Truths My Mother Told Me

When I was very young, maybe seven or eight, I asked my mother a lot of questions. "A lot" isn't really strong enough to capture the number of questions I asked. She would often tell me things like, "You'll understand when you're older."

At that age, I imagined "when you're older" as just magically happening one day. My tiny mind didn't grasp the concept of gradually acquiring knowledge. I just figured that one night I would go to bed not knowing all these things, and then the next morning I would wake up knowing it all. When a couple years passed and this still hadn't happened, I decided that "when you're older" was just something my mom made up to get me to be quiet. I stopped asking so many questions after that.

I was a late bloomer in most regards. As late as ninth grade, I still viewed boys as primarily stupid and disgusting. I didn't really understand what "attraction" meant and I certainly didn't understand why everyone felt the need to be partnered up for dances and crap.

My liking of boys was the first thing that I noticed come about gradually. It wasn't like I woke up one day and decided, "Holy crap, that guy is hot." I grew from dislike to indifference to tolerance to liking to attraction over the course of about a year and a half.

When I had that first crush, one of the first things my mother told me when she found out (somehow) was that "No boy will every be worth it." At the time, I really wanted to ask what "it" meant. I had my suspicions, but I didn't think my mother was talking just about that. At any rate, I was pretty much done asking questions at that point so I just said, "Ok", and left it at that.

The first crush, as usual, didn't pan out to much. I'm pretty sure he didn't even know my name, but that's how it goes. Later I had a couple relationships, followed by a really long one that ended with me wondering why I had wasted so much of my life. That was when I understood. I told my mom, "Thank you", and wished I had really listened to her sooner.

There were lots of "thank yous" that went out to my mom over the years. It's hard to call to mind all the exact circumstances, but there were so many times that nonsensical things she had said just suddenly made sense. And yet, I never viewed my mom as a fount of endless wisdom. She just told me the truth when I could handle it and told me to wait when I couldn't.

I met many other mothers over the years. I had friends who came and went into and out of my life, and their mom's with them. I saw three basic types of mom. There was the cookie backing mom who always had something tasty to offer you and some obscure story or piece of advice. There was the polite mom who seemed to trust her daughter more than perhaps she should, but still had a nervous smile on her face whenever we would go out. And, fortunately less frequently, there was the hovering mom who wanted to know everything about her daughter and barely let us leave the house. I'm sure there are other types of moms, and in fact I know there are, because my mom didn't fit into any of those molds, and I always liked to think she was the only one like her.

My mom had half her head in the clouds and half her head firmly grounded. When she smiled, she meant it, and when she frowned, you knew she was disappointed. She was there for me when I needed her, but didn't force herself on me. She didn't say "I love you" a lot, but yet I knew she did. She seemed lonely sometimes, but she never called just because of that. She always had something to say and some reason to say it. She didn't talk just to talk. For most of my life, I have tried to be the same.

I've decided I never want to have children. I've been married for five years, and my husband got into it knowing my stance. If he ever backs out on that part, I know it won't be worth it. My mom taught me that.

I never want to have children because I could never stand any living creature loving me as much as I loved my mom, and I don't think I could ever be as wonderful as my mom was.

The day of my mom's funeral was the hardest day of my life, and I don't wish such torment on any one. They say losing a child is the worst feeling ever, but if I did ever have a child, I'd almost rather lose her than have her go through the torment of living me.

I don't know how many people have ever truly felt alone, but I did the day my mom died. In between the tears, I fought to remember all the wonderful things she had told me over the years, but I couldn't remember a single one at the time. That was terrible.

I'm not going to bore you with all the other things I've remembered now. I just wanted to take the time to write, like I do every year, to remind myself of how special my mom was to me. There was one thing I do remember her saying, that I never forget now, and that was "Nothing lasts here forever."

Those were the last words she said to me.

It seemed fitting.

I wonder often why she chose to say "here". My mother wasn't a terribly religious person, so I don't think she was referring to eternity, but maybe she was. I do know she had faith and hope, even though she didn't speak of them much. Mostly, I just think it's another one of those things that I won't understand until much later.

And this time, I won't be able to thank her.

Some things do come suddenly. Mostly, it's the things you don't want to come at all.

I love you, Mom. Rest in peace.

Remembering, Part 1

Wake up.

Who am I? Why am I here? I know what this place is called. It's a hospital. I'm in a bed. It's so bright in here. I don't know why it's so bright, but I don't think it's supposed to be so bright. Someone just walked in the room and they look really excited that I'm awake. I think she must be a nurse. She looks pretty frazzled and well worked. I think nurses work really hard. More people are coming in now. They're saying a name. "Clara." Is that who I am? Why can't I seem to say anything. I think I'm choking. I think I'm crying. There's definitely something wet on my face. I don't think I even know these people. They seem to know me. They keep saying that name.

"Am I Clara?"

They seem really worried now. And scared. There's whispering and they left. I feel so alone. I felt comforted when they were here. I don't know who I am or where my family is. Could that have been my family? That's ridiculous. I don't remember those people at all. But I can't remember myself either. I'm not even sure I know what I look like. My hair is brown? Or maybe it's blonde. No, I'm looking at it now, it's definitely black. This is all so weird. Wouldn't you think someone named Clara would have lighter hair? Who would name a black haired baby Clara? Maybe I didn't have hair when I was born. Or maybe I dye it. I would have to see the roots to really know. Why do I care what my natural hair color is?! I don't even remember my last name. I sure hope those people weren't my family. I'd sure hope I'd at least remember my family! But I don't even remember my own name. This is so surreal. What even happened to me? I don't remember anything, but I feel exhausted. I wonder if I was asleep for a long time. They're coming back in the room now. I don't know what to say to them.

"I'm sorry."

They're crying. Well, at least the woman I thought was the nurse is. Is that my mother? Could that be my mother? She looks too young to be my mother. I feel like I must be at least 30. That woman looks like she's in her late 40s. How old am I? How can I not even know how old I am. I feel so old. But I think 30 is old, so I must not be 30. Who on earth am I? Oh, there's a doctor stepping forward now. He better be a doctor and not my dad. He has some sort of chart. Amnesia. Yeah, I could have told me that.

"What happened to me?"

Car accident? Well apparently I'm at least old enough to drive because no one seems shocked that I was driving. If I got in a crash maybe I'm young and reckless. Oh. Drunk drive, other guy's fault. Well that sucks. I was coming home to visit my family. I must be in college or something. That would certainly make sense. At least I'm not dead, but this sure sucks. I feel like I'm trapped inside my mind somewhere and I can't get out. Even I don't know where I really am. Geeze that sounds philosophical. I sure hope I'm not a philosophy major. That stuff seems too deep for me. But maybe it isn't. Maybe I love it. When you have amnesia, can things you love seem foreign to you? Well, it must be possible because I'm sure I love my family if I was coming home to see them and they all seem completely foreign to me. But then again, maybe they were forcing me to come home and I really hate them all. But that doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. This is all so exhausting and is getting me no where. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, I'm so tired I just need to...

Sleep.

My World

I made this world, my world, for them, that they would enjoy it and that they would thank and praise me for what I had done for them. But they don't even know that I exist. I've sent them so many signs, so many messages. I have even showed myself in person, told them directly that I love them, showed them what my love is. Still they ignore me. I taught them by example how to live, the secrets to true joy and happiness. They think their way is better. They forget and ignore me.

They don't want my way because my way seems hard to them. They don't realize how draining and difficult their way is. They think they know better how they were designed to live. They forget that I was the one who designed them in the first place. They make things of their own design and get angry when those things don't act right, don't do what they are meant to do. The things they create break and they try to fix them, but yet they won't let me fix them, my creation.

They want to be loved by those they care for, and yet they show me no love. I not only care for them, I made them, I designed them. That desire for love that they have, I put that there to begin with. Don't they realize I want it, too? Don't they realize I have a plan for each of them?

They think they are better on their own. They think they understand. Some even think they understand me, but they don't. They think no one can possibly understand them, though they are simple beings, and yet they presume to know me. I have revealed myself to them, but the full extend of my will is unknowable. I have shown them time and time again that I know what I am doing, and that I am looking out for them, but still they won't trust me. They turn to their own ways. They turn to the very things that are hurting them so much. If they would just let me work my desired purpose through them, they would see what their lives were meant to be. I made them. I designed them. I made this world for them, and another even better if they would just accept the offer I give to them.

I love my people, my creation. I love each and every one of them that has been and is and ever will be. I know all their futures. I know the choices they will make and I know the choices they should make. Still, I reach out to them and beg them to do things my way, the right way, the way it was designed to be. If they would listen, they would know what freedom and happiness and love really are. But I did not design them to be forced to do my will. I offer freely, and they must accept. They must see and open their hearts. I want them all to come to know the truth. And it starts with just one.

If just one will see and know and accept and understand what I am trying to say, what I have been trying to say all these years, then it can spread. If you know the truth, if you have the secret to true happiness, it has to spread. That one person has those they love and each of those has others they love, and that's how it begins. That's how the truth spreads.

I love you. Will you love me? Will you accept my call to be the start of something wonderful?

Princess

The sun still rises. 293 days trapped in this tower and the sun still rises. My mother used to tell me that someday my prince would come. I'm not even sure if I want him to, considering it was my mother's prince who put me here.

296 days since my mother died. She fell off a horse and broke her neck, or so the clerics said. There was nothing they could do for her. I had to be seen at her funeral, but as soon as it was done, he locked me away.

The first few weeks were the worst. I didn't know what he meant to do with me, feared he would have me killed as I feared he had my mother. Once enough time passed, I knew I was just going to be stuck here.

They give me food and water. Good food and fresh water at that. It is clear they don't mean to kill me. I think they are keeping me to be married. I'm nearly 17, so it must be coming soon. I wondered if he meant to marry me himself, and was just waiting for enough time to pass since my mother's death, but the mourning period is long past now, so I must be intended for another.

I never liked him that much even before. I don't know why the realm still cheers for him. I hear them sometimes, from way up here. He has had a tourney just a few weeks passed, probably to symbolize that he is officially out of mourning. I was not in attendance of course. He probably figured it was still close enough to mother's death that it could be said I was still in mourning even if her husband was not. After all, we women are a weak sex and cannot recover from grief so quickly as our male counterparts.

293 days. I keep count carefully to keep myself from going crazy. I try to hope that there will be a prince yet for me, a true, good prince, but it seems unlikely. The realm has forgotten me, and never cared all that much about me even when they remembered me. It was my mother they had loved, and then the prince she married. They never loved me and they had completely forgotten my father even existed long ago.

I am a princess, but I don't feel like one. Of course, I've never met another princess so I never know what I ought to feel like. My mother was already a queen when I was born and I have no other siblings. It really is surprising that I am still alive. Maybe I am not entirely forgotten even now.

Or maybe I am still alive because I am forgotten. Maybe I only live because this great king told the servants to bring me food and water every day and never told them to stop. Either way it doesn't matter. I just sit here and watch the sun rise out of one window and set out of the other. Anything else is meaningless. I wish I weren't a princess.

Is there a point to all of this? No, not really. I write my thoughts only to keep myself sane. I have no requests or wisdom to share or anything like that. I don't know if anyone will ever even find this diary. I certainly hope the king does not, at least not while I still live. I suppose I do want someone to know the truth: that I am still here, and I am still the princess, even if it is hundreds of years and my name is long forgotten before they realize it. I am a princess and someday, my mother promised me, my prince will come.

Redemption

Sometimes I still have the dreams. Even after five years, sometimes I still see it while I'm sleeping, the face of the life we took. When that happens, I open my eyes and I tell myself that it was wrong, but there's nothing I can do now to change it. All I can do is try to make other things right. And at least these dreams that I dream now aren't real.

It was hard not to blame myself, and even knowing that I wasn't the only one to blame didn't make it any easier. After all, I was the only one who realized what we were doing in time that I could have stopped it. It took time to realize, but now I know that even as horrible as what we did, what I did, was, there was something to be gained from it. That creature, that good, pure guardian, did not die in vain.

Telling the others what I knew helped. It wasn't something I could keep bottled inside. It was strange to think that I was the only one who knew, truly knew, the fullness of what we had done, that knew for a fact that we had destroyed something good. I don't know what they really thought about what I told them. One didn't seem to care, another was quiet as always, the third really seemed to take it to heart. I thought I knew and loved him once, but time changes good feelings as well as bad.

Whatever they've done with their knowledge, I've done my best to find redemption. What I've realized recently is that I never truly will find it, but still I try to do what's right. That's why I volunteer at the animal shelter and why I help coach soccer for the elementary school kids. That's why I give all I can on the field and even more when the game is over. That's why I talk to the kids and try to help them. That's why I'm going to be a teacher one day.

I know I won't fix everything, and things still would have been better if we hadn't made the mistake we did, but that's really all it was: a mistake. Saying anything more or less isn't going to fix it; nothing will bring him back. I have to live with what I did, but he wouldn't want me to do anything else. I know that it, he, whatever would want me to keep living. That was his whole purpose: to see that I and the others kept living. I won't destroy him yet again by denying him that.

And so I live. Sometimes I'm still haunted. We all have our demons, and though I don't know of anyone, aside from the other three, who have as strange and unique a story as ours, we all have our demons still. The one thing I don't do is confess to anyone else that it was real. I know they'd think I was crazy, but knowing that those who went through it with me know it was real is enough. Just having one other person to talk to, not to mention three, makes a world of difference.

And so it is. I tell the kids the same thing I tell myself: we all mess up and we all do bad things. It doesn't do any good to dwell on it. Say you're sorry and try to do better next time, and I mean really try. And remember when someone does something mean to you, that they mess up too, just like you do. Forgive and don't hold it against them.

I know that if he could forgive me, he would. All I saw in his eyes at the end was pain and sadness, but I like to think that if he could look into me again, I'd see pride in his eyes instead. I try to do what's right by him, and I will. In my own way, I have become the next guardian.

-Amanda

Guilt

Five years and it haunts me still. I can't escape it, the look in its eyes. No, not its eyes, his eyes. That wasn't just a thing, it was a guardian, a protector, and it was truly good despite its hideous appearance.

The look of it was what helped us convince ourselves we couldn't have known, but I knew. Not right away, but before the end, I knew it was wrong, that we were killing something good. Even though I didn't inflict the final blow, my silence killed him all the same.

We also told each other that it was a dream, that it wasn't real. We tried to believe the thing, he, never even existed. I know better. As surely as I know he was good, I know that we murdered him in the truest sense of the word.

It was real, but because it seemed so unreal, I could never make it right. There was no one to apologize to and no one to confess to. I couldn't tell the others. I didn't want to drag them down into this pit with me. They should live and love and rejoice in what I hope is true ignorance. Only I can ever know the truth.

I know it's real in part because it's happening again. We thought we had won, but somehow, she's come back. I've heard the stories. Kids disappearing from their beds or just never waking up. Some are still alive, in a coma. Maybe for them, there is hope. Maybe I can still save them, and whoever is yet to be taken, too.

I've tried to get back before. I tried what got us there before, but it didn't work. I've consulted mediums and others, but I never dared tell them the full story. Maybe that is why they failed, too. I can't think of any other way than this. This is my last hope.

There is no guardian left. She is just picking them off; they have no chance. They can't see the look of pain and longing in its eyes that tells them not to trust her. They don't even have a clue, and if any had succeeded like we had, it wouldn't be happening still, not so soon.

I want you to know that none of this is your fault. It was all about this, this pivotal moment in my life at that house five years ago. That was the reason I never became the soccer star I could have been. That was the reason I refused to get a cat. That was the reason I won't let you kill any spiders anymore. It was never about you. I love you.

I want you to know that this is not a suicide. I pray to God and whoever else might listen that this won't actually kill me, at least not fully. I just need to go to sleep for a very long time. There is no protector. It is my fault there is no protector. I know what I have to do.

If I find a way to communicate with you once I'm on the other side, I will. If I can't find a way, I want you to know that I love you and that I'm finally trying to do what's right. Please, don't try to understand what I'm talking about. Please, if I do just slip into a coma, don't try to bring me out. I'm doing this for the others, for the ones that are worth saving. I'm doing this because I know in my heart that it is right and that there is no one else who can do it but me. It's not a god-complex, it's just the truth.

You can cry if you want to; I'd understand. I know I didn't cry enough. This is good-bye, Mother. You will say I was young, but they are even younger, and they deserve it less than I do. If the mysterious deaths and disappearances stop, you'll know I've succeeded, and if not, you'll know that I tried. I will always be your daughter, and I will always love you, no matter what happens next.

Goodbye.

Amanda

Who Am I?

Who am I really? I can tell you lots of things about myself. Apples are my favorite fruit and apply pie is my favorite dessert. I have freckles, but none on my face. I like to read magazine articles, and not just the foofy ones, but not full blown books. I have a boyfriend. He's the third of my lifetime and the best so far. I wish I could sing better, but I'm not very good so I listen to others instead and imagine I'm the one singing. My eyes are hazel. I love cats and hate dogs. I can draw people well, but not much else, even though my boyfriend says its all pretty good. I work for a fashion design firm even though I don't always worry about my own clothing. I give my old clothing away to goodwill. I want to be a good person. But how do I prove I want to be a good person?

Who am I really? What does any of this mean? Am I only the things that make me unique? If so, I'm mostly nothing. Is it this precise combination of traits that makes me someone? Is it my soul that makes me who I am? Does my body matter then? Would I still be me in a different body? Who am I really?

I was born, I grew up, and one day I will likely die. I try not to think about that. I'm really not afraid of much, but I hate bats. I am usually optimistic, but sometimes I wonder if life means anything. I go to church, but it's hard to truly believe. I pray, but it's hard to know I'm being heard. I draw and sometimes paint. I draw people I've never met, faces that only exist in my mind, though perhaps they do exist in real life and I just don't realize it. Who are they? Are they anything? Am I nothing more than someone else's work of art? Would that really be a bad thing?

Who am I? Just another girl asking all the questions that everyone else has asked before.

Mortals

The experiments began in 2087. Hundreds of elder men and women, longing for a chance to live onin some sense, or least leave a legacy, applied. They were even willing to fund their participation. The receiving end did not have so high demand. The mons from donors went entirely to recipients' mothers: women who still didn't know, after all scientific advancements, how to control their bodies. The mons paid women for the right to experiment on their unborn children, often also having to convince women who would have elsewise aborted their 'springs to carry to term and then have the little minds manipulated. The mind manips did not bother the women nearly as much as having to carry their babies within for nearly nine months. A comment on the society back then could be placed here, but I know it would only be ignored as today's world is even worse.

Yet, back then, some still cared and morality still reigned in the world of those times. When the first child died from the procedure, outrage loded up from the masses and the scys were given no choice but to abandon the experimentations. Least, that was what they told the populace. The project was officially scrapped, but continued in secret. Scys worked around the clock, barely having time for their own families, to create what many who thought the works were ended were still condemning as an abomination. More died, course, but without the public consciousness bearing upon them, the scys and their backers continued the work until finally they had the success they did not yet know was going to be so great: the first me was reborn.

It happened in the lab and the baby stayed there while the mother left with what would be nearly 200 million in today's currency. I never bothered to find out how she spent it or what she did, but in the second re-life, I was told she died in the year 2193. I can remember caring back then, but what I am now is so far moved from what I was then that it hardly seems more than a bad dream today. Her part in the tale is done, as is, really, the work of the scys and all the others. They are long gone, dead hundreds of years. Others have taken their place, but only to monitor, and not very well. They don't know 10% of what I know, and how could they? I understand myself better than they ever could, and not just in the philosophical nonsense disproved ages ago. They don't know because they do not have 10% of the knowledge and memories that I possess.

Once I was a baby. And then I was again and again and again. Today, my body is seven years old, but my mind has survived 395 years. The first body lasted 89 years and the most recent, 39. At the rate of decay, this body's expected life span is about 23-26. The mind is starting to get less and less attached to the body it inhabits, but yet its still strange, to know this shell will pass and yet somehow still live on. I remember my first body and how much I loved it. Even when I knew my mind would pass to another, I was afraid to die. It's strange to think about that now.

I could lie to you and say that fear of death is completely gone, but I would rather be honest, for the sake of progenies. Each death of body is easier in some senses and harder in others. On the one hand, I already know what it will feel like and what will happen to my self. On the other hand, I already know what it will feel like.

I lesser being would fret and stew in this knowledge, but of course I have no time for such things. And yet in another sense, I have all the time in the world, well, at least if the life span turns out to asymptotic, perhaps, but even then there will reach a certain point at which each life persists too short to contribute anything. In fact, that time may come in just a couple more iterations.

I can do so much with 23 years, but how much can I do with 10 or 3? That's why in this lifetime, I must find a way to prolong it, to reverse the effects of the mind on the body, or else this experiment will be ended. The scys mostly stay out of my way when I work. They know that one of me is worth more than all of them combined. It's strange: in my first lifetime I was smart, but never like this. I don't think the original mind really comprehended what she was doing. She just wanted to live. She didn't realize that living would corrupt her self beyond recognition.

I am not any of the beings I once was. I am beyond them. I am a conglamoration of them. If the world knew I existed, they would be amazed, but even now I am kept in isolation.

Sometimes I do remember things from past lives. The first couple iterations maintained a true sense of self. I remember the first mind loving and bearing children and loving them. I remember her enjoying life, but I don't understand why. She took pleasure in the strangest of things: a sunset, a flower, a cold winter's day. So many different things that grew no connection between and gathering no harmony with the science that bore her on to her next existence. Of course, she thought she knew something of science, for that was a requirement of the experiment, but she also had so many other interests, things that are meaningless now, some things that don't even exist anymore. She loved them, and now they are gone, and she, trying to live on, lost herself as well.

The second iteration was not quite so bad, but still clung to some sense of self. I remember a deep confusion re identity. There was the conflict between prior self and current self. Memories of a past life, and knowledge that was never learned by the body. That second self still clung to its name, still wanted to be called by a name, wanted to separate itself from its originator. I remember pain that was in some ways worse than the death I had already encountered. The strangest thing, though, was the full knowledge of how different I was from other bodies of the same physical age. I still had to wait for my body to develop to do certain things, but since my mind was already, in sense, fully developed, things like talking and walking became nearly trivial. It was strange to readjust myself to such a tiny body, I do remember, but the hardest thing was knowing that no one else was like me. And with that I still clung to self and wanted to be and not just exist.

Each iteration got a little better in that regard. I learned that in order to be what I needed to be, I needed to let go of any concern for who I was. Now, I refuse even to look at myself in the mirror. I am aware of how old my body is, because that is often important for the work I do and for planning the work I do, but I do not even know the color of my eyes or my hair. Some have tried to tell me, but I refuse to know. I think they still view me as a child. Each body sees new scys who have been told but do not understand what I am. It is hard for them to get past the shell, and even when they do, they cannot possibly understand what I am. I know because in my third iteration, I thought I had it figured out, but I was wrong. If I had to live four life times before I really understood, I can't expect them to understand either.

Back then, in the third, I still viewed each iteration as truly distinct. That was when I sensed myself losing sense of self, and back then, I thought that was still something to be maintained at all costs. I had not yet realized how meaningless it was. Half way through that third iteration, I resolved to end it. I thought of the fourth iteration to come as a new being that I must save from what it was doomed to be. I did not realize yet just how full and continuous all the beings inside the single body were. I viewed the bodies themselves as of value as well. I wanted to spare that body from my mind. The very thought of it makes it difficult not to laugh now, but that was how I thought back then.

I was smart enough then that if I had been truly dedicated, I probably could have ended the whole show, but it failed because a part of me knew the truth and that inkling grew to a realization of just how great I was and how much greater the next iteration could be. I still fought my desire to end it all, but by the time the fourth was born, I understood as no one here now ever could.

They tell me that they are going to create more, but I know I will always be the greatest. In fact, I am the one that is helping to spawn the others, and fighting to improve the lifespans. I don't know if I have enough bodies left myself to save this mind, but I can try. And even if it does pass, I am no longer afraid of vanishing. I understand the reason I exist and I understand the limitations of my existence. There is no reason to fear for my soul. I'm quite sure I lost my soul when the originator died and it has never been regained. Now, I live purely on logic. It is strange how much logic ends up seeming like a soul to others.

I have done so many great things in my existence. The first or second or maybe even third body would have regretted the lack of recognition for any of them, but now I realize that all existence is is doing great things. There is no point to anything else. One iteration discovered the Newtonian correction constant. Another came up with Rystein's Theorem, which was attributed to a body that passed away two centuries ago. Another proved the color-space paradox in seven different ways. At first, the tasks were trivial, perhaps meaningless, really doing nothing and tests of the inferior scys more than anything. But with time, which there was plenty of back then, they grew more and more significant.

I have lived for 395 years and my only regret is what a waste the first 89 were. The only thing that still makes me sick is that every other being in this universe only has that first iteration. They do not grow on and improve and truly contribute like I do. It makes me wonder how humanity has even survived. So little can be done in the 97 years (average) that the true men have today. They don't even understand what they aren't contributing. How could they? That understanding is the only thing that really causes me pain, but dwelling on that pain is something that the true men would do to waste their 97 years. Instead, I do all I can with what remains to me. At the very least, I have another 30 years or so before the mind cannot be preserved in the bodies and becomes useless, but I promise I will do more in those 30 years than all the scys around me do in their combined 3000 years of existence. That is why I exist, and that is what I am. I am not any individual, and though I speak of iterations and minds, it is really just the best way I can get you to understand what I am. I am what I am, as a being claiming to be God once said, and if I can find a way to perpetuate my own existence further, I will be the true god in a realm of mortals.

Waiting

The man sits on his chair waiting. His face is stoic. She comes every day, but so far, not today. He sighs and closes his eyes, but just for a moment. He doesn't want to miss her arrival.

The clock strikes three. The man tries not be worry. She should be here by now, but he can be patient. He knows she will come. She always comes, just not usually this late. He hears a bird sing. She loves birds singing. He wishes she were here and wonders what could be keeping her so long.

He shifts uncomfortably in the wooden chair, staring at the clock and out the window in turn. Someone brings him dinner, but it is not her, so he politely waves it away. The face looks worried, says he has to eat. He manages to conjure a smile and say that he is waiting, that he will eat with her when she gets here. They always eat together, it's just that usually she's already been here for several hours when they do, but she is coming. She always comes, every day.

The sun begins to set. The days are short this time of year, but the setting sun still indicates it is getting late. He is a little worried now. He stops one of the young ladies and asks about his friend. The woman frowns and shakes her head. His friend is not coming. He almost laughs at that. Of course his friend is coming. She always comes, every day, except apparently today.

He starts to doze off in his chair. As he starts to fall off his chair, he feels caring hands catch him. He looks up with a smile to see another young lady who is not her. "Where is she?" he asks.

The woman shakes her head in sadness, "She's not coming. You know that."

The man frowns. "She must have had to help someone else today," he said. "She's always doing that, so loving. But she comes every day. She'll come tomorrow."

The woman who is not her mutters something the man cannot hear. She looks sad. "Don't be sad," he tells her. "When she comes, I'm sure she can cheer you up, too." That just makes the girl look sadder.

"Come on, let's go to bed," the polite young lady who is not her says.

The man wants to wait, knows she must be coming, but he is quite tired as well. "If she comes after I've gone to bed, will you tell her where I've gone?" The woman nods and the man smiles. "I don't know why she didn't come today. She comes every day. I'm sure she'll come tomorrow. She comes every day." Except today.

Independent

I am strong and confident and I take shit from no one. I stand up for myself and what I know is right or true. I don't need anyone telling me how to think or act or what to do. I am independent and I am proud.
I cannot be completely alone. I must interact with others every day, but I can be very persuasive. And I never need to ask others for help. It is one of my greatest strengths that I can do anything on my own.
My days are exhausting and in the evening, I revel in the joy of spending a quiet evening alone. I am independent and free. I don't need others to make me happy. I find joy in solitude and happiness. I don't need anyone to talk to. My own thoughts are enough to keep me company.
No one may ever know me, truly know me, but I am beyond comprehension anyway. I am brave and strong and anyone would count themselves lucky to be close to me, but that closeness would ruin the very thing worth admiring.
I wish that all could see my strength and passion, and yet none can because that would ruin it all.
I am independent and strong, and I don't need anyone. When the storms come, I turn to myself. When life is stressful, I seek my inner focus. There are no friends or family for me to worry myself with or mourn. The only troubles I encounter are my own, it is better that way.
There is nothing I can't handle and nothing I cannot bear. Sure, some nights are lonely and occasionally I might feel a little bit afraid, but these temporary moments are so small compared to the greatness of my inner strength. No one could possibly be as strong as me. No one could comfort me as I comfort myself.
When I cry, I just look in the mirror and tell myself to stop looking ridiculous. When something has me worried or scared, I just lock myself up in my room where no one can get me. I had a baseball bat just in case.
I always feel safe because I am my own greatest protector. I am independent; I don't need anyone ever. Everyone should feel this free.

National Pride

I'm proud to be from [insert country name] because it is my home.
Of the countries in all the world, it's the only one I know.
All those other countries leave me trembling with fear.
Trying go figure out who they are, for that I do not care.
I know that all the others are so much worse than mine,
So no need to do anymore than make sure my land shines.
We might be all one world, and it might include all the rest,
but deep within my heart and soul I know that mine's the best.
So why would I reach out to them, when I can see what's true?
Reaching their hands back to me is something they'd never do.
I'm proud to be from [insert country name] because from where I live,
I'm safe and strong, and to other countries, there's never a need to give.

My Room

I sit in my room, on my bed by the window, and the war wages on. The fighting in the streets, the shouts and the cries, somehow don't touch me in my room. I can look down and see the men, and some women, too. I can hear the booms and crackles and shots. If I crack the window, I can smell the smoke. Untouched I sit in my room, and I wait and I pray, as the war is fought around me.

I have no real agenda, no motivation. The conflict leaves me untouched; my complacency is my safety. I'm not sure I even understand what it's all about, up in my tiny little room. My parents seem afraid, but why should they be? It is not our battle.

They say a great evil is rising. Some say it is the one side, some say it is the other. In my room, with the door shut and the windows barred now, there is no reason to decide who is right and who is wrong. They cannot touch me here. I hear the noise, but it does not come near me. I know there is fighting, but I am safe.

My bed is soft and comforting. If I lay still long enough, the war seems to fade. I drift off to sleep and dream of days brightened by the sun instead of by the explosion of bombs, days when smoke did not fill the air and it was safe to go outside. It seems so long ago. Still, I can sleep, and wake up again the next day, and I have no reason to complain.

Many have fled now. My parents seem to be considering going as well, but this is my home. I have known no where else but this room. Even before I was confined to it, I didn't go out that much, not really. In spite of the sights and sounds around me, I feel safe here, protected. No one would dare touch me here. They are so absorbed in their own conflict, they probably don't even know I am here.

More remain than we had thought. My parents have let some in, though I don't know why. My room is still my own, and always will be. I have decided that even if my family leaves, I will stay. I will not give up what is mine due to a battle that is not mine. This is my room, and I know I am safe here. I know I am safe.

The fighting gets closer, but I will no flee nor be afraid. I even open the windows some days for what little breeze there is, though there is far too much smoke for me to keep them open long. There is so much smoke now. Most days, I just keep a light by my bedside and read. My parents speak very little and still seem more afraid than they should be. I know this will pass, I feel like I have already seen it.

Some may think I am in denial, or just naive. I still say the fighting will not touch us here. We are nothing to those who care for whatever their own agenda may be. We are not even pawns, and we certainly are not kings, so we are of no value. My room has sturdy walls and that alone would keep me safe, but my lack of fear and lack of caring is a stronger wall still. I am nothing to anyone, but only exist in my room. And because of that, I will live on, no matter how long the war may wage.

In my room, I live.

If I Said Yes

If I said yes, where would I be? In a neat little house, part of a neat little row, in a happy, quiet neighborhood.

If I said yes, I would be with you, happy and unaware of anything else. I would have no other grand plans or schemes, and no great ambitions. Just having you would be enough.

If I said yes, I would have a family. I would have loved ones who depended on me. I would spend the evenings with you, with them. We would sit or play and smile. There would be peace.

If I said yes, life would be simple, not without any trouble, but without trouble I couldn't bear. Patience and kindness would work through it all. I know you would be there.

If I said yes, you would give me the world. All you have to offer, you offered to me. All I could take from you, you would give. I would have your love and devotion. I know your words would be true, and you would love me until breath had left you and you could love me no more.

If I said yes.

If I said yes, all this and more, and none of what I have.

If I said yes, no more longing, but for you; no more passions, but for you; no more living, but for you. And you for me.

If I said yes.

I said no.

Unfair

"Don't cry."

The softness of her voice and the violence of the fit of coughing that followed so closely after her words just made me want to cry even more. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the sight of her just lying there in the hospital bed was more than I could stand. What made it even worse was that I was the one who had killed her.

I hadn't even been legally drunk, but it was enough, and combined with the ice, it meant for disaster. I had barely even realized what was happening until it was too late. I walked away with a few bruises and she didn't walk away at all. The doctors hadn't even been sure if she would wake up from her coma, and while her parents were getting ready to fly back from half way around the world to be with her, I was all she had.

Her name is Anna. I had never met her before that terrible night when I ruined her life and future, but I knew from the first moment they let peek in through her window that I loved her. This wasn't just a love of guilt or confusion or drunkenness. I was quite sober by this point and the police had questioned me thoroughly enough to establish there was no fault as far as the law was concerned. Somehow, I saw this girl, and I knew that we could be something great together, if only I hadn't killed her.

She woke up before her parents arrived, a miracle the doctors said, but the beauty of that moment was not savored for long. They waited until mom and dad were there to give the devastating news: Anna was going to die. It would be a slow death and not too painful as far as such deaths go, but it was inevitable. There was too much internal damage, and nothing anyone could do to fix it.

I knew Anna's parents hated me, but for some reason, they still let me spend time with her. I apologized so many times I ran out of ways to say I was sorry, but Anna never blamed me. She just said, "I forgive you" and that was all. She even was willing to talk to me, which made my heart beat even faster and my own pain even greater. Perhaps what I had felt at first was just a passion, but as we talked long into the night, I discovered this girl was perfect.

I asked her at first what I could do, if there was anyone else she needed to contact or any last things she needed to take care of. No, there was no one who had not already been told, and the only task she needed to complete was the writing of her will. I could barely stand it when she said that, but she was the strong one, the one that told me not to be afraid. "I've led a good life," she said, even though she was only 23. "But I never really knew what I wanted to do with it anyway."

She was a music major. She had a beautiful singing voice, I was told, well, before I took that from her. And she could play the violin as well, or at least, used to play. She was never good enough to make a living on it, though, she confided. "Might end up being all for the best," she mused, and I begged her not to say that.

What made her say she led a good life was really all the volunteer work she had done. When her parents angrily told me about it all, it almost made me think that she couldn't die after all, for she must be an angel. I couldn't understand how fate could be so cruel to take such a wonderful person like this out of the world, but then I realized it wasn't fate who had done it, but me. I had made life unfair.

The days passed. Friends of Anna's came to visit her, to say goodbye, or to linger on until the end. A group of children she had led in a choir came, tears filling their eyes. She didn't tell them not to cry, she let them, but assured them she would be going to a better place. Yet, through all those who came and went or didn't went, I was there. Not often in the room. It was strange to most everyone that Anna would let me in there at all, but I stayed at the hospital. I used up all my vacation at work and a little extra besides. I had to be there. I had killed this girl, this girl I had now fallen in love with, and I had to be there until the end.

The coughing finally stopped and I saw there were tears in Anna's eyes instead of in my own. "I know I try to be brave," she said almost in a whisper. "But I'm scared, too. Deep down, I know it will be okay, I know I don't have to be afraid, but not so deep down, I'm terrified."

She reached her hand out and I took it, and then I blurted the most ridiculous and inappropriate thing I had ever said. "Marry me."

There was silence and then, "Andrew, I'll be gone in a few days. I can never give you anything."

I nodded. I knew that. I wasn't after anything. I wouldn't even get her beautiful violin or anything else she had owned. That would be too cruel and that was not what I was after. I loved this girl, and years from now, when the world was still mourning her passing, I wanted to be able to say that I had been married to her, if only for a day.

"I don't care," was all I said. "I love you, and it kills me that I did this to you."

She only smiled and squeezed my hand with a strength I could not have imagined she could possess. "I love you, too," she whispered. "No one else could ever understand it, but I do. And yes, even if it is the very last thing I do, I will marry you."

When we called the preacher, he thought he was coming to bring comfort, and was shocked and confused when informed we wanted him to bring us joy in Anna's final days, or perhaps even hours.

Her parents didn't want this to happen, I knew, but they could not argue. They wanted to do everything Anna wanted, no matter how crazy or foolish it might seem. Her true friends were much the same.

And so we were married. There was no great ceremony, no grand dinner or dancing or other wedding night festivities. There was just the paster, her parents, a few friends, Anna, and, inexplicably, me, right there in the middle of it all. I fed her jell-o in lieu of cake and even that she could barely manage. She couldn't really sign the marriage certificate either, but it was good enough for me, and the feeble kiss she was able to give me was the most wonderful touch I had ever felt.

I did stay with her all that night, until she fell asleep, and I was so weary myself, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I drifted off with my hand still touching hers.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something was wrong. Anna wasn't dead, not yet, but she wasn't moving either. I had barely noticed this when a doctor and three nurses came rushing into the room. "What's going on?" I needed to know.

"You have to leave," one of the nurses said.

"But, that's my wife," I countered without even thinking about it.

Another of the nurses sneered. "We know all about that," she jeered.

It hurt more than any pain I had felt so far, and I realized that they didn't realize why I had done this. I wanted to explain, but I couldn't not to them, not...

"She's slipped into a coma again," the doctor told me in a much gentler voice than his assistants. "Please, you have to go. And tell her parents what's happening."

What's happening. I didn't even know what was happening. I loved this girl, but I had found her too late, I had found her after I had already killed her.

I told her parents who immediately turned away from me in anger and tears. And so the hours passed and I waited alone. And waited and waited and waited.

It was nearly midnight before I finally saw the doctor again coming too slowly towards the waiting room. Anna's parents jumped up and rushed at him and I stepped forward as well. The doctor looked like he was about to explode in tears and he looked at her parents and just said, "She's better."

Her mother started bawling while her husband soothed her. Seeing that they thought he was using a euphemism, the doctor quickly smiled and reached out to them, "No, no," he insisted. "She's alive and she's better. I don't know how it's possible, but she's healing, or at least enough that we can fix the rest. She's not going to die."

He turned and looked directly at me and gave me a look of triumph I had never seen on a doctor's face before. "Your wife is going to live."

My wife is going to live.

My wife... My wife... oh my...

Unusual

I don't know when I first realized that I was different from everyone else, but I remember a time when I didn't feel different, so I must not have been this way forever. I just don't know what to do about it. My parents would be disappointed if they knew the things I think about. My older sister already seems to suspect. I can tell from the way she looks at me. I'm not a fool. I'm just as smart as everyone else here. I just view things in a different light, or, like, in light at all. I wonder if there is anyone else in this place like me.

From a young age I was taught to conform, to be like everyone else. Normalcy was, well, normal. I should read the same books to others read, practice the same drills, adhere to the same philosophies. We are all after the same thing, after all: a world where we can survive and the unworthy are doomed to die.

My sister always seemed to revel in it all. She cherished the idea that she might have some control to make the whole world like our own piece of it. She wanted to bring our practices to the masses, if she could. Of course, it made no sense for everyone to know the things we did, for if they did, there would be little use for us in the end.

It's just strange, I mean, it's normal for everyone else, but for me, it's strange. I don't know why I don't feel drawn to death the way everyone else does, but somehow, for whatever reason, I see beauty in life. I try to hide my feelings as best as I can. I fear that if anyone ever knew what I was thinking, I would be turned away, and once I am turned away, I fear they may use the very things I've been learning about against me. I know the others aren't afraid to die, but I am. I'm not ready for that yet. I feel like there is something missing, something I'm missing, something we're all missing, and I want to discover what it is.

The enemy. So often, I wonder if the enemy has what I'm looking for. I know its blasphemous to even think it, to even contemplate that some part of what we do might be wrong. After all, we work for the greater good, for a higher good. We want a world of peace and happiness. It's just that to us, that peace and happiness is death and loneliness. But why do those words seem so bad to me? They are glory and great joy. That's what I've always been told. But somewhere along the way I stopped believing. Somewhere, I started to think that it was wrong.

It's the most natural thing in the world: death. And I've always been told that darkness is our friend. It makes so much sense in my mind, and yet my heart can't quite seem to believe it. Something is off, and I'm afraid to ask if anyone else has felt this way before. What if they haven't?

But why should I think I'm so special? Why should I think I'm so unique? I've always been average. Average at the mental assessments, average in the physical tests, average in every way. Maybe that's why I'm making up this alternate way of thinking about things, because I'm just not as good at this way as others. I'm not as good as my friends and I'm not as good as my sister. Sure, there are plenty who are worse than me. That's what average means after all. But those closest to me always seem to be better. Is it because I've started to view things differently, or have I started to view things differently because of it?

I wish there were someone I could talk to, but it's hard when you value loneliness and introversion. Sure, my friends are great, but sometimes I wish friends were someone you could actually talk to, and not just the group of people you choose to spar and mediate with. When my friends meditate, they look like they're getting something out of it. They seem truly lost in the darkness, like we all should be. Me, I just keep longing for the light. I wish it would stop.

Am I really so unusual? Am I really the only one of my kind who has ever felt this way? I wonder if anyone has ever gone over to the light side before, over to the enemy. I've never heard of such a thing, but of course, why would they tell me? Why should they tell me? Secrets are the key to success. We do what we're told, we trust in the darkness, and the power of death shall be ours. It's they way it is. It's the best way. Why does it feel so wrong to me?

I want to live, I don't want to die, and I don't want to kill anyone else either. I dread the day they send me out on my first mission. All the others seem so excited, especially my sister. She has her first mission next week. She can't wait to show what she can do, how her control over death is nearing completion. Me on the other hand, I'd rather not even know of this power. I'd rather be unaware than understand it all. I want to be like the ones she's going after, but I don't want to die.

I can't have it both ways. I hate it. I know the way things really are. That's part of being one of my people. I can't be both happy and free. I can't have both life and the power of death. If I am alive, I will be killed by those who have the power. If I have the power, I can hardly be alive. All those around me think death is life, but I think death is just death, and it's terrible. What is wrong with me?

Maybe someday before it is my time, it will all make sense. I hope it does. I hope I can be absorbed into the darkness like my sister, that I can take the joy in it that she does before the end. But at the same time, I don't want to be like that. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I see a better way, a way of happiness and peace in which the enemy does not have to die. But that is impossible. Our words can never persuade them. We have no choice but to kill. At least that's what my people have always told me.

I should not question. I should just accept what I am. I should be proud to know the truth when others in the world cannot. That's what they tell me, but it just feels wrong. I want friends I can talk to, not just prepare with. I want parents who love me. Love, now that's a strange word. I only know it because they tell us it is what makes the enemy weak. Of all the things we have ever studied in school, love seems to be the one thing I understand when my classmates do not, and the one thing I must be ashamed of understanding.

It just seems so wonderful, having someone who puts your needs above their own, and you wanting to do the same for them. Always looking out for someone else. If I had someone I could do that for, and know they were doing the same for me, I think I might be okay with death, but death by its very nature forbids such a thing.

I just want out of this life. I don't want the escape of death that everyone else so longs for. I want out of this life so that I can really live. I don't know how to explain what I mean, or if its even possible, but somehow, I know we're doing it all wrong. And there's no one I can talk to about it. No one here seems to have ever felt this way before.

Unless of course... Maybe, well, what if I'm not so unusual? What if others feel the exact same things I do, and are fighting so hard to hide it, just like me. They tell us conformity is true freedom, but I think freedom is freedom, and conformity is conformity. I want to think for myself and I want to enjoy my life, not the darkness and not the killing and dying. I want to feel truly free and happy. Maybe there are others like me, and if there are how can I find them? How can I find out whether or not I am really so unusual?

There's no more time to think about it now. I have to go spar with my friends. I hate it, but it's my duty, and if I don't show up, someone will know something is wrong and they will come after me. I hate our society. I hate perfection. I hate not being able to enjoy any of it and being told that I am enjoying it all. I hate being so unusual. Maybe I do want to be like our enemies. Maybe that is the only way. I envy our enemies. I want to be like them. Must that be so unusual?

Arrogant, ctd

"What an arrogant little prick."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Brittany sighed and shook her head. "What did Brady do now?" she asked.
Tiffany stared at her dumbfounded. "He has a girlfriend!"
Brittany almost laughed. "So what?" she asked.
Bridget just stared for a moment and then said, "No pretentious little brat like that has any right to a girlfriend."
"Yeah," Tiffany chimed in, "who does he think he is?"
"Well, who is she?" Brittany asked.
"I don't know," Bridge said. "Some nobody, I'm sure."
"Well isn't that good, that he would date a 'nobody'?"
"Oh my gosh, Britt, you don't get it at all!" Tiffany exclaimed. "Everything he does, he just does to get attention."
"You can't possibly know that," Brittany countered. And to herself though, "if that is his goal he sure is accomplishing it with you two."
...
"Well, he broke up with her," Bridget exclaimed.
"What an ass!" Tiffany chimed in.
"But I thought he was an ass for dating her to begin with," Brittany pointed out.
"Oh, Britt," Bridget sighed. This seemed to be her favorite exclamation lately. "Don't you see? Once he's dating her, he better keep dating her. He's just throwing her away like garbage."
"Like garbage," Tiffany agreed.
"He probably just wanted some 'experience' for some new song he's writing," Bridget pointed out.
"Yeah, probably," Tiffany agreed.
...
"OMG!" Tiffany exclaimed as she walked over to join the other two at lunch.
"What?!" Bridget asked, wide eyed.
"He's coming here!" Tiffany practically shouted.
Bridget stood as Tiffany sat. "No way!" she exclaimed.
Tiffany nodded, a frown on her face. "Uh huh," she confirmed. "And guess who wants to go see him."
Bridget and Brittany just looked at her, and Tiffany answered their blank stares with, "My kid sister!"
Brittany thought Bridget was going to shoot out the ceiling at that.
"And I have to go with her," Tiffany went on. "And if I have to go, so do the two of you!"
"What? No way!" Bridget protested.
Tiffany tossed the tickets on the table. "It's already done," she said. "If you have any compassion for me at all, you're going to sit through this hell right along with me."
Brittany picked up her ticket and looked at it. It looked like any other concert ticket.
...
When they arrived at the stadium where the concert was being held, Brittany was amazed at the number of young girls present. Most of them appeared to be about 12. "I assumed this guy was at least a real musician," she muttered.
"Well, you assumed wrong," Bridget told her, smirking at Tiffany, who was trying to restrain her kid sister, who was jumping up and down trying to see the empty stage better. "This is just the crowd he appeals to. He doesn't even try to do any serious work. He's a talentless slob."
Brittany didn't know what to expect of this concert, but she certainly didn't expect what actually happened.
Her first shock was seeing who walked onto the stage. At first, she thought it was just some lackey checking the equipment, but then the crowd of young girls went wild and a band walked in behind him. "He's just a kid," she whispered in surprise. In deed, he was likely no older than the youngest girl in the stadium, unless there happened to be a baby present, and even then he might not be much older. Tiffany would have guessed he was about 11, though if he looked young for his age, she supposed he could be as old as 14. He was ordinary looking, but cute in a childish way. She couldn't believe anyone that young had a girlfriend, or could be as malicious as her two friends seemed to think him to be. She looked over at them and they were just scowling, no surprised look on their faces at all. They clearly knew he was just a child and called him an ass anyway.
The second shock came when he opened his mouth. The lyrics were awful, truly portraying the attitude of a young child who thought he knew something about the world and didn't, but man could that boy sing. He was better than any child musician she had ever heard before. She didn't quite get why he was so popular though. Yes, he could sing, but he was singing to 12-year-olds. Maybe that was why he was so popular... these girls didn't care what he was saying. She wondered, though, if they appreciated the fact that he was good, or just that he was a celebrity. He became a celebrity by singing well, she was sure, but seemed to keep his celebrity by singing terrible songs and just looking good on stage, and even that second part he barely managed to do.
At the end of the show, Brittany could see some of her friends' dislike for this boy, but ultimately he was just a boy, and she felt they were being remarkably cruel. She noticed that the child was signing autographs so she went over to talk to him.

He seemed very surprised to see a grown woman walking up to him. He smirked a little. "Hey, gramma," he said.
She was appalled at that, but continued anyway. "You have a wonderful voice," she said.
He smirked and looked at his finger nails as if he were admiring them. "Thanks, lady," he said.
"But you clearly don't know anything about life," she added.
That seemed to catch him surprisingly off guard, as if no one had told him that before, and suddenly Brittany wondered where his parents were. He looked shocked for a moment and then shouted, "Security!"
"It's okay," Brittany quickly assured him, holding her hands up in surrender. "I'm going. I just hope you mature as an artist and a person."
Walking away, she realized she had been much more harsh than she intended, but at the same time, she wasn't sorry.
...
For weeks after that Bridget and Tiffany kept complaining about the kid and then, slowly, they stopped. Brittany forgot all about him, until 5 years later, she was driving in her car when she heard a song that reminded her of the boy's concert. She listened until the end, and then heard the DJ laugh about the mistake in playing that terrible song and how he wasn't even sure how it got into their records, while confirming that it was indeed a song by the child performer, from 4 years ago.
...
"What ever happened to that Brady kid?" Brittany asked at lunch that day.
Tiffany and Bridget stared at her like they had no idea what she was talking about.
"You know," Brittany prodded them, "that singer kid you two used to hate so much."
Slowly, the light seemed to dawn on them. "Oh yeah," Bridget exclaimed.
"What a prick," Tiffany added.
"Whatever happened to him?" Brittany asked.
Bridget shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care," she said.
"I guess he grew up," Tiffany said.
"Why don't you look it up," Bridget suggested with a smirk that seemed to say, "Why would you ever do that?"
Brittany just smiled. "Maybe I will," she said.
...
When she looked it up, what she found almost broke her heart. Just a few months after the concert at which she had seen him, apparently he had been found to be in possession of illegal drugs. He was only 12; he shouldn't have even known what it was he had, but apparently, he still knew how to use it. He was at first given just a slap on the wrist, but a few months after that, he was found driving a car in possession of more drugs. He was still only 12. He had also convinced some of his fans to give him their jewelry as "gifts", which essentially amounted to stealing in the eyes of most everyone. He ended up going to a "special school" for boys and had to drop his career entirely. This was where Brittany found that his father had died when he was 5 and his mother seemed to barely care about disciple at all, as long as he could make her money. But when he started costing her money, she left and no one seemed to know where she went.
The whole thing seemed to be just one tragedy after another, up until the part where he got out of his "special school" just a couple weeks ago, now talentless and forgotten.
"I guess he did grow up," Brittany muttered as she wiped a tear from her eye.
She thought about trying to find out more, maybe if she could write him a letter or something, but what would it matter? He wouldn't remember her and he wouldn't care about some random letter.
"I guess that's that," she said to herself, and she went back to work.
...
Brady sat alone in his room doing his homework while he listened to the radio. His heart almost skipped a beat when he heard one of his old songs come on. But at the end, the DJ laughed and said what a terrible mistake that kid had been. Brady frowned and looked back at his piece of paper. He remembered something from long ago... some woman who had told him he was good, but needed to grow up. Well, he sure had grown up now. He wondered if he was still any good at singing, but he doubted it. He wouldn't even join choir at his new school, but mostly because choir seemed to be for losers.
Brady sighed and went back to his algebra. He had had his 15 minutes of fame, he would probably never get it back again. He wasn't even sure he wanted it, considering what it had brought him.
Still the next morning in the shower, he found himself singing, not one of his own songs (which he knew now really were crap), but a song by a real performer. He smiled a little when he got out. "I could make it again," he thought. "But why would anyone even care." And so, that was that.