Tuesday, October 16, 2007

THE CATALYST, CHAPTER 12: THE SCREAMING BEGINS WHEN THE DREAMING ENDS
I was dreaming.
I can’t remember when I started dreaming. Or even when I fell asleep. But I was definitely dreaming. There wasn’t a doubt about it. Otherwise, I would’ve had at least a shadow of an idea of how the Hell I ended up buried under the covers of my bed when I didn’t even remember leaving my English teachers class-room. Not to mention the ultra surreal cold, wet, soft something hovering towards my fore-head being gingerly held by an even more surreal sighing, muttering, unfamiliar-sounding someone looming over my bed. (Since the someone was muttering in fluent Spanish I knew for a fact that it wasn’t either one of my parents.)
Now, due to the fact that this was a dream, there obviously wasn’t any actual way I could be harmed. Therefore, I was robbed of all prudent caution.
Which is why the second I felt the aforesaid cold, wet, soft something touch my fore-head, I instantaneously grabbed the hand of the aforesaid looming, muttering, sighing someone. At being so abruptly captured by my grip on their wrist, the figure gave a cry of surprise and started to struggle to loosen my grasp. Upon forcing my eyes to flicker open and my seemingly iron-festooned arm/hand to examine my forehead, I discover that the wet soft something was a wash-cloth. And thank God, because if it had been the tongue of some rabid ferocious beast, I would’ve screamed bloody murder and bloodier damnation regardless of weather the nightmare could hurt me or not.
“Who are you…?” I murmured lethargically, peering at the mysterious intruder through my glimmering, dilated orbs. If this were reality instead of just a dream, at the sight of him, my heart would’ve probably skipped so many beats that our encounter would’ve ended with a trip to the emergency room.
He was about half a foot taller than me, making him somewhere around 6 feet, 5 inches, with a somewhat husky, yet lean frame. He was just full-bodied enough to be a seemingly fantastic substitute for an extra fluffy, human-sized Teddy bear. (Meaning, he wasn’t fat, just cuddly.)
His eyes were light brown, with a ring of crimson out-lining the pupils, his eye-lashes unusually long and black for someone who didn’t wear make-up. As for his hair? Well, like most indisputably cool kids these days, his bangs were unnecessarily long, angularly cut, and dyed/bleached a different color than that of the rest of his tresses—the bangs were blonde, the rest dark brown—and, despite his probable best efforts to straighten it, the tips had a bit of a wave to them. Hence the adorable flippy-ness of his hair. (And hence me wanting to tackle him to the ground and force my way into him.) At the moment, the sandy blonde locks couldn’t seemed to decide who they liked contrasting with more- their owners fair complexion, their owners cherry-tinted, milk chocolate-flavored gaze, or their dark brown, silken shining neighbors adorning the rest of the intruders pretty little head. (In the end, they decided to do a combination of all three, which looked bloody gorgeous.)

However, despite the long, more-noticeable-than-usual eye-lashes, semi-maternal countenance, and ultra stylish bangs, his appearance was more ageless than androgynous. Meaning, he wasn’t so much effeminate as much as he was boyish-looking. Still, his features appeared way too soft and undefined for him to be described as masculine.
Add his cream-colored semi-perfect skin into the equation and you’ve got Mr. “I’m-too-sexy-to-stay-out-of-the-dreams-of-15-year-old-emo-poets.” And, yes. If any of you still care, he’s an Alichino. The dictionary definition of one.

At my inquiry of his identity, he just stared and blinked at me for a minute. Then his perplexed face relaxed into an “it’s-so-@!*$ing-beautiful-it-might-as-well-be-Heaven-sent” smile and in a confidence-inviting, matter-of-factly voice, he told me: “I’m your guardian angel, honey.” Now, bearing in mind that this was just a dream and pretty much anything is possible in dreams, I did not scoff at the super Ali’s claim. However, I sure as hell didn’t believe him either. Come Hell or high water, I knew perfectly well all the Ali’s would always either disregard or dislike me. They would also always be one of the farthest categories of humans from angels EVER. Therefore, there was just no way that Mr. Super Ali here was ANY kind of Heaven-sent, much less an angel, much less a guardian angel, much less mine. (Translation: No, not even in my dreams.)

So I gave him a weary sigh, let go of his wrist, and exasperatedly murmured: “No you’re not.”
His eye-brow arched in puzzlement, as if he didn’t already know perfectly well what he was. “I’m not?”
I nodded. “You’re not. You’re way too-“I was about to say “too much of an Alichino,” but I knew he wouldn’t understand that, so I caught myself at the last second;”-…human to be an angel.”
“Well, then what am I?” He, of course, already knew the answer to this question. He merely wanted to know what/who I thought he was.
Once again, I raised my exhausted hand to his oh-so-invitingly soft and strong one. I flinched. His skin was bloody glacial.
I locked eyes with him and said: “You’re C.A.I.”
But he just grew more puzzled still. “Kai…?”
“No. Not Kai, C-A-I.: Cold As Ice. C.A.I.”
“Oh…” For a few seconds, the adorable perplexity on his face dissolved into neutrality and didn’t appear again until he asked: “You think I’m cold?”
I shrugged. “Your hands are cold.”
“Oh… Then why are you still holding them?”
Again, I shrugged. “I don’t mind being cold. I like your hands-they’re so different from mine. Besides, if I hold on long enough, I might just freeze to death… Then I’d never have to deal with this shit ever again.”
At this, he chuckled and remarked: “You’re a real pessimist, you know that?”
“Am not.”
He made a “pshaw” noise, signifying that he had obviously heard this excuse before, then patronizingly replied: “Oh, of course not. Let me guess: you’re a ‘REALIST,’ right?”
“No… I’m a SURrealist.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I dream a lot more than I think.”
“Oh. Well, me too.” This time, it was his turn to shrug.

Then, out of completely nowhere, C.A.I.’s hoodie pocket started singing the chorus to “Sadie Hawkins Dance” by Relient K. (Excerpt: “The Sadie Hawkins dance/ in my khaki pants./ Girls ask the guys./ It’s always a surprise./ There’s nothing better./ Baby, do you like my sweater?”) Right as I removed my air-guitar-anticipating grip from C.A.I.’s ice-cold hands, my fellow surrealist reached into his Sadie Hawkins-loving pocket to extract a Sadie Hawkins-singing cell-phone. Meaning, his hoodie wasn’t to blame for the ultra up-beat Christian-rocking sound-track after all. (Which made so much more sense, considering, as we all know, hoodie pockets think Relient K is the worst thing that came into existence since AIDS.) And did I care that I would look completely ridiculous tangled up in the sheets of my bed rocking out to a 10-second long ring tone? Hell no. I continued my fit of exceedingly chaotic air guitar riffs to the super blithe pop/rock song long after C.A.I. answered his phone. (Oh, sure I was tired, but too tired for an inexplicitly spontaneous thrashing-spree of head-banging, mosh-pit-inspired goodness? NEVER.) And even though I obviously couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side of C.A.I.’s phone-call, this is an important conversation, so, with the help of the Jay’s and Shanty’s recollection of the exchange, I’ve managed to include it. That said, let the dialogue begin!

C.A.I.: “Hello?”

Jason, anxiously: “Hey. What happened, Shanty? Where are you? Is Yuki, er, Belinda okay?”

C.A.I./Shanty: “I’m at Belinda’s house. As far as I can tell, she seems fine. Well, except for the cut…”

Jason, obviously alarmed: “What?! What cut?!!? What did that bastard, Malluste, do to her?!?! And how long was she alone with him?!? Seriously, man, what happened?!?!?!”

C.A.I./Shanty, calmly: “Well, I don’t really know exactly how long she was with him. I’d say about 20 minutes, maybe more. But like I said, except for the cut, she’s pretty much alright.”

Jason, ultra brusquely, almost screaming: “WHAT CUT, SHANTY?!?!”

C.A.I./Shanty sighs, and then exasperatedly replies: “Calm down, Uncle! It’s just a flesh-wound. Nothing’s broken. As far as I can tell, all Vashoutoh did was carve a word onto the skin on h-“

“CARVE A WORD ONTO HER SKIN…?” Interrupted guess-which-obviously-scandalized-bassist. There was a 10-second pause, and then Jason ominously murmured: “Oh, so she’s been marked, has she…?”
For a while, nothing came out of the angered poets mouth but a string of furiously muttered derogatory curses directed toward Vashoutoh. When the abuse-fest finally ended, the question that Jay simply couldn’t help feeling compelled to ask was the next thing to shatter the silence: “So, what word did the little son of a bitch carve into her?”

“I dunno, I never got a good luck at it. It must’ve been pretty big though. I mean, her shirt was SOAKED with blood.”

At this, Jay exasperatedly sighed as if it had been him who had fought Vashoutoh and his Reapers, been knocked to the ground with an iron candle-stick, and lugged my heavy frame all the way to Shanty’s blue Honda instead of the lithe Alichino just barely managing to not collapse unto my bed. “Man….” Said Wen-Wen. “I can’t believe this shit…. So, anyway, what was Yuki-slash-Belinda’s reaction when you rescued her?” BANG.
Thus began another awkward silence. During which, Shanty gnawed on his bottom lip and desperately tried in vain to find an adequate way of answering his uncles question without provoking anger. Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with a temperamental prima donna like Jay Wen, confrontational catastrophe simply cannot be avoided.
“Um… Yeah, about that…” stammered the soon-to-be-victim of guess-which-human-bipolar-dynamite-stick. “Ya see, in order to rescue her, I kinda had to knock her out.” And begin count-down to celebrity freak out: Five. Four. Three. Two. One. …

“WHAT?”
The above ejaculation was so loud, that even I, who had been singing monotonous Pop Punk karaoke for the past 5 minutes, heard Wen Wen’s voice as if he was lying/sitting right next to me.
That said, you could only imagine how much damage it did to Shanty’s ear-drums.
I swear, if I were him, I would’ve burst out in tears.
“Well….” Shanty went on. “You said you didn’t want her to know that you sent me to watch over her and I didn’t want her getting suspicious and asking questions about, you know, who I was, how I knew to come get her, and all that; so….”

“So you practically beat her to death until she was unconscious,” said Jay, flatly, obviously not pleased with his nephews methods of secrecy and discretion.

“No, I didn’t BEAT her,” replied Shanty, defensively; “I just injected one of Vashoutoh’s sedation drugs into her arm with a needle.” It wasn’t until the words had left his mouth that Shanty realized how incredibly stupid it was to tell Jason this.

The human Mardi Gras decoration instantaneously pounced. “Oh, so you just unknowingly used a random serum from a psychotic, suicidal cutters collection of drugs assuming it was nothing more than a harmless stolen sedation prescription when it could’ve been a lethal batch of poison. Well, why didn’t you say so, Shanty? I mean, nearly killing her with what could’ve been poison is just SO much safer than clonking her on the head.” As he sarcastically said this, Jason showed as much mercy as a Nazi would have.

Shanty was silent. He simply bit his lip and stared at the floor. “Sorry…” he muttered, just barely above a whisper. He obviously wasn’t used to being talked to by his uncle like this.

Unfortunately, “sorry” evidently just didn’t cut it. “Oh, no, really Shan-Shan,” continued guess-which-sarcastic-Wenterz; “now that you nearly poisoned her to death, I just feel SO much better about entrusting her safe-keeping to you! I mean, I could’ve simply hired a professional to look after her, but that would mean Yuki would, you know, actually make it through this week unharmed. And with my entire career depending on her, well, God forbid that should happen!” As Jay sardonically raged out that last sentence, his voice rose to such a volume that Shanty had to hold the phone at least a foot away from his ear.

Shanty remained silent. And for a couple minutes, so did Jay. Then, a regretful sigh of the lecturer to the lectured passed through the line and Jason awkwardly murmured: “Uh, Shanty, look, I’m sorry. It’s cool, I shouldn’t have been blown up at you like that. Just, uh, be more careful, okay?” (“Wow…. And I thought I was bipolar…”-Hey You)

“No, it’s alright, I deserved it. You were right, I shouldn’t have used Vashoutoh’s drugs,” replied Shanty indifferently, pretending he hadn’t been affected by his Uncles’ scolding the way he had.

But evidently, his uncle knew better than to believe his nephew hadn’t been hurt. Therefore, let the semi-endless spewing of atoning compliments begin! “And, remember, I love you like a cutter loves his switchblade, ‘kay, kid?”

“Okaaaaaaay,” said Mr. “I’m-too-macho-to-return-my-doting-uncles’-affection,” attempting to appear as if he didn’t enjoy being fawned over like this.

“And, I swear to God, you’re one of the most ---ing awesome people it has EVER been my pleasure to know!” Jay went on, starting to go into a rant.

“Um, thanks…”

And then Jason went on to make a comment about Shanty’s dead obsession. The connotation of which is so embarrassing that concern for not only Shanty’s reputation but for your lack-of-nausea prevents me from including it.
Poor Shanty was speechless. No matter. Jay went on without him.

“Seriously, dude: you’re smart, you’re mature, you’re nice, you’re hygienic, you’re cute- AND you make one hell of a burger! And that’s just the beginning. You’re also an awesome-tastical athlete. And not to mention….”

It went on like this for about another 2 minutes before Shanty FINALLLY hung up. At that point, his face was sherbet-colored with mortification.

“Who was that?” I inquired, taking a break out of my own aforementioned “In-case-of-extreme-boredom” Perky Punk karaoke-fest to indulge in my Alichino-inspired curiosity.

“Well, from what I could gather, it was either my great grand-mother reincarnated or an ultra scary episode of emo love…..Or both.”

“Oh…”

“Well, anyway…….” He said dismissively, edging his way toward the door. “You better get some rest.”

I nodded. “Yeah, you too, C.A.I. You look totally wiped, dude.” And he did. The bags under his eyes looked so dark and heavy that I was half-tempted to pack my Skull Smilie Face-covered head-band, Paranoia! Academy T-shirt, and cell-phone in them and take them with me to the annual Skull Smilie Face-Loving, Paranoia! Academy-Worshipping, Cell-Phone-Owning Eccentric Artist Stereo-Type Convention down in Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, before I could tell him this, I got distracted by what I thought was an intruder but turned out to be just a freakishly gargantuan deer. By the time I returned my gaze to where he was, the correct wording of this sentence had already turned into “where he USED to be.” Because, by then, he was gone. He had completely disappeared. No traces remained. Almost as if he was never there. But, hey, this is a dream. People are supposed to do weird crap like this, right?

No, the part that was REALLY weird was even though I was dreaming and therefore already asleep, I felt exhausted. So, since now that C.A.I./Shanty had left and therefore there was nothing to stick around for, I lay my head back down on the pillow and began to seek out another dream. A more surreal one. One that would get me as far away from wretched reality as I wanted.

Unfortunately, I awoke two hours later without the memory of a single other fantasy. No, in the stead of the memory of a brilliant dream, what I awoke with was a throbbing pain in my head, a complete lack of any recollection of leaving school much less going home and taking a nap, and an oh-so-irritating, perspiration-provoking ache on the front of my ribs. The latter was the first thing I examined when I gave up on falling back asleep. And when I did, I found that the cause of the ache was a wound that dominated the majority of my rib-cage. The perspiration was the fault of the equally oh-so-uncomfortably large bandage that prevented the lesion from becoming infected. At this discovery, I grew confused. This didn’t make any sense. Not only did I apparently magically teleport myself unto my bed without noticing, but I also had a gigantic gash just below my chest that I had absolutely no recollection of receiving. And not only that, but when the Hell did it get so dark out-side?! Last time I looked at a clock, it was only 1:30!

When I consulted the digital clock on my night-stand about this paradox, it was revealed that the current time was actually 20 minutes to 10 PM.
Meaning, I had apparently been asleep for over 6 hours.(And about this, I only 1 thing to say: EHH???) I pondered this oh-so-confusing absurdity for about 10 more minutes before finally shrugging it off with a melancholy sigh and an apathetic “Aw, screw it. I need sugary caffeine.”


Comments (1)