The Puppet Who Thought He Could fly

Originally written as a chapter to The World Is A Cold Dead Place

Isaac was not a toy.
he was a glass figurine.
a ugly distorted little thing hidden away at the back of the shelf behind all the other figurines.
he knew this, at times it was how he thought of himself.
something fragile and transparent.
but often he felt like a baseball,
over and over being hurtled toward a bat that just never got tired of fracturing new cracks into him.

but he wanted to be a real boy.
not a toy or a ball or a ugly figurine.

that's what he was thinking when he lay in bed that morning waiting for his alarm to tell him that now was the time he had the most chance of getting out of the house without seeing anyone's face but his own in the mirror.
yes this is the morning of the day I was just telling you about.
yes that day.

But he didn't know that.

To him it was just another morning that felt like another night, because he almost never slept.
again.

grabbing a black hoddie even though he knew it would be too hot for it by noon.
just it just felt like the kind of day one needs a hoddie.
so maybe he did know it wasn't just any morning after all.

and down the stairs he went.

"he used to be such a bright, alive passionate, considerate boy. just selfless--but its like he's disappeared"
"and he's dragging us into it Karine. he never eats, never goes out, barely talks to anyone let alone us. and god only knows how late he's up every f*****g night making noise, do you know how long its been since I got a goodnight sleep?" 
"I'm tired of it, you've seen the way he just ignores me, constantly disrespecting us both,
HE'S BARELY ALIVE KARINE"
"Howard SHH he'll hear you." his mother hissed
"honestly I don't know why he even bothers" his father muttered.

That was when he bolted.
away fast as his feet would carry him.

she heard him she must've. and she didn't say anything.
he thought,
 his mother, first friend and last he had to trust.
"he used to be such a bright, alive passionate, considerate boy. just selfless "
as in not anymore,
"he's disappeared"
"he's dragging us into it."
"he's barely alive"
" I don't know why he even bothers"
neither does he
those were the words that ate at him inside and echoed in his parents voices when he ran to all his old friends.
they called themselves
alcohol and drugs.
a deadly duo he's adopted since he realized long ago.
that there is no place is this world for 'bright, alive, passionate, considerate, just selfless people.'

                      

And after all the blazing.
when he could almost discern his muddled thoughts into coherent words.

he thought about his life.
like people often do the day they die.
because their last is always their most honest day of living.
one of those when you've just got nothing left to lose things I guess.

on August 2ed 1995, a baby boy was born, nothing remarkable at him.
babies are born all the time.
and as he grew up, he realized there was nothing remarkable about his life either,
normal home, normal parents, normal school friends that really aren't your friends.
he looked around him a lot, watched his world for something different.
as hard as he might look
he never found anything.
and that made him very very sad.
because he was different         not remarkable, because remarkable is something to be noticed and maybe, if you've got the right stuff--and the right connections, praised.
he was just different, 
he thought more..
things hurt him more then anyone he'd met...
now I'm trying to be clear, but it is very very hard.

let me try again.
his parents were distant, so he tried everything he could to make them love him.
but they just stayed stuck like that going in the same circles day after day
like nothing he could do made any difference at all.
and that hurt him.
kids said they were his friends but abandoned him whenever the chance arose, so he tried to be the best friend he could.
and they toke advantage of him like it was a game of Simon Says.
so that hurt him.
his teachers called him sensitive so everyone else called him weak.
so he was hurt.
people started to avoid him and sneak glances at him, whispered about him, laughed about him.
so he kept getting hurt.
he prayed for things to change, then he prayed to his old cat Willf not to die because he was his only friend.
the cat died.
which made him hurt.
he lost faith.
so he hurt.
then the hurt was outside too, physical, because everyone has problems and issues.
and sensitive people make good punching bags
so he hurt some more.
he looked around him and only saw people getting hurt and hurting each other, then going back for seconds,
so he hurt
he saw people just repeating yesterdays
so he hurt
everywhere he looked their was nothing different, instead everywhere he looked there were people who looked down on him as weak.
he could see it in their eyes.
every god damned time and day after day he took it, because he was waiting,
then he thought, if he looked back at himself would he see someone going in circles and repeating yesterdays?
and he didn't like the answer
so he decided to smash himself because he was tired of the game.


                                 

when your life is just you sitting down watching your own life go by, and feeling conflicted about every little thing.
when everything hurts.
 you find your limt.
and you realize there is nothing you can do about it.
and then
you disappear.
I am tired of this game.
I'm tired of always being the ball beaten by the bat and not the one that gets to be part of a game of catch.
I'm tired of pain without love.
this is the last inning.
I am tired of this game
 and the sick part is it doesn't even matter because the world will roll on.


                                            

 In the last Inning he stepped up too the plate.
  a high rocky ledge in the Texas evening summer heat.
since moving here years ago he'd heard about people jumping that last jump right there where he stood now.
 he Imagined it as a runway, and him self as a plane.
And suddenly helaughed of all things
because he could just feel how easy it was going to be
to just power down the engines and free fall out of the sky.

Finally he was a pilot, he was in control of this one thing.
he decided what happened now.
he was not a figurine, or a baseball, 
not even a real (scared) boy.
he was the pilot of this last flight.

and he would fly.

he promised himself this stepping up to the edge of the runway.
he would fly.

the world was a cold, dead place.
and I will not be part of it.

Author's Note

I am aware this is pretty dark but it is just a work of fiction based upon passing thoughts and feelings, comment what you will and take from it what you need.