| The Dragons of Selzar | ||||||||||||||||||||
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| Welcome to The Dragons of Selzar. This place is designed as a Role-play site where you literally live as a dragon. You create your dragon character, join one of the five dragon clans, and then you live it's life as if it was your life, and adapt it to different scenarios that are brought upon you by other users and characters. This place is a lot of fun and that's what everything is all about. Come and Join our clan of Dragons! ~Silvera~ ~Head Admin~ |
| Engulfed; NOT working title. XD | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 20 2009, 10:15 AM (201 Views) | |
| Deleted User | Aug 20 2009, 10:15 AM Post #1 |
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This is a short story based on a dream I had the other night. Just the bare fact's the same. Hope you enjoy it! ~~~ This can’t be happening to me. It’s impossible. I look around me. My eyes are wide in shock. Or I suppose they are. I don’t know the others’ expressions as they look back at me, silently staring, not knowing what to say. I can’t see them. I can’t see anything. I blink – or at least I make the movement to, for the gesture’s really unneeded now. Nothing changes. Blackness is all there is around me, closing in and suffocating me. This can only be a nightmare. Stunned into silence, like those around me, I go over and try to make sense of the last few moments ever since I woke up in the hospital bed. I’d been in a car accident, they’d told me. The windscreen had shattered, and I was sitting in the passenger seat. The flying glass had shredded my eyes to such an extent that they had had to be plucked out. I’d lost my light. Even now I can’t believe this is happening. I lift a finger and touch my sunken eyelid, feeling bile rise in my throat as I touch the shriveled skin. My mother sees my expression, or something, and reaches over to touch me on my knee gently, tentatively. “We.. We’ll fit fake eyeballs under the lids.” She tells me, as if that will console me. As if the small comfort of feeling something under those empty lids would make up for what was stolen. I can only nod numbly in reply, and she withdraws her hand. No one says anything for a long time. There’s nothing they can say to comfort me, and they know it. “What about school?” I manage to croak after a few moments. I can feel a lump rise in my throat as I voice aloud the things that have been crowding in my mind the last few minutes, completely out of order. Even I can hear the horror and fear in my voice. “You’ll have to change schools.” My father says softly, his voice low. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up, no matter how hard you worked, unable to see the board and such..” Just like my mother’s voice, his tone is strained, as if he too was unable to function properly. “I don’t want to leave! And I can’t read Braille, you know I can’t!” I suddenly say, more desperately, feeling the lump in my throat tighter dangerously. I can’t believe this has happened. Not now, not ever. I’m seventeen, and I had just one more year until I could enroll into a university. I was always ambitious but now.. School has made me think of what I had wanted to do. I had wanted to become a doctor all my life, or a linguist. But now.. In a blur, my mind homes in on the next thing I had been focusing hard on; my A-Levels. I can feel my blood go cold as I think of them. “How will I sit my A-Levels?” I squeak. “What am I going to do the rest of my life?” I can feel despair and self-pity beginning to overwhelm me, just as this accident has destroyed my life, all the possibilities and dreams I had. “There are ways.. You’ll get better at Braille, you’ll see.. And there might be special exams for.. for you.” My father replied, his voice still strained and getting worse. In the state I was in, I could hardly see it. “I can’t do what I want!” I cry, but my eyes are so strangely dry. I can feel my breathing become labored, but I can’t cry. Not a single tear. It’s now that warm arms surround my shoulders and a soft hand begins stroking my hair as the person holds me tight. From the way the person’s chest is heaving, he’s crying too. I recognize my mother’s barley shampoo from where my face is pressed up against her shoulder. I can’t feel the bone against the bulges where my eyes were. “We’ll work it out.. Don’t worry yet.. Not everything’s lost..” she whispers softly, but I think she’s trying to convince herself. Her hand’s still stroking my long hair. “My friends..?” I can barely croak out. “Will remain so.” She whispers softly. Deep down, I know she’s telling the truth this time. I know my friends won’t leave me. But what will we ever be able to do? Without my sight, what fun can we have? I’ll be a dead weight. My face still buried in her shoulder, I begin to cry. Three months have passed since then. I wake up when my alarm clock rings, still set to eight am, though my new school doesn’t start ‘til nine. I can’t bring myself to reset it. I don’t know if I could. I feel my way down the hallway and into the kitchen, using the white cane I was given to circumvent anything in my way. Inside, there never is. Everyone keeps things well out of my way. I eat my breakfast; just a glass of milk. I wait for mum to help me dress and lead me down to the curb, for the bus to come, to take me to school. School is beyond my wildest fears back when... when I still had my sight. In a week, I had learnt the full Braille code and how to use the special type-writer. I couldn’t read. It took me a whole hour just to read a single paragraph, and that with someone next to me, helping me along, correcting and guiding me. No matter how they tried, I couldn’t feel the difference between the dots easily. I could hardly tell where one letter started and the other began. I was better from when I’d started, I knew, but it hardly gave me any satisfaction. I come back in from school at four thirty pm. I eat lunch, move back to my room carefully and spend the next few hours with my mother bent over my shoulder, trying to do my homework. I could write in Braille quite well. But this was mostly reading. We devised a system of mum reading me geography, history and other such lessons and me repeating them back to her. That way, I would learn them and not flunk the lessons. There was no way that could I ever read the whole text. I finish my homework late at night, then sit in the living room with my family. Often, they have the television on. At first, I tried listening to whatever they were watching, be it soaps or chat shows. I soon grew bored of it, though. I found I loved nature programs the most, and soaps. I lost myself in them, using my imagination to put together a picture of what they were showing, or put myself in the people’s lives there. It was a distraction, to say the least, from my own worries. At night, I returned to my room with my mother, who would always kiss me goodnight, then kiss the eyelids that now held the glass eyes I’d been given. I still don’t know why she did that, but I didn’t mind. It was the warmest sensation I had there, nowadays. My days flowed endlessly like this, from Monday to Friday. Weekends were different, though. Weekends, my friends came visiting. My old friends. They were sympathetic and horror-struck at first, but they slowly grew accustomed to the fact I couldn’t see. After a while, they acted no different, for which I was grateful. It didn’t take them long to realize that sympathy mixed with my self-pity was devastating. They spent ages telling me stories about my old school; what they’d gotten up to that week, what teachers were being jerks, that sort of thing. It made me laugh like I didn’t during the week. It gave me a small glimpse of what I’d lost, of what I could never have again. They slowly adjusted to what they had to do when they were with me. Touch my shoulder when approaching, trying to be as noisy as possible and always be tactful, avoiding touchy subjects. I told them what I felt like telling them, like my new school and classmates. They were children that were blind most of their lives, so they weren’t going through what a doctor called ‘rough adjustment period.’ I was lucky enough to overhear someone saying that some people never did get over it. Didn’t do much for my mood. Apart from those two days, I could say that my life was stressful and tiring. Each day was a struggle in the dark, the petrifying, the never-ceasing dark. I felt the sun’s warmth on my face, but couldn’t see it. I smelt the flowers, but couldn’t admire their colors. All around me I could feel the word, but not see it! I felt like a caged animal, with no outlet for its irritation. I grew more and more restless as time went on. By now, it was mid-December and the Christmas holidays were approaching. My schoolwork suffered, because I couldn’t participate much in class. Sure I would answer if our teachers asked a question, and I was good at English and such, but the time it would take me to actually read a question was more than enough for others to read it, think about it and answer already. A teacher was always there to help me read, so I kept some pace with the others, but.. it was a struggle. My family’s been nothing but supportive. My little brother, especially. He continuously asks me if I want anything, or if he can help me with something. He’s really one of the comforts left to me. I always had, but now I love him even more for being so sweet. My mother’s always supportive and helpful, too, but I can tell from her voice that she’s stressed and worried for the future. I haven’t gotten outside the house much since after the accident. I tried once of twice, with my parents on either side of me, but I was terrified. All the unfamiliar noises and scents, the sound of cars and lorries rushing by me, and me unable to see where to duck to. I felt so exposed, like I was constantly going to run into something, though I was becoming somewhat proficient with my cane. Thank God people saw it and stayed out of my way, mostly. Before the accident, when I could still see, I’d tried imagining what it would be like to be blind. I and some friends had debated once whether you saw only darkness, or whether that counted as sight in a way. Now I knew. Oh, I knew.. The hard reality of it was causing me to laugh less and less. I wasn’t really close to anyone at school, as if I hoped this nightmare would end and I’d open my eyes, my old eyes, and look up at my bedroom ceiling, shuddering with the iciness of the now forgotten nightmare. I mainly laughed with my old friends. Even though I wouldn’t say so out loud, I felt hopeless, as if I was drowning in my new world. I didn’t think I could cope. I couldn’t really see myself with a bright future anymore. The last few weeks of school passed just the same. Nothing new, no new hope. When Christmas came, I heard talks of Santa and what I wanted for Christmas. I knew what I wanted, but no one could give me it. Especially a fictitious character. The holidays weren’t so bad on their own. Christmas holidays can never be described as bad. We had a big family reunion and played games, though I was out of most of them. I could sing along, though. I have a nice voice, I’m told, and love singing. It was fun. I dreaded my return to school after the warm climate of love and joy. It was mid-January when school changed for ever. Usually when I entered the class, I took my seat and waited for lessons to start. If anyone spoke to me, I’d speak back, but they were tactful. They knew my story. They knew I wasn’t adjusting. They helped me when they could and were friendly enough, but no one pressured me into making friends. I guess they were all waiting for me to make the first step. Today, however, Sara, one of my classmates, came up to me and touched me on my shoulder. I didn’t need that to announce her presence, though. The tap-tap-tapping of her cane on the linoleum was quite the give-away. My hearing was much sharper, too. I could tell easily that she was in front of me. “Morning Anna!” she said in that light, cheerful voice of hers. I do admire these kids for their optimism, I really do. “Good morning, Sara.” I reply, smiling. It’s a gesture too instilled in me to be able to stop. These people might not be able to see it, but they can hear it in my voice. And smiling helps those who can see. They feel uncomfortable, I realized, if you don’t smile at all. “I heard there’s a new student coming today. Miss Woods asked me to ask you if he can sit by you.” She explained. Again though she can’t tell, I raise an eyebrow. “Of course he can.” I reply, still smiling. “Why not?” I could tell the question made her uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose she didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable..” “OK, I get it.” I reply cheerfully. “Tell her the new kid can sit by me whenever he comes.” You may be wondering, but Sara’s our class prefect. She acts like the intermediary between us and the headmistress. At the speed she walks and reacts to the world around her, you’d hardly tell she was blind. Course, some of these kids aren’t completely blind, but I digress. “OK, I will. Thanks.” She replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice, as well. Her hand leaves my shoulder. I can hear the tapping of her cane as she hurries outside. I can relax for the next few minutes before class starts. Soon enough, my classmates take their seats and footsteps enter the room: four feet and an erratic cane, tapping way too much than was necessary. “Good morning, class!” I hear Mr. Weathers’, our English professor ’s, voice call out. “Today, we have a new student who’s joining us! I really hope you welcome him into our group, and help him adjust to our class here!” Choruses of ‘Yes Mr. Weathers!’ came from all sides. I joined in, since I’d gotten used to this state-repeat kind of way they had. “Now, Lucas, why don’t you take a seat over here, by Anna..?” Mr. Weathers said, a smile in his voice as he led him over to my desk, helping him sit. I could hear Lucas scuffle, as if trying to shake off his help. “Thank you, sir!” he says in an oddly accentuated accent. I then hear him turn in his seat and jump suddenly as his hand touches my thigh. “Hey!” I protest, pushing his hand away. “Oops! I’m so sorry!” he squeaks, and with his accent, it’s so hilarious that I can’t help sniggering. “I didn’t mean to.. I’m really sorry. I’m.,. kind of new to this.. Now I heard your voice, I can hopefully..” I felt his hand on my shoulder and smiled. “There!” he said triumphantly. “New to this? You mean you…?” I faded out tactfully. If he was newly blind, which was a horrible thought for this happy-go-lucky boy, I shouldn’t pry. I know I felt lousy about talking about the accident – and still do. “Yeah..” he said, his voice dropping slightly, before picking up its cheerfulness again. “I got this really bad eye infection about two months ago.. But I’ve managed.” He said bravely, so much so that I couldn’t but smile at him approvingly, and I’ll admit, a little bit longingly. “I’m kind of new, too.” I say, still in low tones. “I was in an accident round October.. It’s been tough.. Do you need help with anything..?” “Naw, it’s OK.” He reassured me. “Like I keep telling them, I don’t need help. After all, losing your sight’s just one out of five senses. It’s not like your life’s over!” It was like he had slapped me with those words. My jaw must have certainly dropped two inches. There was this kid, with months’ less of experience with this new world than me, being so cheerful and optimistic! He wasn’t moping, like I knew I must have been. I opened my mouth to reply, but Mr. Weathers coughed to gain our attention that class was starting. All throughout the day, while I worked on my side of the desk, I could hear him struggling with the type-writer. Teachers kept coming over to see how he was doing, but he kept shooing them away. he might have been bad at Braille, but he was certainly not stupid. Whenever a teacher would ask a question, he always knew the answer, I got the feeling. The beep on his desk with which we showed we knew the answer - much like raising our hand back at my old school – would always sound after a few seconds’ thought. At the end of the day, I was certainly puzzled. Why was he straining himself so to accomplish this? Didn’t he see how hard it was to struggle alone? Thinking such thoughts over, I slowly came to realize what had come over me the last few months; I’d lost my will to fight. Fight for myself. “Here” I heard his voice as the bell for the end of school went. I felt his hand on my shoulder – he really was getting better at that – and it was balled into a fist. I touched it, and he dropped a note into my palm. I took it in both my hands and felt it with my finger. There was a single line of text on it. My finger traced the first symbol and, to my surprise, it was the backwards ‘L’ that signaled the beginning of a line of numbers. “My phone number.” he explained. “Can you give me yours?” “Why?” I asked, perplexed. Here we were, practically strangers and he was asking for my phone number. “Mr. Weathers asked me to give you mine. In case I need to ask someone for something.” He said, his voice obviously sarcastic. I was sure in that instant that he’d never call me. For help, at least. “Sure, I’ll give you mine as well, then.” I said, relaxed and slipped a new sheet of paper into my type-writer. It only took me a few seconds to type my phone number and hand him it in the same way he’d given me his. “Thanks, Anna! See you tomorrow!” he called in his funny accent, and I heard the sound of his cane in overdrive as he went down the corridor. I packed my type-writer up again and left it on my desk, walking down the corridor to the bus with the rest of my classmates. “How was school, Anna?” my mother asked me as I came into our house, left my bag of books in my room and washed my hands. She was in the kitchen, I heard, and from the sound of clanking pots, she was setting the table for lunch. “Come to the kitchen, Anna!” my little brother called sweetly, both telling me where he was as well as calling me for food. “Coming!” I call back and briefly touch the type-writer on my desk, and set by books down by it, before joining them. “School was good, mom! A new kid came. He’s called Lucas, and he’s new, too.” I chatter conversationally. I could tell they were somewhat surprised at my cheerfulness. I usually just replied with a ‘it was fine’ or something just as uninformative about my school day. “Good lad?” my dad asked, obviously pleased. “Yeah, I think he is.” I grinned, and tucked into my French fries and toast. Though I was usually a slow eater, I wolfed my food down ravenously, wanting to finish quickly and get started. As I left the table, picking up my cane and screeching my chair back under the table, my mom turned her chair presumably towards me. “Where are you going?” she asked me, surprised. “I’m going to do my homework.” I replied impressively, as if I’d never done it before. “OK. Hold on a sec and I’ll be done with this.” She said, and I heard her spear another friend tuber. “No, mom, it’s OK.” I say brightly and I can feel every shocked eye on me. “I can do it by myself. Don’t need help. After all, losing your sight’s just one out of five senses, right?” I asked them as I left the kitchen and went towards my room. Behind me, no one spoke a word. They were too shocked by my difference in attitude, I expect. It was a good feeling. That good feeling didn’t stop even when I was struggling with my homework. To my surprise, it was easier than I’d thought. By now, I was getting used to the unique pattern of dots that each letter and symbol was represented by. In time, I knew I’d master it. I wanted to, and I would. And just like I would do that, I’d pass my A-Levels with flying colors and do what I had always wanted to do. I could do it! Later that evening, when I was done with my homework for the first time on my own, I was sitting in the living room, cheerfully chatting with the others. The mood was happy, optimistic and relaxed, but I felt I had to do something. I felt in my pocket, where there was a scrap of hard cardboard. “Mom, can I use the phone?” I asked her. “Of course you can.” She replied happily, nearly as pleased with my make-over as I was. I could feel it radiating all around her. “Here you are.” She put it into my hand and I switched it to my left, getting up and moving to my room. My cane was in my right hand, but I knew the way so well I hardly needed it now. Sitting on my bed, I took the piece of paper out and spread it on my knee. With my thumb keeping it down, my forefinger moved slowly across the line, while my left hand keyed in the numbers. As I pressed the call button, I raised it to my ear and waited as it rang. After what could have only been a few seconds, it was answered. ”Hello? I heard a jovial woman’s voice ask and I smiled. “Hello. Sorry if I’m bothering you. Could I please speak to Lucas..?” |
 
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| Deleted User | Aug 20 2009, 10:38 AM Post #2 |
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Deleted User
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very nice. The only mistake I could find was you said "friend tuber" instead of "Fried tuber"
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| Deleted User | Aug 20 2009, 10:44 AM Post #3 |
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Deleted User
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XD Oops. Aw well! Lets befriend vegetables! I haven't edited it yet, but I doubt I'll change anything apart from look for inconsistencies. |
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