[Other Original] (Working Title)

AlexMonroe · Aug 13, 2014

*An Original Narrative*

(Working Title)

Prologue (Or Before Arrival)

Recently, as you are no doubt soon to be aware, my computer has become my only form of solace. I've never been one to keep a journal, and certainly not a diary, but since it seems like I may never be able to tell this story to anyone ever again in my life, it's a nice feeling to start typing away and remember that the past has, indeed, passed, and I am not simply lost in an extended dream state (Although, to be honest, that would be far preferable). And hopefully, going through every detail will assure me once and for all that it's not my fault, whether or not I'll ever stop regretting it.

It began, or at least the beginning I have chosen did, on No Interruptions Day, 2014, of all days, and in keeping with the tradition of holiday, I'd like to ask you to follow it's one straightforward command. You may know that date better as New Year's Eve, but as, like I said, it is probable everyone knows it as such, I feel the need to appreciate all overlooked sides of it, not just the most famous aspect. I find most days become far more exciting when you learn about the obscure reasons for celebrating each and every one.

Alice, Tara, Jeff, Grace, and I were off to the formermost's beach house for the occasion, the middlemost relieving her of driving duty for the time being, and the lattermost, myself, resting her head on my shoulder as she was being rocked to sleep by the gentle bumping and vibrating of our car. Truthfully, I was not being the most hospitable pillow, as the bluetooth speakers had begun blaring Disney music just a few minutes before, and all of us (minus Alice), an unconventional band of teenagers, were singing along to I'll Make a Man Out of You at the tops of our lungs. I didn't realize how loudly I'd been shouting the lyrics until she lifted her head off of me and I turned to her.

"Hey, Tom?" she addressed me (Appropriate, as that was my name). "Would you maybe mind singing a little quieter?"

She was asking sweetly, and I knew from her tone and the fact that her rarely-obscured smile was still plain on her face that she hadn't actually been bothered too much, and may have even found it rather funny, but I felt guilty right away.

"Oh, sorry," I said right away, my voice suddenly softer, but substantially higher. "Really, I'll be quiet."

"It's fine," she said, shadowing a laugh, something she was quite well-known for. "I didn't actually super mind."

"Well, I know, but still. I am sorry."

"Really, it's fine," she insisted, and I knew if I said anything more that she'd start to feel bad that I felt bad about making her ears feel bad.

"Well, okay. But I'll definitely try to be . . ." I trailed off, smiling as I did, and before I could go all the way silent, I was laughing, and she was laughing, and she laid her head back down next to mine, and I rested mine on hers, pausing only briefly beforehand to kiss her forehead. And I was completely, 100% content to just silently mouth the words of Prince Ali as it came on (Which, once you know me better, will seem more like the profound compliment to Alice that it was).

* * *

Chapter One (Or Long Before Arrival)

Somehow, I seem to already find myself regretting the beginning to my story that I chose. The truth is, the prologue you've read happens somewhere in the beginning, or the middle, or the ending, depending on what exact story I'm telling. And I'm sorry to say that the only way to have that make sense is to tell you the beginning, the real beginning, from the start.

My parents are and always have been happily married, a surprisingly rare novelty I didn't begin appreciate until I was five, when I met the first child of divorced parents I'd ever known. His name was Jordan, and upon meeting him at my elementary school back in Sydney, we'd struck up a conversation almost immediately about the potential taste of leaves. As mere year-one students, the prospect of trying to eat something we'd found boring our entire lives was strangely exciting, and so it wasn't long before we'd made our way onto the playground for morning tea (A required break in the school day for all commonwealth countries. Ah, to be a young, stereotypical Englishman), gone to the nearest tree we could find, and torn off one green morsel each.

"At the same time, okay?" I said, a regrettably strong lisp slurring my S and Ts.

"Okay," Jordan said, eyeing his leaf with extreme interest.

"I'm gonna count down. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—"

As I prepared to say Go, as any reasonable toddler would have, Jordan seemed unaware of the additional beat, and stuffed the leaf in his mouth as I stood there, watching him as his face contorted, both from the bitterness of the apparently unappetizing foliage, and from surprise that the boy he'd met an hour ago at school while working in a coloring book, which was clearly meant to be the basis of a long, thriving relationship, stood there and made no motion to eat his leaf. Jordan felt cheated.

"Hey, you didn't eat it!" he called, spitting out the remains of his taste test. "You're a liar!"

Before I could react, Jordan kicked my shins, and I fell down to my knees, surprised more than anything. I was still wondering what the leaf had tasted like.

"Jordan!" I heard Mrs. Mean, one of the kindest and most warm-hearted people I'd ever met, shout, and the sound of a quick stride told me she was hurrying over. Outcries of other children watching began, many involving key phrases such as "Jordan beat up Thomas!" and "Thomas fell over because he's dumb!" It wasn't a mature audience.

"Jordan," Mrs. Mean said again, now standing over me, as Jordan started to rapid-fire apologies. "You are in trouble, young man. You are going to apologize to Thomas and then you're coming with me to the principal."

Before going anywhere, however, Mrs. Mean offered me her hand, and I reached for it slowly. To be honest, for the past minute I'd just been lying down looking up at the sky. It was surprisingly cloudy, all of a sudden. I wondered if there might be rain.

"Thomas, I'll help you up," she said, as if for whatever reason I hadn't realized her hand was there for my benefit, not hers. I raised my hand and she grabbed it, pulling me up and catching my back on her palm as she did. She dusted me off a bit, then cleared her throat.

"Jordan, what do you say to Thomas?" she asked, though he wouldn't meet her gaze. "Jordan?"

"I'm sorry I kicked you, Thomas," he responded under his breath, his eyes already glistening with tears. I honestly didn't understand why this was becoming such an ordeal. There'd been a simple misunderstanding, Jordan had become rightfully angry (Even if he'd taken it out a little bit aggressively), I'd been kicked, I'd fallen, and I'd gotten over the light pain and was more curious about the weather than upset at anyone.

"It's okay," I said, sincerely, but Mrs. Mean dismissed this.

"I am so sorry Thomas, I'll make sure this is all put right. Now come along, Jordan."

She signaled for him to follow, and the two of them entered the corridor we'd left from to come outside to play, but went the opposite direction, toward the office of Mr. Pike, the principal. As all the other kids resumed their own business of tag and/or hide-and-seek (I was never fully aware what the daily choice was), I just stood there, apathetic and dumbfounded toward the entire situation, to the fact that suddenly my brief pain would cause another child to suffer consequences. The fact that I'd been intending to count down to Go had somehow changed his life, or at least the next few hours of it. I felt so guilty. And I was in awe.

I wasn't sure if Mrs. Mean would pop back out and call for me too, so I just waited in front of the door, watching all my classmates run around the playground and hide from each other. I realized my leaf was still in my hand, and I inspected it for any damage from my fall. My knuckles, which had stayed clenched to protect it when they hit solid ground, were slightly but painlessly grazed, and dusted with a thin layer of dirt. My leaf had been bent along the main stem, splitting it into two parts, and I ripped one half off completely. Without worrying about the disgusted face I'd seen Jordan make, I slipped the piece into my mouth and bit into it.

An unpleasant blend of sweet and sour spread over my taste buds, and trying not to let the thin but sturdy flakes make me gag, I spat out the broken bits of leaf, scraping all I could off my tongue. The flavor was still there, but I at least had some peace-of-mind knowing I'd done all I could to stop it. In fifteen minutes I'd have a peanut-butter and red-plum jam sandwich to wash the rest of it down, and I knew I could take it until then.

I sat down on the doorstep of the corridor, and stuffed the rest of the leaf in my pocket, as a reminder.

* * *

Jordan's mom dropped him off at my house on Saturday, two days later. She, along with my parents, Mr. Pike, and Mrs. Mean had somehow decided the best way to avoid any more issues between us was for us to spend more time together. I would have been very satisfied saying goodbye to Jordan entirely, but my antisocial tendencies tended to be frowned upon while I was younger (Though they still are today—fortunately, I find myself not wanting to be a recluse as much as I did then). And thus, my first official playdate had begun.

It started out with us simply sitting on opposite sides of the old leather couch in my playroom, an age-worn, cat-torn, piece of furniture that, technically, had no more damage than a little wear-and-tear from having lived through three different children's upbringing, but was surely on its last legs by now. It had an old dusty, almost smoky smell to it, which was by now a comforting aroma that reminded me of home, but I was suddenly aware might not be the most pleasant to someone who'd never encountered it before. Jordan was tapping his fingers one by one on the armrest, bouncing his heels against the cushions his legs were drooped over, and I felt a bittersweet relief that at least the couch's scent wasn't the worst thing to him. He was bored, and though I'd never cared about someone's boredom before, I felt personally responsible for this instance. Not because I was being boring, that was what I always did, just sit on the couch and think. That was a staple of a great weekend. No, I felt guilty still that I'd initiated Jordan's first attack on me. Since it had happened, I'd realized the fact that I'd fallen down made the whole issue seem much more dramatic, which had gotten Jordan into far more trouble than he deserved. And because of that, he was now here, sitting on a stranger's couch, with nothing to do but absent-mindedly toy with his motor skills.

I hopped off of the couch, and expected Jordan to do the same, but he didn't. He was looking at my wall instead, which had over fifty nails stuck into it but only four picture frames hanging up in random places, one of which still displaying the placeholder image that came with it. I took a few steps and grabbed the television remote off of the coffee table, plopped back down on the couch, which brought Jordan's attention back to me for the first time in a few minutes. I turned on the system, and when it automatically pulled up the last channel anyone had been watching, Disney Channel, I looked over at him to see if Lilo and Stitch was a good option. He seemed only mildly enthused.

"What do you wanna watch?" I asked, offering him the remote. Before even responding, he'd taken it out of my hand.

"Do you like SportsCenter?" he said, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question, and before I'd said anything, he'd found the channel he was looking for, and the screen filled with the image of an open field filled with a bunch of people running around chasing after a small white ball. From what I'd heard, it looked like something called soccer.

"Uh, sure," I said, knowing now he'd never cared about my answer. I was certain that this boy had been trained extensively the customs of a polite person (Perhaps especially for this playdate), but did not understand for a second what the point of them was. Asking what I liked, that was just a formality to him. He was my guest, and could do whatever he liked (Which was true to some degree, but not quite like this).

"Cool."

For about an hour, we just sat there watching as various programs about sports came on, each no more different than a set of people in different clothes on a different field, sometimes with a different ball. Sports had always been, for the most part, nonexistent in my house, and I liked it that way. And from the fact that Jordan spent a good amount of time getting angry and yelling at the TV, I was reassured that sports were not a pleasant interest.

"You wanna go do something?" I asked at one point, but Jordan never even responded. He was busy jumping up and down on the couch trying to talk to the athletes who were miles and miles away, and had no possible way of hearing him. It almost made me feel better about the fact that he had no sense of manners knowing that, clearly, he was not very intelligent. And I told him so.

"You're stupid," I said, and I crossed my arms and huffed. Jordan didn't care, and just kept jumping.

"Well you're a loser who doesn't even care about soccer!" he responded finally, a commercial taking over the screen long enough for him to jump down onto the couch.

For the first time since Jordan had eaten the leaf, I started to feel glad that he didn't know the customs of counting down, that he'd had to suffer the bitter taste on his own, that he'd gotten into trouble, been forced to apologize over a misunderstanding, and had to come to the house of some kid he didn't know or care about on a day he probably would've rather spent outside on a field emulating his role models, grown men who were paid and arm and a leg to chase after a ball.

I reached my hand into my pocket, and after a second of staring daggers at Jordan, I pulled out the second half of the leaf, which was already starting to wither, and showed it to him.

"You already got in trouble for being mean," I said, and after he saw what was in my hand, he started to grow pale. Then, giving one last smirk, I called out.

"MOMMY!"

There was shuffling in the kitchen just through the doors to my left, and I knew I had just a few seconds before she'd be in the room. I scrunched up my face, which seemed to confused Jordan more than anything, but he still looked afraid. I released my muscles and I could feel it was all red. My mom burst into the room, and before she could say anything, I yelled out.

"Jordan hit me!"

My mom, looking almost as red as I was, came over and wrapped her arms around me.

"I'm calling your mother," she said calmly, but I could tell from his expression that he'd taken it as seriously as he'd been supposed to. My mom led me out of the playroom and called Jordan to come with us. Now I'd see what it'd been like when Mrs. Mean had taken him to the principal's office. Except, I was sure his own mother would be far less understanding than Mr. Pike.

"But I didn't do anything!" Jordan insisted, despite knowing she wouldn't believe him. "Honest! We were just watching TV . . . and Thomas was bored . . . and . . ."

"Hi, Mrs. Hill? It's Mrs. Hanes, Thomas's moth—"

She cut off, and before my eyes, I saw her expression soften. There was a lot of sound coming from the other side of the line, and for a second, I was worried something was wrong. My mom caught my look, however, and gave me a reassuring smile.

"I'm—I'm sorry Miss Terrell. It's just . . . I think I'll drop Jordan off earlier than I'd said. I'll be there soon."

I had no idea what had caused the sudden change in my mom's attitude, but I was confused enough by it not to notice that Jordan's last name had apparently changed. Or, at least, his mom's had.

"Come on, Jordan," she said, her voice cracking a little, but she was still smiling. "I'm going to bring you home now."

* * *

"Why didn't you get mad at Jordan?" I asked as soon as he'd left the car to enter the apartment building he'd identified, notably with a bit of difficulty. "He hit me!"

"I know pumpkin," my mom said, holding the car in Park long enough to make sure Jordan made it into the building. "And I was mad. I don't ever want anyone to hurt my baby."

"But you didn't even get mad at him!"

"Sweetie, I did. I just . . ." She paused as she put the car into Drive. "Jordan's going through a hard time right now. His mommy and daddy don't . . . live together anymore."

"Why not?" I asked, more curious about this than my previous question. It made no sense for a married couple to live in two different homes. How could they cuddle at night?

"Well, they recently got divorced."

"What's divorced?"

"It's when a mommy and daddy decide that they don't really want to be together anymore. They stop loving each other."

"They don't want to be together? But that's why people are married! They want to be together forever."

"That's true, but sometimes people think they're with the person they want to be with, but after they get married, they realize they aren't. They realize there might be someone else who's a better fit for them."

"But if they aren't the best fits for each other, why do they get married? Cinderella married her true love, so did Snow White and Sleeping Beauty and—"

"Well, most of the time, people who get married do end up being right for each other." Or at least, this was true in Australia at the time. "Like those princesses, or your mommy or daddy, or Mr. and Mrs. Orson next door."

"But why don't all people marry the person who's right for them?" I still didn't understand the concept of falling in love with a person who wasn't your soulmate. My family, TV, and Disney movies had convinced me that each and every person could find their one true love if they looked hard enough.

"Because sometimes, they don't know. They think the person they're marrying is right for them. It can sometimes be impossible to know until the time comes when they realize they're just not meant to be."

I sat on this for a while, still upset that apparently finding your soulmate was not as easy as it had seemed. But I had a new budding question, which at the time I thought was evidence my mom was wrong, that people only ever marry the one for them.

"But how come they can have babies then? I mean, how does that happen if they're not meant to be a family?"

I should go ahead and say that at this point, I was under the impression that babies came about when a couple got married, and God just knew, and made the woman pregnant as a sort of blessing of their relationship (Although I knew the logistics, I knew where the baby actually came out from once the woman was actually pregnant. And to my parents' credit, they'd never avoided answering the time-honored question of where babies came from, I'd just never expressed any interest in the matter). To be fair, at a time when I thought that was the law of the land, it made sense that an imperfect couple couldn't possibly have a baby.

"Well," my mom began, but she seemed at a loss for words. "Sometimes they just don't know."

I was getting a little dissatisfied with her repetitive responses, but fortunately, we pulled into our drive way at that moment, and I lost interest in the conversation when I hopped out of the car and returned to the playroom to switch Disney Channel back on. By that point, I'd forgotten all about the matter of divorcing and falling out of love, but one ideal that I'd hold for my entire life, to this very day, had already been implanted in my head. I would not marry any girl who was wrong for me. I would never date a girl there was no chance of me marrying. I would never even so much as kiss any girl I wasn't already 100% certain I could spend the rest of my life with. My soulmate was out there somewhere, and I had no doubt that someday I would find her.

* * *

Please be sure to write any comments/suggestions/notes you may have! My goal with this story in the long run is to become a better writer, so any advice is very much appreciated!

[Other Original] (Working Title)

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AlexMonroe

Demigod of Time