Broken Image

He believes he's broken; therefore he's worthless. She knows he's broken; therefore he can be fixed.

 

“Stupid car!” He grabbed his forehead as his father abused the steering wheel, as if the car was magically going to apologize for failing and getting back on the road. Instead, they were in the middle of the street, and some children on their bikes were getting annoyed. He watched them as the mischievous children circled around their small sedan.

 

“I wish I still had the rifle...”

 

“Honey, calm down, they’re just children...”

 

“And people in this neighborhood let kids these days just do whatever they want in the middle of the street? What’s wrong with parenting these days? These kids have got no respect for anything now!” He shook his head. Obviously, the times had changed, and unfortunately, parenting had to change with it.

 

While his father went off in the driver’s seat about how people are too afraid to hit their children in this lawsuit happy day in time, he let his mind wander. To say that life was in some sort of rut was an understatement. Not that life was ever really that exciting. Or full of benefits either. College wasn’t as exciting as people made it seem while he was in high school- life seemed to consist of homework and reading assignments up to his neck. Driving to school was a nightmare- he made a mental note to stop going to schools that require him to be on the 405 freeway at eight o’clock in the morning and have him come home at five o’clock in the afternoon- oh, how luck favored him so. Going home wasn’t exactly what he’d call exciting either. The usual monotonous routine beat itself into his soul- come home, battle whatever Calculus homework he could manage, maybe glance at a few pages for his English class, then dabble a little in his chemistry. At about seven, dinner had to be made (his parents actually took the extra mile to teach him how to cook instead of blowing fifty bucks a night to have somebody else cook for him). He sat down, alone, with his parents while they endlessly discussed how they were going to get him through school on the meager salaries they combined, and the conversations always boiled down to him getting a job and contributing to the bills. His response was always the same- he just didn’t have enough time in the day to do it. The parents would respond that weekends were open- he said not so. Homework was just as demanding over the weekend, if not more during the weekdays, and if he planned on actually staying in college, his grades were first priority. Usually sleep didn’t come until about midnight, if even then. A fair amount of times he had to stay up past midnight, and on a few occasions, he had to pull all nighters. Welcome to college was all the logical part of his mind could say.

 

High school wasn’t too much different. Except his parents weren’t breathing down his neck to help them pay the bills. Oh no, they were breathing down his neck to get his license, keep his grades up, and for the love of God, to please keep that beard of his shaved. The joys of private school were impressed upon him everyday. But now that he was finally in the public school system, he could grow out that beard, and even let his hair grow, and now he sported a short ponytail in the back of his dark head. A few people shared the same disgust over his choice of hygiene, from his parents, to his friends, and even his own girlfriend. Many people were telling him to cut it, and that he just didn’t look right with it. Well, what did they know? They didn’t wear his hair- he did. Only he could truly know if he looked better with short or long hair- and long won out in the end. Left and right, people were telling him how he was supposed to be. But what did he expect? Society did it- it was only natural that everybody else would be subject to it in some way or another. Society demanded perfection- and he actively rejected that notion. He made sure that there would be no way, no how that he would fall victim to a lazy life of perfection. There would be no spinners to organize his plastic containers, no sliding eating trays, no mini iPods, no phones that acted as television, radio, computer or anything else the phone companies could think of to increase their business. No, he preferred a life of independence and responsibility, where sometimes it seemed that society promised a life of independence and none of the responsibilities.

 

He was the image of retaliation, rebellion, color, unpredictability, strength, wisdom, and freedom. To many, he was also the image of a person who didn’t fit in- nothing but an outcast in a society of misplaced good intentions, trying to do good, but instead, crippling people in their attempts to be their own person. He wanted to be alone, apart from all of that. If it meant preserving his true self, he would do it a thousand times over. He didn’t need anybody to encourage him, even though focusing on his good points was a foreign concept to him. He didn’t need to turn to anybody for help, so he could learn to depend on himself, in case anybody else would fail him. The company of friends and even family was unnecessary most of the time- he had his dark room, the scent of his many burned incense sticks strongly embedded in the walls, his lonely existence that didn’t seem to want to live or die. The world saw an outcast- he saw something broken and worthless, yet full of the empty struggle to stick around. What was the point of it all? He didn’t truly want to live sometimes, but he certainly didn’t want to die. Where was he? He lent himself no hope- and neither did the people around him, even though they tried. They would offer obligatory words of support and courage, but it was all so empty to him. In his darkness, he didn’t see one glimmer of light that could be called truth. He vaguely remembered what it was to be believed in- only so long ago. Probably back in high school. Whoever was the owner of that light was long gone from his life. Or existence, as he pleased. Life was something apart from just existing.

 

Moments later, that felt more like hours, the front doors of the sedan were opened and closed, and he soullessly exited the car, only wondering for a second if the car should be pushed to the side of the curb instead of being left in the middle of the road like that. He followed his parents to the front door of the house and knocked. He could barely hear his parents talking to the people at the door, asking if using the phone would be allowed. He followed the motions as he walked into the home, the soft music playing on the nearby stereo system, and sitting down on the couch. So empty.

 

“...Where are you guys headed?”

 

“Well, we were headed home. We just came back from a photo shoot. We wanted a new family portrait, and my sister-in-law suggested this place down here. Except somebody,” his father said, glancing menacingly at his son, “didn’t check the temperature in the engine, and now we’re stranded. We really appreciate what you guys are doing for us.”

 

“Mr. Drake? Mrs. Drake? Is that you guys?” His head barely looked up. But his green eyes shot open when he recognized the girl standing in the hallway- a former schoolmate.

 

“Nadine? Oh my God, this is your house?”

 

“Yeah, you didn’t know we lived here? I guess Daphne didn’t tell you.” Daphne. Ah. His former classmate. His friend in school. And the last time he saw her was graduation which was well over a year ago by now. Of course college life would be demanding and stressful- but to the point where he was having trouble remembering his friends in high school?

 

I need a vacation really badly, he thought to himself. But he smiled softly and gave his old schoolmate a hug.

 

“Nice to see you again,” he tried to mean. It was hard to mean anything these days without genuinely hating or disapproving it. Not that Nadine wasn’t nice. It’s just that he didn’t know her as well, but then he didn’t have three classes with her, like he did with Daphne. Time seemed to get lost again. As he got older, he noticed time was slipping by faster than it used to when he was younger. And all that it meant in his ever negative mind was that there was little time left. Preciousness of that time depended on how much you cared about living and about what’s on this earth. Somehow, a tour of the house was in order, vaguely noting that his parents wanted to know where the bathrooms were. Had he gotten so used to following the motions that he was following his own parents to the bathroom? He certainly wasn’t stupid- he could find that himself.

 

But he didn’t go there. Instead, he found himself in front of a white door with three signs on it, that usually didn’t show up on the door of a girl’s bedroom. Unless, of course, it was Daphne’s. Her room was private, he wasn’t a girl, let alone a woman, and if caught, it would be well-known that it was a restricted area.

 

Turning the knob, he entered the tiny room. It barely had enough room to live in, but the word that came to mind had nothing to do with size. The walls, the desk, the bed, the drawers, the bookcase, and all objects of the room had some sort of quality about them that he just couldn’t really place. It was certainly...well lived in. She placed heavy emphasis on posters of a group that had long since broken up, small knickknacks of the past from a tiny pinwheel to a God’s eye that she apparently weaved, from a three by five card with song lyrics in metallic purple ink to her cubic zirconia studded prom tiara. He examined the bed- the comforter was dark, dark blue, with moons, stars and galaxies on them, with two chenille pillows of burgundy and blue, and what appeared to be the white wrap she wore for her first play that served as a bed decoration. A hook hung from the ceiling of her bed, and a sprig of freshly cut night blooming jasmine hung from that hook on a yellow string of yarn. The blinds were caked heavily with dust, and it was obviously broken. The walls were a beigish-white, layered with those colorful posters. Life. That was the word he was looking for. The smell of long burned candles soaked every iota of that room. So deep, so real, so warm. Life permeated in and out of these walls, and the life in this room was so thick that he could have cut it with her pocket knife laying on the nightstand, next to that broken picture frame-

 

It was a pale peach-pink frame made of ceramic. At the top left hand corner and the bottom right hand corner of the frame were vines of roses that both were cracked at the corners of the frame. A third crack was in the middle of the top of the frame. There was no picture in it. He picked it up and examined it. It was well used. Beautiful. Soft. But still broken. Like him. He could show the world who he was. He could challenge the world. He would be even more subject to losing himself, but he would learn not to lose it without a fight. He could freeze time, the way they did taking pictures that day, show the world his best side- they saw his dark side so much that nobody knew what he looked like at his best. Not even him. His room was so dark that he couldn’t see himself for who he was- even in the privacy of his room. And because he shunned everybody else, outside perspectives could never penetrate his mind, and therefore, would never be able to catch the vices that his own eye can’t see without it.

 

“James? Are you alright?” His eyes widened in embarrassment as Daphne’s father stood in the doorway of her room.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to see this frame.”

 

“Oh. Do you like her room?” He glanced around. It was nothing like his room.

 

“Yeah. It’s...nice.” Her father nodded, seeming to know that the words were full of empty politeness.

 

“Mr. Millstone?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Where did she get this frame? It’s really beautiful.” Her father examined it for a moment from his post at the doorway.

 

“She got it at a garage sale. She hasn’t had it for a while, but she’s been fixing it. She pretty much fixed it because it was falling apart when she first got it. If she hadn’t gotten to it, the frame would have been severely broken into a few pieces and hard to put back together. Good thing, huh?” He hugged the frame to his chest. And he also noticed the small candle in a glass holder on the night stand.

 

“Yeah. Really good thing.”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Daphne rubbed her neck. There was to be no more volunteer work after tonight. If the leader of the youth group at church wanted her back, she would have to politely decline, wishing that she could just cuss them out over the horrible job they do of keeping the candidates in line.

 

Shutting the door, she noticed that the house was dark. The loud snoring of her father on the couch was a clear sign that the house was closed for the night. And that also meant dinner was out of the question. No matter how good the steak and potatoes that dinner might have been, the smell of it drifting a few feet into the living room would certainly wake her father up, and going to work the following morning would be a gargantuan task for him.

 

She only noticed the soft light from her room after a few seconds. Wondering if maybe she left her lamp on in her room, she opened her door. The familiar scent of her favorite scented candle filled the air, and eased her troubled soul, unable to calm the frazzled nerves of uneasy teenagers. Unable to bring them inspiration. Unable to appreciate the knowledge she offered. Unable to show them the potential they had in themselves.

 

The once broken frame lay on her bed, the picture side laying flat on the bed, with the back facing up. The frame had been on the nightstand when she left- what happened during the day?

 

When she turned it over, the light in her heart that had been a secret guiding light had erupted into flames, illuminating endless darkness and becoming an eternal source of warmth to those who suffered from the cold. He had never looked more handsome in that picture for all the time she had known him. His smile had always captivated her, but to say that she was overwhelmed was an understatement. Life was present in his green eyes that seemed to finally be in bloom. And he certainly gave the color black of his suit a new imprint in her mind. One single candle had been lit. Instead of cursing his darkness, he remembered the light somewhere in a corner of his life, and instead of living in the dark for always, he decided to hit the light switch from time to time. That way, he could at least see where he was going.

 

And only one word was needed to describe what she saw in that frame: perfect.

Reviews

[DarkAngelWriter]

"She placed heavy emphasis on posters of a group that had long since broken up,"
and
"A hook hung from the ceiling of her bed, and a sprig of freshly cut night blooming jasmine hung from that hook on a yellow string of yarn."

Hmm... I wonder who she is... lol

And omg? That's it? F**k you! Gah! I was so into it and then "perfect" and it's over! F**k!

...but I love it. Don't change a thing. :)

[Leah Elisabeth]

This is extremely well done. I really think you got into these chracters and even though there was very little plot or anything, you allowed me to get to know them. Good job. This is definitely in consoderation for my contest.

[lilfeather]

Thank you for entering in my contest, i enjoyed your writing!