Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Catalyst, chapter 10:WHEN NOBODIES WANNA BE SOMEBODIES...
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There is nothing left in this eerily abandoned hall-way but the hallow sound of the Reapers foot-steps as they march and the horrible sight of the bullet-pierced cadavers littering the blood-stained floor. (For obvious reasons, I do my best to avoid looking at the floor.) Every now and then, I risk a glance at the ominous, morbid, graceful-enough-to-be-ghost-like figures semi-walking, semi-floating beside, behind, and in front of me. They are all so sleek-looking. There is not a single out-of-shape or frail-looking one among them. However, I'd say they're more acrobat-like than muscular. Meaning, they're not just bulky, but they're also statuesque enough to move so gracefully to a point where they almost don't look human. Every step, every swing of their arms, every wiggle of their fingers looks so fluent and natural that if they hadn't just wiped out a third of my school, I'd assume they were all professional dancers. Of course, the other thing that would throw me from this assumption would be that not all of them appeared to be in the same range of age. Hell, some of them even looked as if they were a year or 2 younger than me! And, for this, I only had one comment: What kind of gang, or clique, or mafia, or whatever the hell this was forced mere pre-teens and young teenagers to be MURDERERS? I mean, they were only KIDS! Who would possibly be sick enough, besides terrorists and the like, to let a mere child wield a gun? I mean, did they have any idea what that did to their child-hood, their innocence, their SOULS?? They might as well be raping 3-year-olds, the sick sons of bitches!

For this, I shot the adult reapers what I hoped was the most venomous glare I had ever performed. They didn't notice. But I felt 100 percent assured that they would in a few seconds when these empty hall-ways were reverberating with my screamed lecture/blasting-spree on just how corrupted they were. Fortunately for them, however, I never got the chance to throw the semi-tantrum, semi-lecture, semi-blasting-spree I had been saving especially for Hell-spawned psychos like them, because just then we reached our destination. Which was the principles office. Or, at least, what USED to be the principles office. Now, it was evidently head-quarters for whichever-spawn-of-a-witch-doctors-toilet was the leader of these horrible creatures. (After all, I highly doubt that the principle would hire a gang of mass murderers and set them loose upon his precious school just to track me down and ask me why my grades have been slipping.)

One of the reapers, who had been walking at the front of the group and looked to be about fifty-something, walked up to the office door and knocked. "Master Kami? We found her." The lead reaper announced. And from beyond the door, there came a reply: "Very good. Bring her in. The door's unlocked." And, sure enough, it was. So they did. The room hadn't changed much since it's pre-Massacre life-time. In fact, the only thing that was really different about it was the blood-stains on the carpet. And, of course, the fact that the person who now sat in the principles chair was no longer the principle, but the leader of the reapers. And since he was their leader, it only makes sense that he would be wearing their uniform too, right? Wrong. Oh, no, for if he were to wear those oh-so-elegantly subtle black robes with the matching halo, that would mean he actually had a whole other reason to get dressed besides to call attention to himself. Or rather, to BEG for attention for himself. His shirt was nonexistent, his scarlet vest was too small and louder than a screamo concert, his pants were black and ripped to a point of semi-transperent-ness, his top-hat was auburn, and his tights were royal purple. (Yes. He was wearing tights. Oh, God help us...) And then there was his mask. Oh my bulimic pigs, his mask! It was one of those really pointy-nosed New Orleans ones, which are designed to look like the faces of birds. Only, it was painted every flamboyant color "Master Kami" could have possibly fit on it. Um, yeah. Can you say magenta, chartreuse, mauve, aqua, aubergine, and tangerine? (No, seriously, can you?.... Yes? Good. Now, try to spell them without looking at this page.) For a few seconds, all I did was stand in the door-way, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the intensity of Kami's ensamble. No such luck. My eyes still burned. My head still throbbed. My vision still blurred. And my inner stylist still sputtered dissaprovingly. My first thoughts upon seeing this Kami character were somewhere along the lines of: "Dear Gawd, I'm about to be interrogated by Freddie Mercury reincarnated!" I also had to wonder why he had gone through so much trouble to get me here. And then, as if on cue, Kami Mercury looked up from the magazine he was reading, slid his eyes analytically up and down my willowy, fragile frame, then said casually: "So, you're Jason Wenterz's favorite groupie, eh?"

My shocked response was instantaneous. "W-what?!! Where the Hell did you hear that?!!" There were only 2 people in the world who I EVER let accuse me of being a groupie. Cassie and Aaya. (Well, actually they were only teasing me, but still...) And not even they ever had the nerve to call me a Jay Wen chaser. I mean, it is one of the most obvious things in the world that I don't like Wenterz THAT WAY. I never fantasized about meeting him, I never blushed when he looked at the camera while I was watching him on TV, I never fell asleep reading the Mobile Fallout Shelter lyrics in the hope of making some sort of romantic mental connection with him, and I have NEVER wanted to even kiss him much less be his concubine. Matter of fact, he often scares the living crap out of me. I never fantasized about meeting him, I had bone-chilling night-mares about meeting him. I don't blush when he looks at the camera, I turn pale with dread when he looks at the camera. I don't spend my nights trying to relate to him through his lyrics, I spend my nostalgic moments wondering what the Hell he was thinking when he got that hideous buzzcutt. So no. I am not Jasons groupie any more than Tiger Woods is the queen of England.

Instead of answering me, Kami shifted his gaze to my legs and held it there. "Nice scars."

"Huh?"

"The scars. On your legs. They're cute. I like 'em. Did you do that yourself?" There was a note of admiration in his voice as he said this. Even though he was wearing a mask, I could tell he was smiling. Smiling in the manner a heavy metal fan does when he sees a fellow fan thrashing to the chaotic riffs of "Chop Suey" by System of a Down.

"Um, on accident, yeah. I fell off my scooter 1 day and they got scraped on pieces of glass."

"Oh..." He was obviously disappointed that I hadn't gotten the apparently "cute" scars on purpose. Well, there goes our potential fellowship..."Well, they're pretty, anyway." He said, then pointed to a rather-oddly shaped one above my knee and remarked: "That one there looks kinda like a microphone."

"Oh. Really? Uh, thanks." I stammered awkwardly, still struggling with the concept of it being possible for scars to be "cute." It was then that I noticed all the permanent white slit-marks adorning Kami's wrists, arms, shoulders, and neck. What REALLY creeped me out was the one on his arm that featured a skin-carving of a shattered heart, which was beneath the engraving of the morbidly sarcastic question: "WERE YOU USING THAT?" It was creepy because, except for the fact that it was white and a little less noticeable, it looked more like a tattoo than a scar. Meaning, not only did he not consider cutting a sin, but he also thought of self-mutilation as an ART-FORM. In his mind, it was about as shameful as getting his ear pierced. In his mind, every single suicide was the ultimate master-piece. And that probably meant that he thought pain, affliction, and suffering were beautiful too. To prove this, he also had what looked like a cigarette burn or 2 on his neck, in the center of a scar that was designed to look like a choker necklace. I suppose the burns were supposed to be gems or charms on the "necklace," or something.

Suddenly, pointing at my wrist, he remarked: "But that one there looks a bit plain. Rather crude, actually. How'd you get it?"

"Wha...? Oh, this?" I indicated the slit-shaped scar on my wrist. "That's, uh, just a birth-mark." Well, actually it was a 7-months-after-my-birth-mark. But I never felt like repeating the story of how I got it, so whenever anyone asked about it, I managed to pass it off as a birth-mark. However the truth was, if my cousin Jack hadn't caught his Pagen friend, nick-named "Goethe," in the act of trying to sacrifice me to the Devil in order to cast some sort of sick spell all those years ago, the so-called "birth-mark" most likely would've been a death-mark. Hence my parents never letting any of my baby-sitters ever have friends over our house again. (In fact, for the longest time, they didn't let anyone watch me besides my grand-mom.) According to Jack, he hadn't known Goethe was even in a cult much less one that allowed human sacrifice. Back then, Goethe had been nothing to Jack but some blonde, frizzy-haired kid he was rather fond of and in a band with. Never in his life did Jack dream that Goethe would even entertain the idea of attempting to bleed an infant to death. Especially not Jacks 7-month-old cousin. And yet here I am, 15 years later with a slit on my wrist and a nasty scar on my chest from where he stabbed me. However, what really creeped me out about this oh-so-disturbing occurance is that the Goth's spell had required me to be bled to death as well as few drops of his blood mingled with mine. Meaning, I've got his satanic, human-sacrificing, filthy, filthy blood in my veins. And somewhere out there, he's got a great deal of mine in his. (EWWWWWWW!!) For obvious reasons, I did my best not to think about this. So once the lie about my "birth-mark" had been uttered, I went right back to staring and being scandalized by Kami's so-called "body-art."

Unfortunately, my staring at his many "master-pieces" of what he thought of as "body-art" did not go unnoticed. "What'cha lookin'at, love?" He asked, following my gaze to his semi-severed body. "Oh, this?" he pointed to the choker."That's nothing! You should see the one my dad gave me for my 16th birthday." And then, he hiked up the bottom of his buttoned vest a few inches, taking a moment to inform me, with excited pride: "Now, this one's my favorite!" And sure enough, there it was. His favorite scar, just above his stomach. It was a single searing word, written in bold, shameless, capitalized letters, right across his rib-cage: "BLASPHEMER" For a few seconds, all I did was stand and stare, shocked and scandalized. It wasn't so much the word that chilled me as much as it was the fact that his FATHER had done this to him. His own FATHER had cut Kami open in the shape of his label. His own FATHER had mutilized him. His own FATHER had probably nearly bled him to death.

"Well?" He said hopefully, smiling from ear to ear, obviously over-flowing with pride for his favorite "master-piece." "What do you think?"

"Um..." I stammered, unable to look away from the horrible former wound. And yet, considering this mentally ill scar-addicts alias, Kami, was Japanese for "god," I suppose his father had him labled correctly. But before I could say anything offensive, it then occurred to me that I am at the mercy of this self-mutilating prince of insanity, and that if I ever hope to get out of here alive, there is no doubt that I'll have to tell him what he wants to hear. So I play along. "I-I love it! It's brilliant! Very, um, defiant.But... Why does it say 'blasphemer'?"

At this question, the smile on his face automatically disappears and even though he's wearing a mask, I can just feel his eyes darkening. "Well... That's a long story." ("It's a long story that your alias is the Japanese word for god? Um, dude, I can sum up that story in two words: Superiority complex."-Andy Warrest) And then came the uncomfortable pause. During which, Kami sat there, radiating morbid nostalgia as if grudges and hateful reveries had suddenly replaced oxoygen for him, and the recollection of his apparently tragic past was the only thing that filled his lungs. (Seriously, I was nearly suffocated to death on his hateful, brooding radiation!) Well, actually I suppose I can't really count it as a pause because during the whatever-it-was, Kami muttered softly: "He didn't approve of my art, my father..." Pause, pause, pause... And then, once he was over it, he did what any naturally flamboyant Freddie Mercury incarnate would do: he acted as if the awkward pause had never happened. "So anyway-!" He cheered in a frolicsome tone that was so perky it made me question his masculinity. "Have a seat!" This command was accompanied by an overly theatrical hand-gesture to a vacant chair and a maniacal grin equal to that of the Batmans' Joker. Now, I was too frightened that if I disobeyed, he might start speaking in that horrifying falsetto again. So I sat.


The second I did so, in the indicated chair, the reapers, who, I just noticed, never left the room, immediately tied me to the seat so I couldn't escape. (Hmmm, why do I suddenly feel as if something painful is about to happen?) But Kami, being the sinisterly smiling psycho that he was, just continued to beam at me as if it was the most naturally courteous deed in the world for the host to tie their guests to chairs. "So," he chirped, once the tying was complete; "I heard you got to meet Jay Wenterz yesterday. That must've been cool."

"Umm... Actually it was a little strange."

"Hmm. You don't say..." mused Kami. Then he held up the magazine article he had been reading and informs me that: "This magazine thought so too."

At the sight of the magazine, I gasp. Oh,crap. Crappy, crappy, crappity, crap! There, at the top of the page blazes the caption: "LONG-LOST NIECE OR SECRET LOVER?" And beneath it is a picture of Jason kissing me on the fore-head in the air-port parking-lot. This cannot be happening. My "I-think-Jason-Wenterz-is-over-rated" reputation is completely ruined! Just to make sure it's real,-and I hope to God that it's not;-I swipe the article from Kami's hand and start to read, in total horror, as the horrid publication proclaims me as either a teen prostitute or some kind of over-ambitious Wenterz fan-girl.

At my aghast reaction to the story, Kami chuckles. "Yeah, congratulations, sweetie," he says. "You're famous!"

And with that, he takes the magazine back into his hands and, with a look of the utmost seriousness, tells me: "Turst me, kid, you don't want to know the rest of the theories. It only gets worse. But basically, the gist of the article is that Wenterz invited you over for some 'weekend fun.'" When he sees the miserable expression on my face, he hastily adds: "But you must remember, this is the exact same --- that said Cameran Diez was gonna run for president, so I don't think any sane person would trust these so-called 'reporters' opinions too far. I know I don't." And just to be sure I cheered up, he threw in a sincere "I'm-on-your-side" smile with a charismatic wink just in case. (And, of course, I was instantly set at ease, because if not even Kami, the most insane person I have ever met, believes these rumors, I've really got nothing to worry about.)

I smiled back. "Thanks, Kam." (Although, if you expect me to call you "God," in either English or Japanese, you're seriously deranged.)

"Any time, honey! But, uhhhh, just outta curiosity: why were you with Wenterz yesterday?"

"Oh... Um, he asked me to be the co-lyricist for Mobile Fallout Shelter. Apparently he's having a bit of writers-block. I turned him down though."

For a minute or two after I told him this, he just stared at me with a face full of disbelief. Then, his expression morphed into a sort of relieved smile and he said "Good. That was a very good call on your part. Turning him down, I mean." He then shakes his head, semi-bemused, semi-dissaprovingly, as if smiling at someone elses stupidity, while saying: "I mean, YOU? As a CO-LYRICIST?? For the HUMAN ---ING SHIELDS?!" He laughs: "What was Wenterz thinking?! You're not even fit to be a ROADIE for his band!" I didn't join him in his Wenterz-mocking. He was obviously making fun of me too. And sure enough, the next words to come out of his mouth were: "I mean, I could understand hiring a co-lyricist. Even a teenage lyricist! But YOU?! No ---ing way, man!" At this, I just had to speak up.

"And what makes you think I would do such a crappy job?" My voice was half full of acid and hurt pride. And so was my heart. "After all, you don't even know me!"

At this, he stopped laughing. He cocked his head to one side and, as if contemplating a particularly confusing line of poetry, softly repeated: "Don't even know you...?" He smiled. He blinked. He chuckled. He said: "My dear girl, just because you don't know me, don't assume I don't know you. Matter of fact, I know all about you. I know exactly who and what you are."

I get the feeling the only reason he calls me "dear girl" and "honey" is because he can't remember my name. He obviously doesn't give a rats ass about me. Not pleased with his arrogance, I replied: "Oh, really." Not a question. Just an answer. And a sardonic one at that.

"Yeah. Really." His voice was icy. His expression was emotionless.

My eyes narrowed defiantly. "Well... prove it."

"Okay," he accepted my challenge. And then, without the least bit of hesitance or mercy, he began spewing out the most personal details of my soul and identity. All of my secrets. " You're in love with some super difficult, over-dramatic-enough-to-be-masochistic li'l pretty boy who either doesn't know or doesn't care that you exist, but you're ashamed of it because the only reason you like him is because he just seems SO mysterious and SO beautifully enigmatic. But mostly just because he's cute. This shows that you're shallow and you hate that. Which is why you're never able to admit you love him. As for religion, you come from a very pious family and you not-so-secretly long for saint-hood. In fact, you're considering entering a convent when you're older because you believe that you're not meant to get married because almost every guy outside you're family always treated you like crap or like you don't exist. And that drives you absolutely insane inside because you're secretly starving to death for affection, even though you'd never admit it. Hell, even if there was a possibility of you not dying miserable, alone, and horny, you know you wouldn't be able to commit to a long-term relationship anyway. You're too lazy, too narcissistic. You're only ever in it for the fun. Which is ironic, considering how much you resent men for only caring about the physical ---. Yet you're almost the exact same way. Therefore, you are both a hypocrite and a superficial li'l bitch. Hence, you hating yourself... And to everybody who has ever known you, it appears as if you like you're invisibility, as if you flow with it 100 percent naturally. Almost as if you're immune to loneliness. You lie to them and say that you do.... But you don't." Pause... He tries to look into my eyes, tries to guess what I'm thinking. I look away. But I can still tell he's giving me one of those haughty sneers that seems to maliciously inquire: "Shall I go on or have you heard enough?" I have heard enough. No matter. He goes on. "You hate it. Even though you've learned to tolerate it, even though you've already learned that you're better off alone and invisible, and even though you claim to be immune to loneliness, you can't stand it. And every now and then-every oh-so-rare now and then- you get a very powerful urge to defeat that invisibility, that feeling of insignificance, and to be noticed. To stand out.... To feel special.To BE special." And then, there was another pause. I suspect the reason behind this pause was to see my reaction. So far, I just kept my gaze down-ward and my lip bitten, obviously embarrassed. I feel as if he's staring right through me. Almost like he's examining my soul naked. This is impossible. He knows me almost as well as I know myself.
Then, in the same solemn, calm voice, he continues: "And your parents, who love you more than you will ever know, always tell you that you ARE special and that they love you. But it's not enough for you to be told. Especially not by your family. No, you want someone to prove it to you. What you REALLY want is one of your precious pretty boys or crushes or whatever you call them, to love you back. But they never will. Because they don't know how. Hell, they barely even know you exist." Another pause. Dot, dot, dot, dot... "And you're too scared to prove your significance to yourself. Too scared to do it by yourself. So, as a result, you have no confidence and very little self-worth. Which is why you are forced to thrive on the praise you receive from everybody else..... Everybody but you." Another pause. He appears to have no more to say. I still don't meet his eyes. But I do speak. In a quiet, strangled murmur of a voice, but I speak nonetheless.
"How...? How did you know...?"

"Because, honey, there are 1000 other girls just like you. Flitting about, always trying to convince themselves that they're something special, always over-compensating for their dullness by being so creative, so original... Always trying to earn some extra praise so they can get through the day. Because God forbid they should ever be left alone with that voice of their self-loathing complex at the back of their head, telling them they're nothing. And you know, kid, there's a word for people like you: Wannabes."
At this, my gaze instantaneously shot back to his face. Was I pissed? You bet I was."What?!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, with mock apology, seeing the furious snarl wrinkling my face. "I suppose the more accurate term would be attention whore."
I could feel the blood rush to my face, as the anger hardened my heart and spawned 10000 violent, malicious images of various cruel misfortunes be-falling Kami.
"Be quiet." I command, stonily.
He ignores me. "And that, sweetie, is why it is utter insanity to think that you're not even worthy of being a roadie for M.F.O.S. And even if you were-"
"I-I said be quiet!"
"-they would still eat you alive."
"Shut up!"
"Because, you're right- you are NOT special. Because people who are, KNOW they are. They don't need to thrive on praise and compliments like you s-"
"HEY!!! I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, ASSWIPE!!!" I scream, forgetting that I am at the mercy of said ass-wipe. "WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?!?!?! I ALREADY TOLD JASON NO!!!! YOU DON'T NEED TO BITCH ME UP LIKE THIS!!! I NEVER ACCEPTED THE DAMN JOB, OKAY?!?!!??!!! AND HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY CALL me AN ATTENTION WHORE, WHEN you're THE ONE DRESSED LIKE A ----ING CIRCUS CLOWN!!!!!!"
For a few semi-awkward seconds after that, nothing filled the room but the sound of me trying to catch my breath and the semi-afraid, semi-bemused expression on Kami's face. Evidently he never expected me to fight back. When he doesn't say anything, I take it upon myself to go on. "And besides," I murmur with as much intensity as I can muster, looking him straight in the eye. "If I'm such a pathetic little attention whore, then why are you so damn jealous?"

He didn't try to deny it. He didn't admit that he was either. But I could tell by the solemn solemn, unsmiling look on his face that I had definitely called him on something. With the same lack-of-a-smile adorning his masked face, he rose from his seat, locked the door to the principles office, and came over to my side of the desk. Leaning over to peer into my defiant gaze, he whispered: "Do you know why I had you tied up?"

"No. Why?"

"Well... Before I killed you, I just wanted to mark you as what you are." As he said this, he went back over to the other side of the desk and retrieved something out of one of the drawers. It was a knife. A carving knife. Holding the knife to my chin, thus forcing me to look into the shadow of his mask where his eyes should be, he smiled insidiously. "So, let the branding begin." And, to my horror, it did. He lifted up my shirt just enough to bare the bottom of my rib-cage and started to rake the blade across my stomach. Whatever word he was carving, he was carving it in the exact same place where he had his "BLASPHEMER" scar, and with the exact same blatant, shameless letters. Did it hurt? Hell yeah. But I wasn't so much in pain as much I was scared. Like, completely terrified. I mean, after this, Kami planned on KILLING ME! The questions and the matching paranoia kept racing through my mind: Would dying hurt? Would he chose to kill me quickly or just torture me until I begged for death? And what would happen once I died? Where would I go? Would I simply cease to exist? Or would I go to Heaven? Or Purgatory? Or Hell? Well, I guess all these questions would be answered soon enough. After all, I was already seeing my life flash before my eyes. Oh, and what a short life it was! Too short. Far, far, far too short. Now, what occurred next is very hard to describe, because it all happened so fast. So please forgive me if the following events seem a little confusing. Well, lets see...

First, Kami finished engraving his latest "body-art masterpiece" into my stomach and told me so. Then, one of the reapers handed him a gun and he aimed it at me, saying: "Well, princess... I guess all that work you put into being a 'good Catholic' is finally going to pay off, eh?" He didn't smile when he said this, but a chorus of snickers drifted from the gathering of assembled reapers. It wasn't so much Kami's taunt that pleased them as much as it was my soon-to-be execution. They lived to watch others die. Therefore, they couldn't wait to see the light leave my eyes. I, on the other hand, couldn't bare to watch. So I closed and locked my eyes tight, waited for the bang of the gun, and tried to remember what I could of "The Act of Contrition." 'Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee...' No bang. Just the sound of the door bursting open, a cry of surprise, and a bunch of crashes and punches as a fight broke out. Thinking the scene was probably horrible enough to scar me for life, I didn't dare open my eyes. 'In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you...' Still no bang. More yells, more cusses. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember any more of the prayer, so I started to frantically murmur the Our Father. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." More whacks, more crashes. A gasp of pain. But still no bang. I was so confused and terrified, I was about to cry. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done...!" More whacks, more gasps of pain, more bodies hitting the floor. And then, the frantic sound of foot-steps as somebody approached the office. Oh, PLEASE let it be the police! At this ray of hope, I started to calm down a bit. "On our earth as it is in Heaven..." There were no more bodies hitting the floor. But there was the unmistakable sound of metal being dropped. I smiled. Kami's assailant had managed to disarm him. "Give us this day our daily bread..." The sound of frantic foot-steps stopped as they reached the office threshold and Cori alerted Kami that the police were here and they had to escape. Only, she didn't call him "Kami." She called him Vashoutoh. (Well, actually she called him "Vashie-kins," but I was later informed that it was short for Vashoutoh.) Whoever had managed to disarm Kami/Vashoutoh then informed him that he had no chance of escaping on his watch. Or at least, he tried to. "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us..." Unfortunately, before he could finish that sentence, someone- I'm assuming it was Cori- hit him from behind with something heavy enough to knock my savior and Kami's captor to the ground. "Lead us not into temptation..." There was the sound of broken glass as Vashoutoh/Kami jumped out the window, the very distant thud of him hitting the ground, and the murmured cusses of frustration and pain as the failed captor hoisted himself up off the ground. "But deliver us from evil..." I opened my eyes. It was raining outside. There was a flash of lightening, a mere moment of clarity, and then, everything went dark... "Father, Son, Holy Spirit...Amen."


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