Thursday, June 28, 2007

The Catalyst, chaptor 6: SOUL-EATERS AND EYE-PLEASERS
Danny Rossurie, Daniel, Dan Dan, em0taku, Savestheday, DaRo, Nny Rie, and “HEY YOU, WITH THE HAT/HOODIE!!” All these names, I know. Mostly because all these names belong to the same person. And said person, of course, is Daniel Keyth Rossurie. Daniel Keyth Rossurie, as in every anime/computer/emo geeks favorite potential rock-star. Daniel Keyth Rossurie as in every star-struck, female, teenage masochist’s favorite affliction. Daniel Keyth Rossurie, as in every vapid, pretentious, spoiled Britney Spears worshipper’s least favorite scene kid. And, Daniel Keyth Rossurie as in my favorite liar. At the mention of said liar, the blood-vessels nearly explode out of my skin and unto the upholstery of the seats, in 10000 tiny drops. The blood rushes to my face, the shivers run up and down my spine; and the sickness re-animates itself in my stomach. At this, somewhere from the catacombs of my left-over detachment, a soft voice cries out in dread: “Just because they don’t have bars… don’t assume this isn’t a prison. And just because they don’t have fangs… don’t assume they’re not vampires.” Okay, OW! Why “ow,” you ask? Oh, it’s just that at the ominous warning from my sub-conscious, the sour sickness swirling and twirling around beneath my skin just grows more gruesome. And I know from experience and re-experience that within minutes, said sour sickness will have my heart by the veins. This just can’t be. Daniel Keyth Rossurie is at MY school? It can’t be. He disappeared, he’s gone for good; he’s dead to me. It’s impossible. It just HAS to be a night-mare! Fortunately, I never get the chance to tell Cori this, because seconds after those last 2 oh-so-horribly beautiful words so gracefully escape her lips, mom pulls up in front of the school. “We’re here!” She half announces, half sing-songs to me because I’m obviously not paying attention. My lip quakes. My hand shakes… I can’t take this… I’m about to throw up. “O-okay. Er, Cori-la, we’re here, so… See you inside,” I stammer. Unfortunately Cori notices the shakiness in my voice, and the last thing I hear before I hang up, is a concerned: “Wait, Bel, What’s wron-?” Click. And then, the dial-tone. When at a loss for words, state the unstated. When at a loss for composure, escape at all costs. “Bye, sweetie! Have a great day at school.” Says mom, blissfully unaware that Hell just froze over-AGAIN- and is currently preparing to unleash its icy wrath on me-AGAIN. “Bye, mom,” I automatically respond, doing my best to reflect her at-ease cheerfulness. And with that, a good-bye kiss, and a feigned smile, I’m out the door. Out the door, and into the Hell-fire. (Well, technically it’s a Hell-blizzard, considering it just froze over, but you know what I mean.)
And while tearing down the hall-ways to Mr. Montgomery’s class, where said Hell-blizzard awaits, my mentality keeps up a steady, conviction-filled, rhythmic beat of: “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening…” But it is happening. Because if it weren’t happening, then this would be just another bad dream, and if this were just another bad dream, than this would be the part were the evil, blue-skinned Dr. Hate tries to turn Mikey Ralphson, Marilynn Mansion, Aaron Carter, and Sir Pointy Head, the spiky, pink-haired, punk rocker gold-fish, into creepy, repulsive, transsexual versions of Hilary Duff and Hannah Montana. And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t see any traces of evil, blue-skinned, deranged Hilary Duff/Hannah Montana fans or punk-rocker fishes, satanic rockers, notorious flamboyant hip-hoppers, or even blonde-haired Human Shield singers on my way up here. Besides, if I’m not dreaming and this isn’t actually happening after all, then that can only mean I’m being Punk’d, and as we’ve all discovered, I’m way too boring for Mr. Kutcher to be intrigued enough to feature me on his hidden-camera show. However, this proof that I wasn’t dreaming or being Punk’d did not at all stop me from trying to convince myself that I was either dreaming or being Punk’d. It also didn’t stop me from reminiscing. In fact, most of my thoughts at the time where consumed by the oh-so-familiar image of those eyes. (That face, that hair, that voice, that sensuality, that cynicism, and those eyes…) Those watery, blue, callous, dull, unreadable, sneering, demonic eyes. Alichino eyes. The kind that can —and usually will-- drive you utterly, death-cravingly mad with just one flirtatious glance in the direction of another girl. The kind that just assure and reassure you, over and over again, with the utmost conviction and faux determination, that you won’t EVER be harmed, despite the oh-so-barely noticeable, yet ever-so-perpetual under-tone of: “I’m too good to be true.” The kind that lie, the kind that cheat, the kind that betray…

Well, actually I didn’t spend too much time on the eyes per se, but the rest of him is just as disarming and demonic, just as much an Alichino, so it really doesn’t matter which body part. I mean, either way, I’m still miserable. Still miserable, still divided, still penetrated, and still intoxicated. I just can’t help it. What can I say, I’m obsessive and the Ali’s are addicting. This is simply what they do to me.
And just what is an Alichino, you ask? Oh, they’re nothing special. They’re nothing unique. Trust me, they’re EVERYWHERE. But they are complex. So, if you are to have a proper understanding of them, we’re going to have to take it slow. First off, let’s take a look at the pronunciation: ALI. CHI. NO. (Notice how even the name has a certain allure and sensuality to it. Almost like some form of exotic alcohol.) Now, in my mind, the “A” can stand for at least 5 things, these 5 things being: allure, addiction, amusement, attraction, and affliction. The “L” is for Liar. The “I” is for Infidelity. The “C,” for Calculating. The “H,” for Heart-breaker. The second “I,” for Irreverent. The “N” is Numb. And finally, the “O” is Oblivious. Because the Ali’s have absolutely no idea what they are or what they do to kids like me. They’re almost completely ignorant to their powers. As far the definition? Well, that’s the tricky part. But here are some as-close-as-I-could-get-to-synonyms: Heart-breaker, beautiful liar, soul-eater, human drug, wonderful caricature of intimacy, serial user, eye-pleaser, player, libido-feeder…Yeah. We’ve all got our names for them. But, either name, you get the gist, right? An Alichino by any other name is just as tempting. Until, of course, you figure out they’re all just a bunch of brilliant, over-cunning actors/con-artists with cruel intentions, deceptively angelic allures, and gorgeous faces. Then, for a limited time, the spell weakens enough for you to escape. The affection is replaced by anger and the awe is replaced by bitter jealousy. It’s a horrible feeling. Even if it does save you from the deadly trap that is the oh-so-tempting allure of an Alichino, it’s still horrible. You just feel so restless and spiteful and furious. And the anger keeps gnawing and gnawing at your mentality like some kind of parasite until it’s got nothing left to feed on. And then, when the metaphorical anger parasite leaves you, where the relentless fury used to be, there’s nothing left but disconnection and emptiness. And hunger. Lots and lots of emotional hunger. The good news is, if you’re clever and willing enough, after all that, you get out and you’re safe. Safe from the self-doubt. Safe from the uncertainty. Safe from the jealousy. Safe from the hatred. Safe from the self-demolishing addiction. And safe from the lies/betrayals. The trick is, this realization doesn’t stay with you. So you have to get away while your heads clear. And that’s exactly what I did. Or, at least, I thought I did, until now.
But evidently not. Because he’s back. And it’s even worse, because this time he’s not a 1000 miles away in Michigan, with nothing but a key-board, a computer, and an internet connection. This time, when I look at him, I’ll have to see the razor-sharp apathy in his face and the malicious arrogance in his eyes. This time, when I talk to him, I’ll have to see him smirk at the shakiness in my voice and the fragility of my confidence. And this time, when he lies to me, I’ll have to feel the malice thickening the air around us and crushing me like a vice; robbing me of all clarity. Forcing me to listen. Forcing me to believe. For, such is the fate of those banished to the emotional dungeon that is addiction to Alichinos. However, when I do stumble into the class-room, all out of breath from running and worrying, our Rossurie seems anything but threatening. In fact, as Mr. Montgomery chews me out for being late, in front of everyone, I have to wonder if Danny is even awake. He’s just sitting there. Sitting there with his lop-sided head in his hands and his detached gaze on the floor. Must be a hard first day so far…Either that, or a very boring one… “Belinda!” The razor-edged shout/command of Mr. Montgomery sheers through my thoughts. “Did you hear a word I just said?!”
My head automatically half turns, half snaps to meet his impatient, worn-out, frustrated, wrinkled face. “ Er, yessir. Sorry. Won’t happen again!” And off I go. Although to be honest, I’m not sure if he was scolding me for being late or for just wearing a skirt in such crappy weather… or both. Nevertheless, without the least bit of hesitance, I’m off towards my desk before our middle-aged regular caricature of poise, Mr. M., even has the chance to think about abusing/verbally bitch-slapping me further for standing around too long. And, when I get to my desk, guess what I discover. No, really, just guess... No, I did not win the lottery. No, Jason Wenterz is not my long-lost uncle. No, I was not Eloise Jarvis McGraw in another life. (Ha! Yeah, I wish.) And, hell no, my desk is not being haunted by the chess-playing ghosts of Jack the Ripper, Marie Antoinette, and Homer
Oh, no, dear readers. What I discovered was, Danny’s seat/desk is RIGHT.IN.FREAKING.FRONT.OF.MINE! (LIKE, HOLY ANOREXIC HAMSTERS ON HELIUM!! IT JUST KEEPS GETTING WORSE!) At this horrifying discovery/realization, my eyes automatically snap towards the Crucifix bead on my rosary bracelet, and I soundlessly murmur: You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Nevertheless, I still take my seat. But not without another imploring look at my rosary bracelet and another soundless prayer of: Oh, please ,please, PLEASE be kidding me!

But no, He’s not kidding me. Because, guess what- it can and does get worse. How, you ask? Three words: assigned partner projects. Four more words: Danny is my partner. (Two more words: this sucks.) You see, we’re supposed to put together something about a Middle Ages historical figure we admire, or at least, are fascinated by. And I do reasonably well in History class and Danny just got here, hence he obviously has no idea what’s going on in school, so Mr. Montgomery, our teacher, assigned us each other as partners. And there you have it. Danny is my partner. Danny is my partner… The words echo through my mind. And the echo is so monotonous that I end up whispering it to myself out-loud. “Danny is my partner…” I’m not exactly sure how, but the words come out feeling/tasting both sweet and dreadful. Almost like a wrapped-up “Dove” chocolate that’s been left out in the rain too long. All sticky, and soggy, and wet. So messy, to a point where you almost wonder if it’s worth getting it out of the wrapper to eat. But still chocolate, nevertheless. So I “eat the soggy, wet, sticky chocolate” a little louder, with a little more detail this time: “Daniel Rossurie is my partner.” And then, just because I can’t believe it, I incoherently mutter it to myself one more time: “DANNY.---ING.KEYTH.ROSSURIE IS.MY.----ING. PARTNER.” ( Yeah, Bryce, the guy who was sitting next to me, actually turned and looked at me as if a cat had just climbed out of my mouth, at that one.) Ehheh… Yeah, ‘twas louder than intended. But luckily, our adorably oblivious Alichino, by some convenient miracle, doesn’t hear me. How do I know this? Well, it just seems rather strange that, after class, he would turn to Cori, on my right, and ask her who this “Melinda”-- (HE MISPRONOUNCED MY NAME!!)-- was, when he already knew it was the creepy stalker-like chick sitting behind him. And what did I do, when he turned to my best friend for Belinda-identifying assistance, you ask? Well, there were a lot of options…

And my body seemed to want to make use of them all. “Scream!” advised my instincts. “Blush!” commanded my heart. (And of course, I had to obey that one, just a bit.) “Run away!” implored my inner-wuss/anti-confronter. “Um… I-I don’t know!” cried my self-doubt/uncertainty. “Eat something!” Moaned my stomach. “Drink something!” Croaked my rather dry throat. “Throttle Cori the second she points you out!” screamed my inner-demon. “Wash your face,” suggested my pores. “Write a poem about it,” said my inner-poet. “Jump out the 3rd story window!” half-chanted, half-sung my inner suicidal/Emo. “Slap that pathetic, conceited liar/Alichino upside the head!” shrilled my inner-feminist. “Take it off!” cheered my inner-ho/libido. “A.K.47 the whole damn school!” yelled my potential serial killer. “Just sit there like the idiot you are and have an internal nose-bleed…And fix your hair, you slob!” abused my self-loathing complex. But, despite all this brilliant/suicidal/abusive/distracting advice, I just had to go with my inner-Cute Is What We Aim For-fan-girls suggestion. So, when Cori said “here she is!” with a point in my direction, and when Danny turned around to face me with a semi-smile and a non-too-enthusiastic “hey,” the first thing out of my mouth was: “I’ve got the gift of one-liners and you’ve got the curse of curves!” Yes. That’s right. I quoted lyrics at him. (It was honestly the most logical action I could think of…)At the sight of his surprised “you’re a psycho, aren’t you?” look and awkward silence, I took it upon myself to go on: “And with this gift, I compose words on whichever question comes forward…Are you perspiring from the irony or just sweating to these lyrics?” (And at the time, this quote doesn’t fit at all because I’M the one who’s sweating, and he’s just sitting there wondering how long it took me to escape the mad-house.) And what is his response? Well, first he just continues to looks at me as if I had just screamed “FIGHT BREAST-CANCER!” as loud as my lung-capacity/vocal cords would allow, while smoking a cigarette. Then, finally, he awkwardly stammers: “Okay then. So I take it you like Cute is What We Aim For…. Awesome.” And then he turns back to the front of the room and his evidently fantastic view of the floor, probably thinking I’m a psycho. A Cute Is What We Aim For-loving psycho. At this probably accurate guess at our Rossuries current opinion of me, oh-so-callously harsh reality sheers through my hope and it immediately deflates. My heart spontaneously combusts. My inner-ho violently cusses. My inner-emo tearfully slits her wrists. And my face temporarily collapses. Yeah, I know, I know- I’m over-reacting AGAIN. But I can’t help it. No matter how many times Danny disappoints me, I just cannot persuade my memory to safely label him as the semi-insensitive, manipulating, reckless, somewhat callous, completely oblivious-to-peoples-feelings jerk he is. My memory just never listens. So I’m always and forever being caught up in the trap that is the oh-so-deceptively angelic allure of the Alichinos. In other words, I’m a compulsive Ali addict. Meaning, their essence has been permanently engraved into my instinct. Meaning, my fascination with them is not simply a desire, but an uncontrollable impulse. And no matter how many times I discover/realize that the Ali’s are all just one giant health hazard and that’s all they’ll EVER be, I just cannot get over it. In other words: I’m a complete masochist when it comes to this crap. I swear, with my exaggerations, I shall be the cause and escort to my own grave. (Just call me drama queen, people.) And the fact that my self-loathing complex is currently abusing the crap out of me doesn’t exactly help matters. “You idiot!” shrills the horrid demon. “What were you thinking?! Didn’t I tell you to just sit there and let him do all the talking? You just HAD to open your mouth didn’t you?! Gawd, you’re such a ---ing disgrace! Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you just stay shut up and wallow in the shadows of obscurity where you belong? Why can’t you just…?” There was more, but at this particular moment, that’s all I can remember. (It probably wasn’t really worth remembering anyway. All I recall is that it was loud, angry, abusive, and it made me REALLY regret not taking the advice of my inner-emo.) The good news is, eventually the ridicule comes to an end. And after said maelstrom of insults from my self-hatred subsides, minutes later, there is nothing left but the vague semi-silence of my class-mates gathering their belongings together, about to go to the next class. Well, that, the echo of my dejection and the memory of the eerily fitting, dread-stricken warning I received a mere twenty-something minutes ago:

“…Just because they don’t have fangs, don’t assume they’re not vampires.” And just because they never made me bleed, don’t assume I’m not their victim.

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