Now that I’m calm, I have decided to tell you the full details of my situation, which are,

frustratingly, both mundane and unreal. Though it’s been years, time—my time—has passed

breathlessly fast.

It’s now clear to me that I was wrong in thinking that I had anything figured out, that I

could figure anything out with just a few pieces, that I could think my way out of this nightmare

while I was so deeply invested in it. I paid for that mistake with more lost time and still-tender

mental wounds. I pay for it by living in the dreadful shadow cast by the thought of what I could

have been.

I’m not sure how much you know; sometimes I think that you know more than I do, but

then I second guess you, wonder if you’re simply too vague and confusing to be seen as an

authority. At times I even fear you, as I would anything so deeply mysterious and unnatural.

Though, for a few brief moments I found your presence comforting.

So, I either hope that, in reflecting on this period of my life (no matter how much it still

pains me), something will begin to make sense; or that you—whatever you are—will then be in

the position to offer more clarity (which would be quite the change of pace).

It seems to have begun at that party.

“Oh Kate, honey,” my mother said, arresting me in the short walk between my bathroom and

bedroom. “You know I would never try to make you join me in any of these little gatherings, right?

But would you please come tonight, just this once?” She had clearly gathered up a lot of nerve for

this request.

“What’s so different about this time, then?” I asked.

“Well, you’ll be growing up and leaving soon—which I’ve mostly accepted—but in all the

times I’ve had a chance to show you off to my friends (now that you’re not a kid anymore,

anyways), you’ve hidden away.” There was a moment of silence, peppered lightly by the hum of

the air conditioner. “I don’t want to make assumptions, but—”

“Then don’t,” I said, loudly and precisely, not wanting to chance either word going

unheard. I followed up with a gentle “please,” hoping to lighten the effect of my harshness. Her

silence and dejected look betrayed to me my failure.

After another moment during which the humming air conditioner had the floor, I spoke

again. “Well, alright. I’ll come if it’ll make you happy.”

“Yes! Yes! Don’t you worry honey, my dearest, sweetest little drop of golden sunshine, I

just know they’ll love you!” she shouted in glee. I was happy that she was happy, yet I had to

escape before she got carried away: before she made any more predictions on how I would be

received and reviewed by her friends. As I went to close my door, I wondered, why should I care

whether they love me or hate me, anyways?

Rummaging through my not-so-extensive selection of dresses (all hand sewn in a state of

inspiration drawn from a guide book that, like all others I could find, focused exclusively on

dresses, but was nevertheless beautifully illustrated), I grabbed the one with the least bold colors.

Alright, so maybe I cared if they loved me, a little bit. Well, it’s not that I wanted their love exactly;

it was just that, in my experience up to that point, the more I was as they expected me, the smoother

everything went. I was simply preempting possible social speedbumps that could make the evening

more of a chore.

Despite all of the ravings about humans being social animals, no one would dare have

called me social with a straight face. By my second year in high school, I had taken full advantage

of the newly introduced option to take any class online. (I very well could have been the poster

child for why such a thing should not be offered.) It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with other

students; we actually got along fine during the few classes I had to attend in those nondescript

buildings, which I considered only a tier less depressingly drab than a hospital. I had simply grown

somewhat indifferent to them. Not the scary, lack-of-empathy indifference, though; I just never

became invested in the culture. The dramatic fluctuations between accepted and outcast, the

exciting moments of underdeveloped fist fights and verbal brawls, the pervasive paranoia of

gossip—it all began to fade into a disinteresting background. Not that I felt myself above it or

more mature by any means—the passion of high school drama has actually been alluring at

times—it just wasn’t for me.

Early on, my room became my world. I know it was held by rigid walls, but in my mind it

remains boundless. With every new hobby it seemed to expand. The progression never got old:

each new activity would begin with an endearing, clumsy ignorance, like searching through a

murky lake; then suddenly I would stumble upon a little nodule, beaming golden light, which

elucidates just a small bit of my surroundings. Whether it be the first note of an instrument, a new

mixture of paints, or the first comprehendible paragraph in a book about an esoteric subject—this

is the point when my room would lose all borders. I would become so impassioned that I seemed

to lose those nagging feelings unique to humans: that time was passing, that I am an animal directed

by neurochemicals, et cetera.

I grew quite fond of the idea—probably a fantasy—that I had grown formless in that room.

My identity essentially became wrapped around the idea that I had very little stable identity, the

idea that I could not be pinned down to simply being a student, nor a musician, nor a painter

(though painting was my chief interest when all others failed). Whereas some may have seen my

constantly shifting focus as a restless inability to feel fulfilled, I felt fulfillment in the flux; I felt a

great deal of control each time that I side-stepped the sort of consistency that others seemed to

value. Ironically, now all I long for is the warm comfort of consistency. Or to at least get back to

my room, if I still have one.

Once in my dress, I looked down at it and tried to see it as my mother’s friends might.

Seeing the sloppily-stitched-on blossoming rosebuds popping out of a fine entanglement of dark

green stem-like threads, I felt as though I had failed to prepare for the battery of impressions that

were to follow. Yet, looking up and into the reflective moving painting ahead, in which I was

situated surrounded by walls that were splattered with paints of blue and pink, like a cotton candy

machine gone haywire, my dress seemed relatively subtle.

Right before I left my room, I became lightly transfixed on a long-ignored framed

photograph. Within the frame, which was blue like a clear day’s sky, stood my mother and I. There

was a humorous contrast between her soft, kind eyes, smoothed down hair, and earnestly plain

smile; and my eyes, spread wide in an ironic rejection of being made to pose, erratically unkempt

hair, and shaky smile, which was straining from underuse. I appreciated her, though we were not

exactly close; we had been when I was younger, before I discovered the wonders of being alone

in my room.

Of course, where there is a family photograph of two, no matter how full or empty the

situation on the ground is, some make the assumption that there is an absence or purposeful

omission (in the current year and country I live in, anyways). I suppose, to complete the picture, I

should mention that I do have another parent—a father—though I don’t see him much anymore.

From before my parents’ separation, I have little memory. After the divorce, when I used to see

him on weekends and all that, I can only remember bits and pieces. He had a lot of opinions, as

most self-help style speakers do. People paid thousands to hear how he felt they needed to

improve themselves, or how society needed to stop its stray from whatever he felt was essential

and proven by time. I’m unsure of why he began seeing me less, though I imagine my increasing

time spent in my room, not to mention our shared lack of pliability, made his eventual move not

all that difficult. I don’t have any hard feelings over it though, unlike a lot of children of divorce.

Outside, before getting in the car, I took a look at the sky. The clouds likely were sure of

themselves just an hour ago, I thought, when they stood proud in an expanse of blue; yet now they

have been swallowed by the unforgiving darkness of dusk, their inner details easily mistakable for

borders. If they covered the entire sky or just a small patch, it hardly made a difference. The

singular force of the night, the moon that is, was nowhere to be seen. I was unsure of whether it

had become obscured or if it had never been visible in the first place. It could very well have not

existed at all that night.

On the ride over, there were more nonverbal reassurances given than words were spoken—

at least on my end. “You haven’t seen Janine and Steve since you were little, have you?” “Darcy

will love your dress, she loves those sorts of dresses.” In between these brief dead-end

conversations, she would look over, smile wide, and beg with her eyes for confirmation of

something unknown; I would meet her gaze with forced smiles, which deteriorated in quality as

time went on. I’m sure her last plea was met solely by my pupil sauntering lazily to the corner of

my eye, but that didn’t matter. As we arrived, her excitement revved up once more.

The front door opened, and I was alone on a stage, several spotlights searching my every

inch for reasons to applaud or boo (or so it felt, those first few minutes). We were greeted one-by-one by several women I’d never seen before, whom I would be spending the night dancing around

(or for). Each stood expectantly, anticipating their part in the ritual, concealing their unnatural

postures with manufactured warmth. When it was her turn, she must offer up some new meat for

the others to pounce on. “Oh my god! Isn’t she so mature?” Their impressions of me would then

ping-pong around the cramped post-front-door-pre-living-room area: “So mature! And so

beautiful!” “She’s delightful! She’s like a little version of you,” one said to my mother nauseatingly

through straightened teeth. I stopped listening after that one.

The living room was cozy enough, but a bit drab: the colors of the walls were vague and

creamy, and the accents would have been baseline in a more inspired home. The style would best

be described as, in my expert opinion, old. This wasn’t your everyday, incidental sort of Old that

comes to possess a home by extension of the inhabitants being old and having bought their things

a long time ago, before they were old. No, this living room proudly displayed its datedness: more

grandfather clocks than any nuclear family can logically have grandfathers, furniture that

predates the term retro, and so much wood—framing those creamy walls and making up the

floor and chairs and shelves—that I can imagine the owners wished they lived in a time before

concrete was invented. This wasn’t just an appreciation for Old—this was reverence. My dress

unfortunately lost all subtlety in this context.

Everyone there was in their forties, like my mom. When I was younger, I remember kids

of all ages saying how they hated these sorts of parties, where they’d be made to hang out with

parents. I didn’t really see a difference in being around younger or older people. From my point

of view, whatever annoying shortcomings groups of older people had were present in younger

groups too, just dressed in different clothes.

The stock conversation that most of the adults greeted me with for the first portion of the

night was roughly, “Oh my goodness gracious, you started one age, but now you’re another!

How special! How is high school?” Except, before I could respond, they would—more often

than you might have believed—launch in about their own high school experience. “Oh, high

school is just so special. When I was in high school, I had such a group of friends. We would get

into so much trouble!” I began to suspect that these were not fully their memories, but an

amalgamation of several coming-of-age stories more sloppily stitched together than my dress.

Eventually, once this introduction sequence was run through, I would unlock a personalized

question, usually related to my appearance or whether I remember something from when I was

about eight months old. I was able to maintain a convincing smile during the first few of these

interactions, but eventually my face began twitching, and I abandoned smiles unless they were

accompanied by the rare laugh.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Appetizers were served, and their gravity tightened the unorganized mass of twelve or so

into something nearly choreographed. My range tightened too. I was relieved to be done

bouncing between introductions. Most found themselves seated on the couches, which

surrounded three-fourths of the coffee table. On the table laid a green dip and squares of flakey

shell baked around brie cheese.

I wanted one of the brie shells, yet traps came and went in the conversation. “Garbage! I

turn on the radio and exclusively hear trash,” said one man—of the oldest, with his silver hair

shining proud. He then turned to the youngest woman, who was caught vulnerable while leaning

forward for some dip. “Even you must agree, right? It’s mind numbing!” The creaking of wood

was louder than her half-hearted response. I was almost her, I thought, having to decide between

placid agreements or representing all younger generations in this particular cultural battle. I’m

surprised my life didn’t flash before my eyes.

Once that man and another left to refresh their wine glasses, I made my move. With

unprecedented grace, I swooped in for two brie shells (a concession between wanting to stock up

and not wanting to call attention to myself). Then, the unexpected struck me.

“How are you liking them?” a voice sung, rising into the question mark as I bent myself

up from the coffee table. I swung around, blurring all the half-bored faces which waited for new

action. I felt as though they must have been watching us, but did not look to confirm.

I met the smiling face of the hostess. Thank god it’s you, I thought. Her thin, angular face

was comforting, with its deep wrinkles that seemingly appeared before they were due. I had not

seen her earlier, as she was hard at work in the kitchen. She looked into me as if she knew what

trials I faced getting to where I was now, at the appetizer covered coffee table.

I popped one in my mouth, gave it a chew, and followed up with an “oh,” as if I had just

been overwhelmed in receiving some divine jewel from the gods. I played my enthusiasm up for

her; I felt she deserved it (for more than simply making a delicious appetizer).

Once pleasantries were truly tapped out, I was only included when my relatively unique

perspective was wanted, or when one of them wanted to express their less-than-unique perspective

at me. That’s where the trouble began.

From across the room, one of the men told some dirty joke, then proceeded to laugh like it

was the funniest thought that had crossed his mind in weeks. Admittedly, it was pretty funny, but

I stifled my smile for fear of appearing to approve of it. I must have done a much too effective

poker face, because one of the older women sitting across from me removed her disappointed-but-not-surprised expression from the man and aimed it at me.

“Typical men, they can’t stand being civilized for one short night. Are boys like this in

your school, too?”

I wasn’t sure of what exactly she was getting at, having not spent much time around boys

at my school. “Everyone is like that in my school” I said. From my perspective, this was true: on

days that I showed up, I heard plenty of dirty jokes enjoyed by my classmates, regardless of

demographic.

“Well that makes sense, since you’re so young…” she said, seemingly searching for

something on the back of my head despite speaking to the front. “Maybe some girls, before their

brains have fully developed, might laugh at those jokes due to pure shock value. But eventually—

when you’ve been around that tired, old, vulgar block as many times as I have—the shock and the

charms that accompany it fade into an ugly color. Girls your age can be forgiven for their lack of

experience, can’t they?”

I tried to process what she was getting at for a moment. What exactly was she saying I

should forgive girls at my school for? For laughing? Before I could make sense of it, she must

have picked up on my confusion.

“Yet it seems like men never grow out of it, does it not?” she said as if she were taking my

hand and leading me somewhere.

I gave her a smile and a nod, then turned away. I hoped that that would be enough to satisfy

her. The way she spoke made me feel odd: a slight nausea or unrest bubbled in me; in the moment

I couldn’t quite place what it was. It felt as though she was trying to aim me while I resisted,

twisting her brow while searching for a way to get me to assent. It was as if she weren’t speaking

to a person, to me, but struggling with an object that wasn’t complying. What did my agreeing to

her stance on this silly issue matter to her?

I could still see, from the corner of my eye, that her body was practically facing me. Maybe

she’s already had a few drinks, I hoped; maybe her body is just a bit heavy; maybe she won’t keep

trying… I should have known that she would.

“Well, keep in mind, just so that you don’t make the same mistakes I did—which is of

course why I’m even bothering you with talk of these kind of jokes, which should generally be

ignored instead: so that I can give you the benefit of my experience. Just keep me in mind when

you’re a little older and start looking for a husband—”but before she was finished, I blinked.*

When I opened my eyes, a man was staring at me, quite expectantly.

“I, I’m sorry, could you repeat what you said?” I asked.

“Oh, well I was just asking about what you’ll do when you graduate. Do you have any big

plans? Or are you more a ‘go with the flow’ kind of person?” he asked with a friendly smile.

Before I could think of my answer, the woman sitting close to his left, who may be his wife

and who may have been only half listening, decided to weigh in. “Go with the flow? I’m sure Mary

won’t appreciate us filling her head with dreams, Dave,” she said with a sharp, resolute tone.

The silver-haired man who hates modern music chimed in from several chairs away, “A

head full of dreams means a wallet full of dust.” He turned away from us again as if he had been

activated strictly to say that line and nothing more. The woman nodded with conviction before he

had even finished saying what he said.

“I’m sure she already has plenty of dreams, hon’. Isn’t that right?” Dave said.

I forced a smile of approval at him. Unlike most, I was glad to give it to him. I only needed

to force it because I was still feeling a bit confused as to my situation. Had we already eaten? I

was feeling a bit full and sitting at a dinner table. I should get away from here, I thought, maybe

regroup in the bathroom. The woman then began leaning over the table towards me, about to

continue.

“Excuse me.” As I said this, her opening mouth snapped shut. “I just need to use the

restroom.” Getting up, a beige cloth napkin fell from my lap. I motioned for a split second to lean

down and grab it, but confusion propelled me awkwardly forward. I quickly passed the grandfather

clocks that stood guarding the hallway entrance. In my peripheral vision, painted porcelain blurred

into a line, as if they became lanes on a road pathed with a dizzying damask.

After what felt like several turns, I halted at a dead-end. I was surrounded on three-sides

by closed doors, unsure of which was the bathroom. I indecisively turned back and forth a couple

of times, until I felt hands grasp at the flesh of my arms. They turned me around, and my likely

bewildered face met the woman from whom I had just escaped.

I was trapped, enveloped by closed doors and her eager arms. Why do I feel so small? I

wondered; she can’t be that tall… It felt as though she took up most of the hallway.

She gave a fresh squeeze and brought me in closer. I could smell the white wine on her

breath as she spoke. “Oh, are you not sure which door to choose? Well, I’m glad I found you here!

Don’t worry, I’ll show you just where you need to go.” She turned me to my right, and as I faced

that door she leaned in and began speaking into my ear. “Oh, by the way, about what my husband

was saying… Well, you really shouldn’t listen to him. He’s sweet, but, as I’m sure you know, no

one ever made any money going with the flow—certainly not him, at least. Of course you’ll head

off to college so you can make a good life for yourself, for your lovely mother’s sake at least.”

I spaced out again, her last words ringing in my dizzy, mildly aching head. It was as if

someone was pumping helium into my skull, increasing the pressure and making it feel floaty and

partially detached from my body. I must be getting tired, I reasoned to myself. My eyes were

unfocused, my brain was foggy; it made perfect sense.

This time, I came two within the gaze of the younger woman whom was accosted about

music at the appetizer table earlier. Her eyes were focused on me, but in an innocent, inquisitive

sort of way. Around the living room, the herd had thinned: there were half as many people, all

scattered, and the only ones talking were my mother and the host. It was then I realized that I had

no recollection of being with my mother the entire night. But we must have at least sat together at

dinner… Then a new thought struck me: Could someone have put that drug in my drink, the one

that makes you black out? But that didn’t make sense—I didn’t even have anything to drink in the

first place!

I became a bit more at ease upon remembering that I was no longer near that stressful

woman who grabbed me in the hall. I relaxed for a moment, leaning back just an inch before

realizing that this younger woman seemed to be awaiting a response. This realization must have

shown on my face.

“No, you don’t even have to answer. I would feel a bit out of place here if I were you.

Don’t worry, no offense taken!” She deepened her smile and crooked her head a bit. “I walked by

the boys’ rooms a little bit ago. I wish they were here! Don’t you?” She asked.

“Oh, oh, of course,” I said. I don’t think I had ever met these boys, or was even aware of

their existence. She must have assumed I’ve been to one of these little get-togethers before. I must

have really been nailing looking like I belonged.

“I kind of wish their mother left their room preserved. I always got a kick of how messy

they are,” she said.

After a moment, likely spurred on by boredom and wine, she continued, despite my lack

of affect or response.

“I’m sure when you head off to, wherever, your mom won’t disturb your room. She is too

fond of you for that.” She paused a moment, then began again as if to correct herself. “Though,

she probably wouldn’t have to do anything to it, anyway.”

This roused me a bit. There was something hanging in her words, something left unsaid. I

was too worn out to resist my own impulses, unfortunately, so I entered the conversation.

“What, has my mom talked to you about my room?” I looked over at my mom, who was

still talking to her friend. I may have looked a bit suspicious.

“No, no, she would never complain about you! I was just thinking that it probably doesn’t

need much cleaning. I’ve got a daughter, you know,” she said.

“I can barely walk through my room, though. What does your daughter have to do with

it?” I asked, genuinely curious, though slightly indignant.

“Oh really, you are slobbish? That’s surprising! Aren’t guys usually the messy ones? Don’t

be modest; I’m sure you aren’t that bad.”

Like a switch was flipped, the color drained entirely out of the scene in front of me. That

woman was still there, frozen for a moment while everything was still clear. She was mostly a

vibrant white, like that of a photonegative shining eerily. Other prominent objects once in my

vision, such as my mother and her friend, the sharp edges of close furniture, were also bone white,

though their vibrancies varied with distance. All else was a deep black which let little light escape.

Sharp edges were soon lost: they began to disperse, becoming fuzzy like high gain sine waves are

when viewed on a spectrometer. After this moment, the brighter and darker whites became

intermingled, mangling the forms of objects and of people at whim, making the scene lose the

appearance of even being three-dimensional. Sometimes they swirled, combining to make grays

as ominous as wrathful thunderclouds seeking violence in the distant sky; other times they rushed

forward or shifted lazily around, as if they were objects lying in the bed of a moving vehicle. The

result became akin to static—senseless noise: meaningless, eye-straining, indecipherable

nothingness.

Her words hung in the air for the same moment that her form lasted, before becoming

elongated and unrecognizable, soon joining a chorus of sounds. Each piece of this harsh chorus

seemed to be a fragment of what was said but in different pitches, speeds, and clarities. The

ensemble of syllables, twisted beyond comprehension, seemingly folded over itself again and

again, compressing into an unimaginable density; the result was simply an ear-bleeding roar. That

interwoven cacophony of sounds inconceivably loud and layered never quite ceased, but it did at

times become a dull rumble before rushing forward in full intensity, like ocean waves.

It was what I would imagine it would be like if, while watching a movie, it suddenly

became a black and white still-image. While you are caught off guard by this, the projectionist

loops a few frames of the scene, and then starts hacking at the spinning film with a razor blade, or

maybe sets fire to small sections. The loops progress slowly forward as they become progressively

unrecognizable. All the while, the sound technician decides to have a bit of fun too and turns the

gain up to inconceivable volumes, causing mounting distortion. He then exacerbates the issue by

jamming a sharp metal rod into the speaker cones. Or so I sometimes like to imagine it, to make it

seem more familiar, like it could really belong to the reality that I knew.

At the onset, I felt an emotional jolt of surprise. This became quickly buried as my brain

stretched as wide as the horizon to understand what it was experiencing. Yet neither the visuals

nor the sounds relented enough to allow for any coherence. For a little, it was almost intoxicating;

there was never a dull moment, yet as it or my brain reached a plateau I felt little to nothing.

As I became used to the light show and noise ensemble, I noticed that my body felt as it

does when I am on the verge of falling asleep: floaty, numb—as if it were not connected to my

brain. My benumbed body did not feel like itself, and all I could understand of those numb tingles

was a vague direction: up or down, superficial or deep within me.

All perceptions quickly lost context, and by extension significance, in my mind. Sounds

entered occasionally, though I hardly noticed them in my hypnotic daze. Even if I did notice them,

they only held clarity for a moment before being subsumed into the nightmarish rage of sounds

past.

Within this state, or dimension (I will call it a state of being rather than me being

somewhere else), there was no time—at least not as far as I was concerned. But in the resulting

visual madness I occasionally could parse a human shape, or maybe my own hand. This was my

first clue that life, my life, went on without me. I got my second clue when I came two.