Post by thecurtain on Oct 18, 2011 11:01:41 GMT -5
Children don’t do well with ambiguity. In the early stages of their lives, their thirst for knowledge and learning is unparalleled. Thus, being told that they cannot know something or that they will understand when they’re older is difficult for them to accept. Mysteries must be delved into. Secrets are maddening. Lies are unacceptable.
The worst response Mac could have given to the inquiries about his location the past two weeks was an off-hand and nervous, “Nowhere.”
“Whaddya mean, nowhere?” one of his friends demanded, his expression clouding over briefly before lighting up with excitement over the potential revealed secret. “You were gone for so long!”
“You missed three kickball games!” exclaimed another, looking hurt. “We lost all of ‘em! You shoulda been there!”
“You missed my birthday!” a third chimed in.
Mac bit the inside of his lip. “I was sick,” he explained finally, clenching both hands behind his back. “I was real sick. I had to stay in bed all day! It was awful!”
“What were you sick with?!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?!”
His crowd of friends began to collapse in on him. Growing nervous, Mac backed up, clenching fists even tighter. Unobservable to any of them, a stray washer that had found its way into the mulch at their feet shuddered. “I, uh.” His chest tightened, with both the intensity with which they all watched him, and the weight of the lies on his tongue. “I had food poisoning.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you eat something you’re not supposed to and it tries to rip a hole in your stomach.”
Many of them murmured in disbelief.
“What?”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Well, it’s true! I had to throw up for two whole weeks just to get it all out in time!”
“Mac, you’re lying,” accused a girl, sneering a little. “There’s no way it took that long!”
“I--I…ate a lot of it!”
“Why?!”
The zipper on his jacket shook, and he was becoming intensely aware of the playground, now, the screws holding plastic slides and ramps together, the chains and poles of the swing sets, the all-iron monkey bars. Every single bit of metal his friends had on them. That esoteric knowledge made his heart pound harder, made the rattling on his jacket more and more prominent.
“It tasted good!” he insisted simply, desperate to get off the subject. “Hey, so what else did I--"
“How could something that rips holes in you taste good??” someone demanded.
“I--” Mac’s already questionable control was slipping away fast, and he couldn’t believe his classmates didn’t notice when their own zippers and snaps and clasps began to rattle.
“He’s totally lying!” shouted one of the boys in the back.
It was as kerosene on a slowly-burning campfire. Like dry logs, one by one his classmates ignited into agreement. “Yeah! Whoever heard of food ripping stomachs?!”
“Don’t be a liar, Mac!”
They drew in on him, and he drew in on himself, having nowhere else to go.
“I…I’m not…”
“Tell the truth!”
When the boy closest to him finally came near enough to grab his wrist, Mac lost it.
In a sickening wave suddenly tangible to everyone, the crowd collapsing in on him from all sides were pushed backwards, led by the bits of metal on their persons. Further and further they were shoved, wrenching swing sets and monkey bars out of the ground, sending other children on a short trajectory into the air.
“Macbeth!” a teacher screeched, pushing towards him as he fell to his knees. He tried to clench his fists and make his powers stop, but by now he was too scared. The wave kept the teacher at bay by its grasp on her dress’s zipper, the innards of her watch, the snaps and buckles and various contents of her purse. Though they tried, no one could get near him, until finally the bubble around him subsided, leaving him calmer but still shaking with frustration and fear.
He opened his eyes. All around him, teachers inspected his classmates for injuries. The more he noticed their swiftly-forming bruises, their faces stuck in various stages of tears and horror, the bright red blood trickling down a few cheeks, the more terrified Mac grew of these strange, awful powers of his.
A teacher was on one side of him, suddenly, screaming his name, and with a tight grip Mac was too shocked to struggle out of, he dragged the boy to his feet. Mac didn’t remember much after that, not the way the metal edges of bulletin boards and chalkboards shook warningly as he passed them in the hallways, not the hundred pairs of eyes that followed him when their owners were too afraid to move. He did remember, very firmly, the bruising the grip left on his wrist for days, the deceptive comfort of the chair he was led to, the way the principal watched him, close and wary, as he dialed his office phone and spoke to Mac’s mother.
Mac tuned out the conversation, his focus used up trying to keep the metal around him, as well as his hands, from shaking. It didn’t last long, anyway, and about a half an hour later, Mac was being led to his mother’s car. The October chill outside had nothing on her voice and expression as she bargained with the principal for her son and ushered him into the backseat.
Until two weeks ago, when upon seeing his hospital chart with “NEXT” etched on it in messy red letters she had collapsed in a fit of bereaved sobbing as if the four symbols together were a death sentence, Mac had never feared to speak to his mother. But then again, until that time her features had never been this stony, this cold. And besides, he didn’t know what he should say.
The silence only lasted a few minutes, anyway, as they drove back onto the main road. “I see you only lasted a half a day,” she commented, in a tone that made Mac sink down in his seat until his seatbelt almost choked him. “That nurse said you could control yourself.”
Mac swallowed, his throat pushing against the tightness of the seatbelt. He mumbled something, inaudible.
“What, Macbeth? Speak up! We only brought you home because we thought you wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, still feeling the sensation of the short knife blade stuck in his back. “I was scared,” he tried to explain. The quiet, shaky voice didn’t seem terribly sure of itself.
“You were at school! Recess! What in the world was there to be afraid of?!”
Her voice was growing shrill. Mac started to wish fervently that this could all be a dream, that none of it had ever happened.
“Everyone was asking where I was,” he answered, smally. “And I--”
“I thought I told you to tell them you got food poisoning!”
“I did!” He looked up at her reflection in the rearview mirror, earnest. “I did! But they didn’t believe me!”
She had already tuned him out. “Now they’ll all know what you are,” she predicted, voice halfway between despair and disgust. “Even if the kids don’t catch on, they’re bound to tell their parents. The school could put out a bulletin!” She pulled the car to a sudden stop at a yellow light, barely halting in time to miss the car in front of her. Staring at the light as it switched to red, she wrung her hands, desperation featuring prominently on what parts of her face Mac could see. “We can’t afford to send you to private school,” she murmured nervously to herself. “We might have to move…”
“Move?” The word sent an unpleasant twang down his back. “Why?"
"To a place where no one knows what you are. So we can live normal lives...!" Green light. The car accelerated fast, pinning Mac to his seat.
"But--"
"Don't argue with me, Macbeth. Start packing when we get home." He stared at her. "I'll see if the hospital won't take you back for a couple more days until it's safe for you to be around people."
"But I don't need to go to the hospital!" he protested, eyes wide. "I can control it, I just got scared!" The nurse had been nice enough, but he didn't want to go back. It was too...white, too not-home.
"I said don't argue!" The car swung a turn wide, nearly sending Mac's torso tumbling into the other seat. "You are going to the hospital, for everyone's safety!"
"Only hurt and sick people go to the hospital!" Mac's small fists clenched again, realizing that the metal car in which they rode could easily become a death trap for them both if he couldn't calm down.
"Oh, you are sick, Macbeth," his mother told him, face grim as she kept her eyes on the road. "You are very, very sick."
The worst response Mac could have given to the inquiries about his location the past two weeks was an off-hand and nervous, “Nowhere.”
“Whaddya mean, nowhere?” one of his friends demanded, his expression clouding over briefly before lighting up with excitement over the potential revealed secret. “You were gone for so long!”
“You missed three kickball games!” exclaimed another, looking hurt. “We lost all of ‘em! You shoulda been there!”
“You missed my birthday!” a third chimed in.
Mac bit the inside of his lip. “I was sick,” he explained finally, clenching both hands behind his back. “I was real sick. I had to stay in bed all day! It was awful!”
“What were you sick with?!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?!”
His crowd of friends began to collapse in on him. Growing nervous, Mac backed up, clenching fists even tighter. Unobservable to any of them, a stray washer that had found its way into the mulch at their feet shuddered. “I, uh.” His chest tightened, with both the intensity with which they all watched him, and the weight of the lies on his tongue. “I had food poisoning.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you eat something you’re not supposed to and it tries to rip a hole in your stomach.”
Many of them murmured in disbelief.
“What?”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Well, it’s true! I had to throw up for two whole weeks just to get it all out in time!”
“Mac, you’re lying,” accused a girl, sneering a little. “There’s no way it took that long!”
“I--I…ate a lot of it!”
“Why?!”
The zipper on his jacket shook, and he was becoming intensely aware of the playground, now, the screws holding plastic slides and ramps together, the chains and poles of the swing sets, the all-iron monkey bars. Every single bit of metal his friends had on them. That esoteric knowledge made his heart pound harder, made the rattling on his jacket more and more prominent.
“It tasted good!” he insisted simply, desperate to get off the subject. “Hey, so what else did I--"
“How could something that rips holes in you taste good??” someone demanded.
“I--” Mac’s already questionable control was slipping away fast, and he couldn’t believe his classmates didn’t notice when their own zippers and snaps and clasps began to rattle.
“He’s totally lying!” shouted one of the boys in the back.
It was as kerosene on a slowly-burning campfire. Like dry logs, one by one his classmates ignited into agreement. “Yeah! Whoever heard of food ripping stomachs?!”
“Don’t be a liar, Mac!”
They drew in on him, and he drew in on himself, having nowhere else to go.
“I…I’m not…”
“Tell the truth!”
When the boy closest to him finally came near enough to grab his wrist, Mac lost it.
In a sickening wave suddenly tangible to everyone, the crowd collapsing in on him from all sides were pushed backwards, led by the bits of metal on their persons. Further and further they were shoved, wrenching swing sets and monkey bars out of the ground, sending other children on a short trajectory into the air.
“Macbeth!” a teacher screeched, pushing towards him as he fell to his knees. He tried to clench his fists and make his powers stop, but by now he was too scared. The wave kept the teacher at bay by its grasp on her dress’s zipper, the innards of her watch, the snaps and buckles and various contents of her purse. Though they tried, no one could get near him, until finally the bubble around him subsided, leaving him calmer but still shaking with frustration and fear.
He opened his eyes. All around him, teachers inspected his classmates for injuries. The more he noticed their swiftly-forming bruises, their faces stuck in various stages of tears and horror, the bright red blood trickling down a few cheeks, the more terrified Mac grew of these strange, awful powers of his.
A teacher was on one side of him, suddenly, screaming his name, and with a tight grip Mac was too shocked to struggle out of, he dragged the boy to his feet. Mac didn’t remember much after that, not the way the metal edges of bulletin boards and chalkboards shook warningly as he passed them in the hallways, not the hundred pairs of eyes that followed him when their owners were too afraid to move. He did remember, very firmly, the bruising the grip left on his wrist for days, the deceptive comfort of the chair he was led to, the way the principal watched him, close and wary, as he dialed his office phone and spoke to Mac’s mother.
Mac tuned out the conversation, his focus used up trying to keep the metal around him, as well as his hands, from shaking. It didn’t last long, anyway, and about a half an hour later, Mac was being led to his mother’s car. The October chill outside had nothing on her voice and expression as she bargained with the principal for her son and ushered him into the backseat.
Until two weeks ago, when upon seeing his hospital chart with “NEXT” etched on it in messy red letters she had collapsed in a fit of bereaved sobbing as if the four symbols together were a death sentence, Mac had never feared to speak to his mother. But then again, until that time her features had never been this stony, this cold. And besides, he didn’t know what he should say.
The silence only lasted a few minutes, anyway, as they drove back onto the main road. “I see you only lasted a half a day,” she commented, in a tone that made Mac sink down in his seat until his seatbelt almost choked him. “That nurse said you could control yourself.”
Mac swallowed, his throat pushing against the tightness of the seatbelt. He mumbled something, inaudible.
“What, Macbeth? Speak up! We only brought you home because we thought you wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, still feeling the sensation of the short knife blade stuck in his back. “I was scared,” he tried to explain. The quiet, shaky voice didn’t seem terribly sure of itself.
“You were at school! Recess! What in the world was there to be afraid of?!”
Her voice was growing shrill. Mac started to wish fervently that this could all be a dream, that none of it had ever happened.
“Everyone was asking where I was,” he answered, smally. “And I--”
“I thought I told you to tell them you got food poisoning!”
“I did!” He looked up at her reflection in the rearview mirror, earnest. “I did! But they didn’t believe me!”
She had already tuned him out. “Now they’ll all know what you are,” she predicted, voice halfway between despair and disgust. “Even if the kids don’t catch on, they’re bound to tell their parents. The school could put out a bulletin!” She pulled the car to a sudden stop at a yellow light, barely halting in time to miss the car in front of her. Staring at the light as it switched to red, she wrung her hands, desperation featuring prominently on what parts of her face Mac could see. “We can’t afford to send you to private school,” she murmured nervously to herself. “We might have to move…”
“Move?” The word sent an unpleasant twang down his back. “Why?"
"To a place where no one knows what you are. So we can live normal lives...!" Green light. The car accelerated fast, pinning Mac to his seat.
"But--"
"Don't argue with me, Macbeth. Start packing when we get home." He stared at her. "I'll see if the hospital won't take you back for a couple more days until it's safe for you to be around people."
"But I don't need to go to the hospital!" he protested, eyes wide. "I can control it, I just got scared!" The nurse had been nice enough, but he didn't want to go back. It was too...white, too not-home.
"I said don't argue!" The car swung a turn wide, nearly sending Mac's torso tumbling into the other seat. "You are going to the hospital, for everyone's safety!"
"Only hurt and sick people go to the hospital!" Mac's small fists clenched again, realizing that the metal car in which they rode could easily become a death trap for them both if he couldn't calm down.
"Oh, you are sick, Macbeth," his mother told him, face grim as she kept her eyes on the road. "You are very, very sick."