Minavavana (Ginny)
Mar 16, 2012 23:20:20 GMT -5
Post by Ellison Eisenstein on Mar 16, 2012 23:20:20 GMT -5
Out from class, out from the crowds. Ellison ran through the busy hallways, yearning in desperation for the nearing doors that would exit him from the interior to the exterior. A boiling sense of wrong filled his gut, and his eyes drowned in incorrect colors. On a calendar Ellison would mark each passing day with either a check or an “X.” The last month had been checks, they were all good days. Tonight he would drag his legs back to bed, and with a sharp pen carve one X on the day. Today would not be a good day.
It started sometime during Mathematics, in between direct and inverse variations. As the words left the teachers, as Ellison scribed his teachers lecturing, as when X varies directly with Y and inversely with Z, the page inverted itself. White page with black lead markings turned into black paper with bright silver. The class became a den of aliens, dark blue skin and ghostly white hair. The teacher's voice faded in and out, and waned out of comprehension to an awful buzz-wane, like a de-tuned radio.
Sinking into his chair he remained unchanging externally. No raised hand asked for an excuse, no concealed messages to nearby peers, just a boiling pot with its lid kept shut tight until the clock overhead bid him an escape.
The pond's tranquility was the only constant he could focus on, while red, blue, green hues mocked his shifting vision with every blink. He had been avoiding training as much as he could, and he could only ignore his lack of control by the gritting of his teeth. A stone bench awaited his return, the nurturing sentential of solidarity he could find peace upon. Ellison sat in the same silence he had kept in class. To him, this weakness was an embarrassment he couldn't dare reveal to anyone. His justifications were many and well rehearsed. How could he tell someone his five senses were collectively sinking into complete cacophony? How could he ever form the right words, comprise the right sentence, without seeming insane or delusional? If one thing filled him with more fear than his episodes, it was losing what social face he had kept so desperate together like a poorly constructed patchwork quilt.
For every good day a bad day could mean tenfold, twenty-fold. A day without control was the ruination of a marathon of good days, they didn't mean a thing because the here and now meant vulnerability, it meant another frantic scribbling of diary pages, but most of all it meant social isolation. Ellison was a verbal mess on bad days, lying and tripping over grammar like a literary drunkard. His hands covered his face, concealing the stress manifesting. This wasn't new to him, even though each episode had its unique qualities. Above all, he would need time alone, a period of solitude to find singularity.
When he heard steps approaching, he tensed up, his muscles stiffening as he mouthed silent outcries. Who? Why? Who? Why?
It started sometime during Mathematics, in between direct and inverse variations. As the words left the teachers, as Ellison scribed his teachers lecturing, as when X varies directly with Y and inversely with Z, the page inverted itself. White page with black lead markings turned into black paper with bright silver. The class became a den of aliens, dark blue skin and ghostly white hair. The teacher's voice faded in and out, and waned out of comprehension to an awful buzz-wane, like a de-tuned radio.
Sinking into his chair he remained unchanging externally. No raised hand asked for an excuse, no concealed messages to nearby peers, just a boiling pot with its lid kept shut tight until the clock overhead bid him an escape.
The pond's tranquility was the only constant he could focus on, while red, blue, green hues mocked his shifting vision with every blink. He had been avoiding training as much as he could, and he could only ignore his lack of control by the gritting of his teeth. A stone bench awaited his return, the nurturing sentential of solidarity he could find peace upon. Ellison sat in the same silence he had kept in class. To him, this weakness was an embarrassment he couldn't dare reveal to anyone. His justifications were many and well rehearsed. How could he tell someone his five senses were collectively sinking into complete cacophony? How could he ever form the right words, comprise the right sentence, without seeming insane or delusional? If one thing filled him with more fear than his episodes, it was losing what social face he had kept so desperate together like a poorly constructed patchwork quilt.
For every good day a bad day could mean tenfold, twenty-fold. A day without control was the ruination of a marathon of good days, they didn't mean a thing because the here and now meant vulnerability, it meant another frantic scribbling of diary pages, but most of all it meant social isolation. Ellison was a verbal mess on bad days, lying and tripping over grammar like a literary drunkard. His hands covered his face, concealing the stress manifesting. This wasn't new to him, even though each episode had its unique qualities. Above all, he would need time alone, a period of solitude to find singularity.
When he heard steps approaching, he tensed up, his muscles stiffening as he mouthed silent outcries. Who? Why? Who? Why?
