Lying with his arm under his head, sheets
tangled and pushed to the foot of the bed, clothes strewn around
the room, Daemon stared up towards the ceiling, admiring the intricate
weaving of the spider above. The spider, using each arm as if they
were knitting needles, spun its hourly web. If only life were
like that, he thought as he stared intently, if only my
life could be spun again and again to the shape of my choosing…oh
how great that would be.
He looked at the clock. 6:15, the beginning of the daily routine,
better hit the shower, he thought to himself. The water
glistened as it trickled off his skin and hit the porcelain, washing
away all that had gone wrong the day before, today he starts anew…today
will different, he hopes.
The long walk to school was always something to be enjoyed, the only
time he could think clearly, the only time he was alone with his thoughts.
As the sun rose in front of him, it’s beautiful, bright rays
blinding his eyes as he walked, he contemplated the days events. He
followed the seemingly never-ending stretch of dirt road into town,
admiring the beauty as the sun shone and reflected off of the dew-covered
grass.
He stood at the foot of the large, towering building in front of him,
casting it’s shadow like a dark aura, consuming all that came
within reach. He walked up the bulky cement stairs. Everyday, he’d
recite the same words from his favourite song in his head…up
the stairs, the station where, the act becomes, the art of growing
up…he knew that if he wanted to survive he shouldn’t
take everything so personally, but how could he not? How could he
just ignore it when they called him a freak? When they pushed him
around? When they stared?
Through the halls, he walked, discreetly, so as not to show any fear,
because he knew that if he did, they’d tear him apart. With
their arms…with their words… with their eyes… He
knew what they were thinking, he knew today would be just like the
others, he knew, but he did not understand. Push. Shove. Whisper.
Stare. This was life…
Drifted off in English class again, if only he could sleep, maybe
then he’d be able to distinguish between the real and not so
real, the dreams and the nightmares. A dream come true, to sleep,
to escape his nightmare…if only for a few seconds.
The bell rings, a rush to the door, five minutes to get to class.
He didn’t care anymore, time as a joke to him, his enemy. Time
had only made things worse for him, time made the wounds rot, time
fermented happiness into an abstract concept, oh so far out of reach.
Time was not to be trusted. Time could not be trusted.
Ten minutes late. He managed to avoid the usual mob of them, always
pushing him into corners, making his chest tight, making it hard to
breathe, making a gasp of breath a birthday present, waiting to be
unwrapped. He wished he could forget it all…spin a new web,
not matter how deformed, anything would be better than this
Stroke of genius. The science class had already started their
weekly lab; he had so much to work with at his disposal. He approached
the front desk, so many chemicals, he didn’t care what they
were, what they were called, what reaction they produced when mixed.
He only wanted one reaction out of it, the one that would drown out
the darkness with light, the one that would make everything so much
better.
Pour, pour. Mix, mix. Stir, stir. The time had come. God only knows
what this would do, he didn't care, he quickly drank every drop. Tingling.
Fifteen minutes gone, why wasn’t it working? Dizziness.
What went wrong? Burn. His stomach twisted in pain. As the
burning got worse, he bent down and screamed. He watched as they all
looked in horror. What’s wrong with him? What has he done?
Why would drive him to have done that to himself? The burning,
the pain, the horror, the relief. The darkness set in, his vision
clouded, the screaming stopped. As the web that had been spun his
whole life unravelled into lifeless silk on the floor,
he let a sigh of relief.
