Chronicles of Pain

Act I
Whispers

Whispers breached the carefree mood in the corridor when the boy entered. "Outcast," they taunted. "Insane," they hurled. The boy walked straight, feigning deaf. Though his ears were brimming with the insults, it was easier this way. His footsteps were carefully measured, every step landing with a distinct thud that seemed to echo through the hall. His eyes crept over every crack of the luminescent floor, carefully studying the erratic specks of colors. He recognized every single speck, every tiny crack. He went through this every morning, for his social exile was daily.

His thoughts crept slowly back to his childhood. Even as a toddler he had been strange. While most children were playing carelessly in the sandbox, he was slinking back into the shadows, desperately praying to go unnoticed. He longed for normal memories for his only memories were of books and imaginary friends.

The most prominent was that of a girlfriend, a new girl to town. She had been drawn in by his honest appearance and sweet face. The boy's trust began to overpower his doubt and he became less suspicious. He shuddered involuntarily when he remembered the day the girl had heard the awful gossip. Once again the boy was alone.

A hard grip on his shoulder brought him out of the painful memories. He looked up into a pair of hard eyes. He read the traces of emotion, saw the spasmodic change of anger to fear and back again. He recognized the trite look of command. The boy met the eyes with unflinching calm. He slowly took in the mediocre face and met it with his own frowning one. He was aware of lips moving. The taunting words disrupted the surface of silence as a stone does a pond, but quickly it was forgotten. The words became a useless muddle that wrapped itself around them before being seemingly exorcized.

A crowd of faceless bodies emitted meaningless words as the assailant relinquished his grip and began to circle around the boy. The boy's calm transformed into swift movement. He bridged the small gap between the assailant and himself with two short steps. He let his anger slowly fabricate into vicious movement. He quickly forgot the face underneath his fist, the foreign eyes now heated with hate, the blood that dripped slowly down and crept into a small crack in the floor.

His eyes were drawn to another face now. His heart reawoke from its long slumber, recognizing the face of its owner. Her eyes met his own, beseeching something. They had not a trace of hate as the first had. Quickly the eyes transformed into worry and the boy lost her gaze to his assailant.

He turned and pushing his way through the crowd of bodies, walked down the corridor, leaving so many things behind. The unceasing whispers were once again in control.

Act II
Tears

The stone-faced girl dropped into the rushing river, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Immediately, she dove deeper, letting the crashing waters close around her. It swept her downstream, and she let herself be swept. Signs of the shore gradually fell away, and she closed her eyes.

The tears began to fall, each a separate, perfect drop. For a glistening moment, it was alone and free, and then was joined into the rushing waters, adding itself to the numbers of tears once past. More and more fell, and the girl was not ashamed to shed them: here, no one and everyone at once could see her.

Surrounding her was a liquid warmth that soothed her heart. She was swimming upon a stream of tears-whether they come from rampant dinosaurs, gentle deer, or even people such as herself. Her tears were no longer alone- they were home, amongst the never-quiet stream.

A shout broke through her serenity, and she forced herself to rise. Stepping back into the sunlight, she fastened her mask back into place.

Act III
Enlightenment

The moon's rays illuminated the area around her, but missed her figure completely. She felt the wind whistling through her hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the coolness on her face. The snapping of a nearby twig caught her attention and one eye opened into a slit.

She detected movement to her left, and soon enough there was answering motion to her right. Another twig snapped, and she heard cursing. Now, she opened her other eye.

A brown-haired man stepped into the light, and she caught his eye. A spear was raised in his hand. A glint of malice contorted his grin, and she saw greed in his face. Still, she did not drop the link they shared through their eyes.

His eyes grew shifty at her boldness, but he took another step. The earth seemed to pound with his weight, and she had to force herself not to wince. The wind carried a strong smell to her, and her nostrils flared at his scent.

A shout came from behind her, and she jumped, dropping her eye contact with the man. Recognizing the angry tone of his voice, she lurched forward, her muscles rippling with smooth movement, undaunted from the long sitting.

Inches above her fur, she felt the spear break through the wind. Her pads landed roughly on the smooth path, and her weight was not enough to snap a single twig. She maneuvered carefully to avoid a second human, and started off down the forest path.

An instinct within her made her turn, and she found the dark-haired man staring at her, his eyes wide. She opened her mouth in a howl, answering the questions of his soul with a single lonesome note.

The wolf turned and raced down the forest's path, disappearing into the darkness that had housed her for so many years.

Act IV
Struggle of the Soul

She heard the whisperings in her ears and knew they were considering her. She sat still in her seat, focusing intently on the board in front of her, not looking at the wires playing across her skin. She felt them tighten around her wrists, gently scooting up her arms. Shivering at the feeling of the cold rubber slowly tightening on her flesh, she closed her eyes and let their influence in.

Calm acceptance flowed through her veins and her thoughts were spread thin. Small concerns fluttered through her consciousness, asking her in dull little whispers what she would wear tomorrow, who she would walk with today. She was soothed by them, and settled back farther in her chair. She caught the small mutterings of The Voice, clarifying some useless formula in gentle tones so as not to scare anyone into individuality.

The cords continued up her arms, and she felt a small bit of alarm rise in her. The Voice became slightly jostled and seemed somewhat out of breath. It got louder, and she felt the cords tighten against her, pulling her closer against the chair.

She drifted around in this thoughtlessness, enjoying the sensation of complete dependence, not caring about her surroundings or anything aside from The Voice. It fed her, loved her, and caressed her with its knowledge. She was to obey, and would happily obey.

"But why obey?" The lone thought broke into her mind, blossoming with colors and ringing loudly amongst the bland concerns that had been planted years before, perhaps before birth. She felt the question heavy in its presence, and began to open her mind wider in a search for the answer. More vibrant thoughts flew into her brain to fill the newfound space, and soon she saw a rainbow of rationalities coloring the inside of her mind.

Her heart opened and she felt her soul starting to wake, unable to sleep through the bright shower of colors her mind had brought forth. It shook off the dew that had gathered in its restful state and spread its wings, testing them before it attempted to fly.

She felt the wires tighten around her, attaching her firmly to the chair. The Voice grew louder, screaming in an attempt to overpower the sound of her own mind. She ignored it, recognizing the deperation hidden beneath the layers of authority.

The wires chaining her to the chair began to feel rubbery, and she smiled with the knowledge of her own power over them. Sliding her arms forward, she freed herself from them, flinging the wires off and opening her eyes to the light. Her soul's wings unfurled completely, delighting in their freedom and pulling her from the ground.

She took in the board, reading the writing The Voice was referring to with the interest of a child that first sees the world beyond his or her room, fascinated not by the writing itself, but instead the simplicity it contained.

She turned it over in her mind, feeling it with her logic, tasting it with all of her senses. Slowly, she started to expand upon it-- strengthening it, bending it to her will. She watched it grow, fawning over it as a mother would a child.

The Voice broke into her head, screeching loudly enough that she was forced to shield her ears, closing her eyes in the concentration of subduing the noise. The wires freed themselves from the hapless positions she had flung them into, curling again around her arms and fastening her to the chair.

She felt the whispers reassemble in her mind, watching crestfallen as the colors that had been her own creations left slowly to return to their hiding places. The wings of her soul drooped, and she watched it curl up and return slowly to rest.

A tear dropped from her cheek and she fought to call for help. The screeching increased, and she clutched her head firmly in her hands, clawing at her own flesh and using every bit of movement the wires allowed her. Rocking slowly back and forth, she felt the tears leave her eyes in a steady trail as she strained against the resounding Voice in her head.

She saw the last strand of bright thought skittering nervously away, and tried to reach out to grab it. The wires tightened against her, keeping her from it. Futility overcame her and somehow she knew this was the last chance she had at becoming herself.

Opening her mouth, she let out a last, desperate cry to her sleeping soul. It was droned out by the bell.