything though, he missed the days when the trees would sing and dance. They had stopped dancing, becoming more solitary with every pill his mother gave him to swallow.

One night, as he sat at his desk, contemplating the injustice of the educational system and drawing, he felt a tear slide down his nose. Just one. And that opened the flood gates. With no-one awake in his ghostly house to hear him, he sobbed heartily onto his notepad. He was tired, so tired.

They had done it.

The world had broken the sparkly eyed boy.

That was just a short story I threw together. Its kind of bittersweet, I think. Let me know what you thought below.

Until next time,

Jimmy xo

Introductions

The name's Newell. Jazmin Newell. But call me Jimmy.

I'm fifteen and a full-time dork. I love movies and books and music and kinda everything in between. Script writing, movie reviewing, publishing, editing, copyrighting, directing, sound production, talent scouting, producing, novel-writing, short story writing - you name it, I've considered it a career choice at some point.

This blog, in-spite-of-all-the-danger.blogspot.com.au, will be dedicated to pretty much anything that inspires me. Whether it be a movie review, album review, story I've written, short bucket list or rant. This is my page to simply blergh and you, my gorgeous friends, are the guinea pigs.

By the way, if you know where my url is from, we could probably be friends. Admittedly, I only became a fan of that genre recently, but it didn't take long for me to fall in love.

I would love to interact with anyone who takes the time out of their day to read my rambling so please don't be shy! 

Until next time,

Jimmy xo