Monday, April 25, 2016

Reflection

     I've finally come to my final creative writing project: an actual short story. The story is supposed to be based off of a serious emotion. Something deep within ourselves. I chose an emotion that I just can't seem to name. The feeling you get when you think of yourself very highly and then get a wake-up call that reveals to you that you're not. We all have our own perceptions of ourselves, but its not until we look straight into a mirror that we see what we truly are.
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Blood flows through water like wisps of smoke in a field.

             Frederick Dempsey dunked his head in the clogged sink, coming up as if gasping for air. He stared at his drenched face in the mirror, but the reflection didn’t stare back at him. Shaking hands reached for the paper towel dispenser. No matter how many times the lever was pulled, nothing came out. Damn janitors never do anything around here. There was a penny on top of the dispenser, Frederick took it for safe keeping.
            He opened the door to the outside world. Around him was darkness, with only an exit sign to light the way. Walking blindly through the halls was no problem, he always stays late. There was a problem though, and Frederick clumsily tripped on it. There was one single body leaned on the wall, contemplating.
“Sorry.”
            Though there was no answer back. Frederick, after getting off the ground, looked around for person he offended, but only noticed a lump on the ground. A lump that, when focused, turned into a body, and when focused even more, revealed a lobotomy, with half of the brain touching the outside air. There was a thud and Frederick was out.
---
            “Age: twenty-six, height: about five feet, eleven inches, and pretty lanky.”
            “Wallet says Frederick Dempsey. Not much in here; just a license, six bucks, and a to-do list. Do you really need to put ‘feed dogs’ on the list?”
            “Damn, that’s a huge gash on his head. I wonder what he hit him with?”
            “Mason, he’s waking up.”
            Frederick was always the odd one out, with only his dogs to keep him company. Leaning more towards Asperger’s and autism on the spectrum. He slowly awoke in a hospital bed blinking furiously. Knowing he was disoriented, Frederick distinctly reached for his aspirin, although as soon as he touched where his pocket would be, he felt nothing but the scratchy cloth of a hospital gown. Oh god, someone died in this yesterday. Frederick found his glasses on the side table and finally analyzed his surroundings. Everything was white with black littered around it. Iodoform was in the air. Once Frederick put the puzzle together, he immediately wanted to get out. A hospital was the last place he wanted to be. A place where more people can decide what’s wrong with him. Before he could rush out, he noticed a man and woman dressed nice in a subtle way.
            “Did you find out what’s wrong with me yet?”
            “Whoa buddy, we know who you are, but we aren’t here to psychoanalyze you. I’m Mason and this is my partner Beverley. We’re working on the Ice Pick Murderer cases.”
            “You gotta stop calling him that. Look, Freddy, can I call you Freddy? This murderer has killed three times so far, and I don’t think he’s going to stop now. We’ve read your paper on psychic driving. It’d be nice to have a psychiatrist consultant on the case; we could really use your help.”
            Frederick, still a little disoriented, was reluctant. He was still convinced this was just a ploy to peek inside his mind.
            “Maybe you guys should think before you ask someone who’s also crazy to help you on catching a sociopath. I could just as easily become one myself.”
            “Mason and I want no one else Freddy. No one understands them like you do.”
            “Yeah, we’re desperate to catch this guy, and we think you’re the one to help us do that.”
            “There’s nothing you can do to convince me to help you. Nurse! Can you please escort these two out? I think I’m getting a migraine.”
            Beverley had to get one last thing out of her mouth as she was being pulled out of the room. She couldn’t help it.
            “You could save lives Freddy. Think about how many more have to die before you open your eyes and help us.”
---
            Soon the caution tape subsided and Frederick was allowed to return to his office and continue his practice. Psychology isn’t the easiest when you’re so good at it. Frederick can look at someone, hear them speak, and know what’s truly going on, understanding their minds better than his patients. Though, that was the most interaction he got on most days. Tonight, he was worried about what Beverley had said to him. How many people did have to die before he would be convinced to help the FBI?
            The reasoning for not helping them isn’t because he doesn’t care, it’s because he was afraid of what he would take out of the case. To Frederick, death was one of the most gruesome, disgusting things that happen. Getting that close, becoming a seeker of death, was not something that Frederick wanted. He stepped into his office and walked around, looking at the library that surrounded him. It had two stories, but the second was just a ledge overlooking the first just so he could have more room for his books. There was a fireplace behind his desk and two chairs that sat across from each other in front of the desk. Definitely a collector of books, Frederick believed in achieving a vast palace of knowledge. He reached his chair and dropped down as if he’d just run a marathon, another migraine coming to him. Taking his glasses off, he rubbed his eyes. It was only nine thirty-six. He laid back as his chair creaked and imagined.
            Early dawn came smoothly, a slight breeze of cool wind tickling the ears that brought the smell of sweet pine to the nose. Over the trees, the sunrise aftermath was visible: a mix of orange, yellow, and a hint of blue. All around are trees. Trees that surround a river, and inside that river is a man. This man was the reflection of Frederick. He was dressed in fly fisherman garb: wadders, a flannel, and some huge rain boots. He flung his home-made lure out with the rod to catch some food. Fly fishing is easy. All you have to do is lure the fish so they come to you, almost as if they wanted to be caught. Not much work was needed, but the reward was huge. The man looked at peace, standing there with the rushing water having no effect on his balance. The man had caught nothing and was feeling as though he would call it a day, so he threw his last line and felt the tug. He pulled, finally happy, straight to the net. This fish wasn’t going anywhere. The small trout was getting closer and closer to the net and then finally…
            There was a ringing in Frederick’s ears. The number on the screen was foreign to Frederick, so he shut it off. Though, almost instantly, the same number called back. It was six forty in the morning. He answered the phone and, as expected, it was Beverley. I should make my office phone private.
            “Freddy, I need you down here stat. This is the worst one yet, please. We need you out in the field with us. Just this once.”
            Reluctantly, “Alright… Alright.. Yeah. Where are you?”
            “Fifth street, more towards sixth, and Freddy, prepare yourself. It’s ugly.”
---
            Frederick arrived to the blinding red and blue lights that surrounded a horrific scene. Beverley and Mason could be seen around what was left of two corpses, but it wasn’t the fact that there were two dead bodies that made the scene horrific. It was because of what had been done to them. They were lobotomized like the murder in Frederick’s office, but this time the brains were completely out of their heads with the brainstem still attached to the spinal cord through the skull. The bodies were arranged to show a piece of art: they shaped an ice pick. Pure mutilation. Frederick, repulsed by what was looking back at him, slowly trudged over towards the two detectives, holding in the sickness that could project from his mouth at any second.
            “Well I’m certainly awake now.”
            “Beverley already examined the bodies. Both are psychiatrists. The mutilation was done post-mortem. Both brains are still attached, looks like it was carefully cut out. This guy certainly has surgical knowledge. The bodies resemble an— “
            “An ice pick yeah. He must’ve heard your nickname, and by looking at this, he doesn’t really like it.”
            “Freddy, we need you to interpret the evidence. Tell us what he’s thinking.”
            “You want me to reconstruct the crime?”
            “Whatever you need to do. I’ll clear everyone out and give you some room.”
            As Mason cleared everyone from inside the caution tape, Frederick stood there, staring at the ice pick that lay before him. He closed his eyes and interpreted the evidence, looking through the lens of the ice pick murderer.
            Two men who pick at hopeless minds. They sicken me. How could anyone in this world devote their life to shifting through people’s brains and rearranging the furniture. Leaving the man inside his house, but making his surroundings foreign to him. I go to each of them individually. Stress marks around the necks suggest that I strangled the life out of you. I wanted to look into your eyes while your breath was slowly taken from you. As your life force shrunk into nothingness. After both bodies were lifeless before me, I proceeded to humiliate them as they humiliate their patients. Picking apart the brains just as their practice suggest they should. This isn’t for me; this is for everyone to see. A symbol, a work of art that suggests these two were wrong. Clowns in the name of science. Their humiliation entails a lobotomy to the most aggressive degree. I cut open the skull, revealing the most precious organ. Carefully having the brain still attached to the cervical vertebrae, I pull the brain from the skull. Creating a functional human, just undeserving of our precious organ, but why in the shape of an ice pick? What did I hear that term from? That horrid term. They want to label me. They want to make me into something, just like the two psychiatrists before me. I want this symbol to be recognized, seen by all. Using theatrics is the best way to showboat my design. I want to mock my nickname, showing I’m not someone to be trifled with. An ice pick formation will mock the psychiatrists and the people trying to catch me, theatrics. The term still bothers me. I hate that name. I AM NOT IN THE WRONG. I AM IN THE RIGHT. I AM…
            Heavy breathing filled Frederick’s office, as he suddenly came into consciousness. His heart beating faster than it ever has before. He couldn’t control it, the breathing controlled him. As he tried to focused on where he was and what was going on, his breathing slowly ceased to be above his resting rate. How did I get in my office? He had never lost track of time like this before. His clock said seven seventeen, and the sun had disappeared from the sky. I lost an entire day. He called Beverley:
            “Hey did I seem weird when I left the crime scene?”
            “Well you seemed your usual weird self. You actually gave Mason and I some great insight about what the Ice Pick Murderer was thinking, and I bet it’ll be easier for us to catch him now. You’ve saved lives Freddy. Just remember that. Are you okay? You sound stressed.”
            “I just woke up, but I’m fine. I just wanted to know how I helped out.”
            “Yeah you were very helpful, and, listen, I won’t make you do that again. I know it’s hard for you to get that close to a killer’s mind.”
            “Thanks”
            “Hey you haven’t seen Mason anywhere have you? I can’t seem to reach his cell.”
            “No, I haven’t seen— “
            As Frederick muttered those words, his eyes darted around the room and they stumbled upon a lobotomized Mason. Frederick was speechless, and dropped his phone. He looked down at his hands, and they were covered in dried blood. At that moment, Frederick noticed a scalpel and sewing supplies on his desk, both riddled with dried blood. Mason’s body was sitting up next to the fireplace, with his mouth sewn shut. Theatrics. Frederick eyes darted around, interpreting the evidence. They landed on the mirror above his fireplace, his reflection staring right back at him. 

Monday, April 18, 2016

Take Me Back

     In 24 hours, I was to run a race, a race I still feel unwelcome from since the amount of speed that is needed and the amount of speed that my legs can carry are not the same. Every race in college has been nerve-wracking. Maybe I get an unnatural amount of butterflies in my stomach, or maybe I just think to much. Either way, I was worried. So, naturally, I wanted to take my mind off of it. It was a Friday night and we had nothing to do. I talked to everyone about having a movie night to calm the unnerving nerves. Every time we have a movie night, I suggest my favorite disney movie, Robin Hood, but no one ever wants to watch it. I always get overruled, although, this time I was persistent and aggressive. We watched it; I was so happy.

     Throughout the movie you could here people saying, "wow it takes me back," or, "dang this I used to love this." A bunch of college kids sitting around a tv watching a cartoon that was made in the 70s. You wouldn't really expect it, but Disney movies are still good. We had one hundred percent enjoyment out of that. It made me so nostalgic. I remember the times when I did my homework in like thirty minutes and then go outside to pretend I was either Aragorn, Robin Hood, or Peter Pan. What happened to the days where we could go outside and actually, honestly 'play'? I see myself growing up through the years and find the answer: it has everything to do with imagination. Looking at past pictures of myself, I can see how I progressed and grew out of my imagination.

     I think there were stages in my life that were defined by where I lived. Now, I don't really remember the apartment my mom and I lived in or the house we moved into with my dad, but I do remember the house we lived in during my elementary years. Good old Granger Trail Rd in Fort Worth, Texas. That was the place where I would pretend for hours upon hours I was out on the battlefield fighting for my castle or out in the forest stealing from Prince John or pranking Captain Hook. All were fun. Then we had to moved to Las Vegas to live with my grandmother. I did the same thing except I added captain Jack Sparrow to the list. Running through the house my grandmother owned and killing the Kraken. After that we ended up in an apartment in Euless, Texas. I moved on to only playing with my Lord of the Rings action figures or riding my scooter wherever I damn well pleased inside the complex. I had some sick 3 cm jumps in that time. Soon, after moving into that apartment, we got a place back in Keller, Texas. That was from the beginning of 5th grade to the end of 10th grade. I actually remember early on trying to play outside and it ending up not being fun to me anymore. I was inside my video game phase in this Keller house. Soon enough, I came into a guitar playing phase, where that would be what I did all day. Finally, we moved to Farmington, Maine. I dropped the guitar and stopped playing as many video games. What I did for fun was goofing around with my friends. I had always hung out with my friends, but not as much as I did when I moved to Farmington. Then, after graduating, I got into a grunge phase where I was super into rap and skateboarding. That lasted until about a month ago. Now, freshman in college at the University of Maine, I just want to do anything except homework.

     I was required to own a blog my senior year for AP Lit. I wrote a post about deciding which college I wanted to go to. I said, "I've gone from wanting to be Robin Hood to being an architect to wanting to be a physical therapist. This choice is freaking hard, and the pressure is on. The constant questions from my parents and all the graduating situations and this and that and more of this. Everything leads up to this one choice. I just wish being Robin Hood was still an option." So why does Robin Hood still fit in my changed self? Because I'm still that little kid who pretended to steal from Prince John. WE are still the little Robin Hood that we used to be.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

My Inspiring Girls

     Sometimes it's hard to think about what made you the way you are, or what shaped you. Its a loaded question. You could answer with the simple go to and say "well God gives me the strength to go on." Or you could say that its because you trust in the Lord and that's all you need. Well there is another answer to it, and to find it, you'll have to go under the simple "christian' outer layer that lights off of us. Think to yourself: what did God DO to give you the strength to go on. What did God put in your life to make it so livable. Its so easy to just accept that God does things for us, but we don't usually tend to ask how he does these things. We christians are a lot like toddlers. The icing on a cake is delicious, and obviously the best-looking part of it, although the cake on the inside is just as good. The inside just doesn't get eaten as much. Even though that's the actual 'cake' part of it.

     There are so many things God has put in my life to show me strength, but, in the spirit of National Siblings Day, I'm going to talk about the two gifts he put on this world: my sisters. My sisters are the light of my life and always have been. I've been blessed to be related to some kind souls, and have seriously been lucky that they aren't brats. That they aren't mean. I only wish they were here. Being in college is so stressful and they know just they way to help with the stress. Being with my sisters is blissful and fun; we always have a great time. I'm so glad they can text through their iPods now because I'd be going crazy without their ridiculous videos.

     My eldest sister, Mia, is now a tween. It's weird to see her grow up and mature. I remember her as a baby. I can always have one thing over my parents and its that I was the first person Mia smiled at when she was born. She taught me how to become an older brother. Memories are filled with me watching over here, as I'm 6 years older. Of course though, I got the my-parents-don't-care-about-me-anymore feeling at the beginning and resented her for it. Wow how I was wrong for that. Now she's a smart kid who can finally sit in the front of a car. I can always count on her to be the thoughtful and sensitive one out of the three of us.

     My youngest sister, Grace, finally got to double digits in the age category. She's the craziest, funniest girl I've ever met. I've seen her grow from a daring baby crawling off couches into an even more daring kid who can always argue her view. She's just a year younger than Mia, so she also taught me how to be an older brother. As the years have gone by, I've been able to see one of the most creative minds grow. She's shown me how a tiny girl who believes in unicorns become a little girl who can draw and paint with more skill than I could ever dream. I can always count on her to do something to make me laugh or grab my arm because she wants to sit next to me at the table.

     There aren't many things in this world that could make me laugh while I'm anxiously studying for an exam that's the next day, but my sisters can do just that. They are probably the things I love most in this world, and will definitely continue to surprise me as I get to watch them both grow. They are part of the 'cake' that I was talking about. They aren't just something I use to show that I have a good life, they're what I look forward to whenever I go home.

Monday, April 4, 2016

Cats And Dogs And Rooster Calls

     There is a big difference between racing in high school and racing in college. No longer are you one of the best around, but now you're not even a known person in the community. Just another runner for a school that isn't really one that people pay much attention to. Instead of leading races, you're in the middle of the pack trying to hang on, but these guys are on a whole other level. When everyone seems to just speed by while you are also trying to speed up, but can't.

     I used to know how to race. I could lead out in the front, or I could make daring moves. This was in high school though, back when the big leagues was the state meet. Now, though, every single race feels like a high school state meet. Every single race gives me the same anticipation; the same butterflies in my stomach. That didn't used to happen. In high school I ran out front, running away from everyone else. Kind of like I didn't want to be near anyone. I raced like a cat.

     Its different now. During a race you can find me in the middle of the pack, not daring to take the lead because I'm scared of the fast college kids. Probably the wort mindset you could have while racing, but I admit it: I'm scared in races. I know that I shouldn't think like this, but I can't help it. I. Just. Feel. So. Slow. When I'm compared to the guys I'm racing. I race like a dog.

     There is a solution though: getting over it. I just need to suck it up, to stop making things out worse than they actually are. Its just racing, not life and death. What is useful to me right now is a wake up call. A rooster call. The plan sounds easy in words, but it's so hard. Some things are like that though. When, in words, you can do it, but when you actually try, it's near impossible. I guess if they were easier, we would live perfect lives. Although, we don't live perfect lives, no one does.

They take away
The lonely days
For now...