Chapter Two - A Confrontation
"Sir, you're going to want to take this. This punkin needs some darn inspiration. And give her some suckers. Skinny as a skeleeton she is. And a Coppertone sample, bless her little heart." Bush laughed.
" Will do, Dolores." He kept his happy attitude, but inside, he was screaming.
"My one week of vacation, and this girly wants to chit chat." The door swung open, and a skinny girl with medium blonde hair stepped in. She was dressed casually, which gave the impression that she was poor. After all, this was the office of one of the most famous men in the world.
"Hi there, gal. What's your name?" She gave a toothy grin. It was August 9, 1999, 2:15pm. "My name is Patricia. I'm here to talk politics. " George laughed, and thought to himself, Another girl who wants to be all grown up-like
. "Mr. Bush, if you wouldn’t mind, I think this well interest you."Not much of a chance, he thought. She paused for only a moment, as if investigating the air. Then a satisfied look washed over her.
" You're wearing your wife's socks today because all of yours are dirty. You failed to do your laundry." Bewildered, George stared at her in awe.
"No." Patricia frowned.
"No?" "I just thought hers were more comfortable. " Patricia sighed.
"I know you don’t wanna ask, so I'll just tell you. I know cause they told me . The dust. One saw your laundry pile, it came from your wife's hair brush, and the other actually came from the sock." She pointed daftly at what looked like nothing.
"There he goes." George cut to the chase, a bit startled.
"It's possible you could be lying. " Patricia's eyes were unmoving the glaring into his, inspecting him.
"Deep down, though, you know. Soon Mr. Bush, I will be dangerous. I will control them. On my 6th level. You release my mother from prison, and you're safe." She walked closer and closer to him until she could smell the garlic in his breath. All the while he thought, I've seen some pretty troubled kids, but this one's a little over the edge.
" I will kill you, along with Gary Emerson, or anyone who gets in my way. This is your last chance." She turned around, taking a handful of suckers.
"Oh, and Mr. Bush, I'm afraid I was mistaken." She walked back to him one more time. He was turning white. " The dust only told me that they were women socks. They spoke of no Laura, not even a Bush. I'd give them back to whoever before anyone finds out. Nicely done. "
" I still can't get your mother out." She gave him a mischievous smile.
"Pretty soon, you'll have more to worry about than little girls unveiling your scandal-like family issues. Think about it. " And with that she hopped out content with her sucker bunch and small speech. Beep.
"Ah , sir, you forgot the Coppertone." Beep. Startled Bush stuttered into the receiver. " Woops. Must have slipped my mind, Dolores."
"Oh my little Patricia. You look like you had a good day." Jannette Jones was the nicest lady Patricia had ever known. She was smart, kind hearted, and the overall provider of those good fruit snacks.
" Hey Pat. What's up dude!" Patricia laughed. " Hey Jimmy. And happy birthday!" He smiled, but there was no joy to it. "I have to wait just one more year, and then they’ll leave me alone. The stupid dust." Hannah jumped in.
"Well, Jimmy, being 9 isn't so bad. I'm nine, and look how pretty I am!" He rolled his eyes in disagreement. Little Miss Hannah was the house drama queen. "It's okay Jimmy, you still get to play Jannette's dust games. "
"Yeah, but man, I wanna be regular, you know? Maybe Jannette'll let me go."
"Boys and girls, I need your attention!"
22 heads turned in her direction, all hoping it was snack time. "Before we start Jimmy's party," all the girls who were under age 9 sighed at his name in adoration", yes, well, we have to announce Jimmy's plan. " At this, everyone looked more solemn, like they were discussing something sacred, because they actually were.
"Jimmy plans to retire from this next year. He may stay with us after retirement, like Carry, Amanda, Gracie, and Fred, or go to a school. " Everyone clapped and cheered him on. If he left, the Jones Home would classify him as graduated. If he stayed, like Carry, he would be classified as Further work to do.
" Is everyone ready for a dust game?"
"Yeah!"
"First one to find tone that says something about Jaspers hair gets a slice of cake!"
Jimmy's plan was like all the rest, to retire from dust . Only one person besides Jannette, the owner, hadn't retired at age ten. And that was Patricia. No one looked very excited when she didn’t retire. It worried them all. No one liked dust talking to them constantly, and no one would keep it that way when given the choice. They all gave it up. Why did Patricia still want it? Did she enjoy it? The thoughts scared them. Patricia had always been different. Quite frankly, none of them were the normal jocks, but Patricia was just weird. She told them all of her mother in prison and she seemed outraged, but they never understood. Didn’t she love her father, too? How forgiving could she be to her mom? Lack of secretive attitude worried Jannette the most, and with good reason. Patricia would never keep her power quiet. Most kids in the home hadn't reached the 6th level. Most of them hadn't even had a chance to retire, because most were under age ten. They had nothing to defend themselves. Patricia was reaching her 6th. Jannette had never seen anybody in the 6th but herself. It scared her. If Patricia didn’t ever retire, if she kept this up, who knew what would happen. Dust controlling had a few things to it that no liked.
One) It had no written history
Two) It hadn't been explored- no guaranteed safety
And Three)It's scientifically impossible.
Now that was scary. Jannette regretted ever letting her not retire. She promised herself that she wouldn’t leave her alone any longer. She would watch. She would spy on Patricia Moore.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Note for Chapter 2
Dear Reader,
In the following chapters there are some rather disturbing and interesting tidbits. Do not be alarmed. I am OK. This is not what I think about on a day-to-day basis, but it was essential to proving a point in the story.
-Melody
In the following chapters there are some rather disturbing and interesting tidbits. Do not be alarmed. I am OK. This is not what I think about on a day-to-day basis, but it was essential to proving a point in the story.
-Melody
Friday, September 4, 2009
On my mind:
If there is one thing I know, it is that life is not a test.
It is a challenge but not a test. It's easy to think that each day is one question that can be lived right or wrong. The truth of the matter is we are all prone to being wrong. Who would be the judge of such a test? What a burden to hold. To tell one that they lived their long, hard, journey wrong.
If there is one thing I know, it is that life is not a test.
It is a challenge but not a test. It's easy to think that each day is one question that can be lived right or wrong. The truth of the matter is we are all prone to being wrong. Who would be the judge of such a test? What a burden to hold. To tell one that they lived their long, hard, journey wrong.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Chapter One- The Delusion
"Hello Patricia. How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"I really love that color on you. It compliments your hair very well."
Pat gave no comment.
"Do you wear dark brown often? It makes your blonde hair even brighter. With the sun's reflection, it's blinding!"
She laughed. Pat just stared with disdain. Mrs. Doons, feeling no improvement, was disappointed with herself. Patricia wasn’t opening up.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Patricia scowled.
"Because Emerson sent me here. "
She was trying to keep her answers short, straight to the point, and generally rude. Mrs. Doons, who was a psychologist, was equipped with toys, mind bogglers, thousands of books, and funky furniture, everything a normal twelve year old would want. But Patricia took very little, if any, interest in her office. It was like a dungeon, like a prison cell. She was fine with being in the office. She loved to talk, loved to argue, and loved to win. It was that she was there on behalf of Gary Emerson. This old female geezer was going to try to connect with her. Pat thought her feelings were obvious, but they didn’t show the lethal side.
"That is true, dear. But you are also here because you need someone to talk to. I'm hoping you know that it's important to have someone who listens. Someone who is willing to hear your pain. Even you have someone one that you listen to. I'm sure of that."
"I don’t listen to Emerson."
"That is questionable, hon. I'm not here to inspect you, though. Only you know who you're comfortable with."
"Admit it. You're here to "inspect" a big paycheck, aren't you?"
"No, I'm here to listen. That’s what you need."
"If I need anybody, I'll ask my friends. "
She stood up abruptly.
"Sit down, Patricia. There is no need to get physical over anything. "
"I can hear your lies just fine from here. "
Mrs. Doons sighed.
"Alright. If that’s where you're most comfortable."
She glanced over the list of discussion topics Emerson had suggested. As if she wasn’t about to give up, with fake perseverance, she said "It's time for a new start in your lifestyle, Miss Patricia. A jumpstart."
Patricia wasn’t fooled. She had done this conversation over and over again, memorized it. Soon she would prove the social worker wrong, leave her in their shocked state, march out, grab her jacket, call Jannette, and go home. Playfully, she predicted what Mrs. Doons wanted her to say.
"Like a new school!" she exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. With a satisfied hop and arms raised, which happened to be flopping with age, she shouted "Absolutely!"
In a different tone, Patricia did something like a growl. "You want to send me to a school because you think Jones Home for Needy Children is a place for oddballs, and not a healthy environment for me. Not a healthy environment for a normal person. I will never be normal." She was streaming tears, not usually what she did. " I will never be healthy!"She emphasized 'healthy' with disgust. She began to storm out, but unlike the other psychologists, Mrs. Doons grabbed her at the door. "Patricia, all this conversation requires is fifteen more minutes. You were fantastic for the first two. Dear, only fifteen more."She gave a wrinkly smile, that obviously showed she was determined. However, she didn’t do it for Pat's sake. If she could control this manipulative girl, she would be the biggest name in psychology. Think of the money. Patricia tightened her jaw, but was generous enough. "Fine." Mrs. Doons motioned towards the chairs, thinking that was the more professional thing to do. Patricia didn’t care about that, not at all. She plopped down right next to the door, attitude written all over her. Mrs. Doons, oddly enough, even though it was completely against herself etiquette, sat down right next to her. It took a minute; she was not young. Some big retirement bucks seemed to suit her well, or so she thought.
"Gary Emerson tells me that you have developed, well, hmm, not a delusion, but the idea , that, uhhh, you can communicate with,…. dust." Pat screamed, quite suddenly. "Stop, no! No, no!" She jumped up with enthusiasm and pounded on the door, even kicked it, because Mrs. Doons had locked it. It was December 14, 1999, 3:14 pm, and that’s when it happened. She didn't feel it. No one ever feels it.
With Patricia's rage, Mrs. Doons was angered and really was only upset that this delusional girl was kicking her antique, almost priceless door like it was some toy. Throughout the whole ordeal, no matter how crazy it was, they had been talking, and Patricia was always listening. That dust saw Mrs. Doons paycheck. That dust was from the last patients toenail. That dust heard Gary Emerson, and when Patricia heard that, she thrashed even more wildy.
As she always did when Emerson dragged her to one of these stupid things he called 'therapy,' she thought to herself, "Stupid door! Go away! Go! Just leave!" but in her state, she screamed it out. With a loud POOF, and an awkward silence, the door was nothing but a heap of dust on the floor, which absolutely didn’t fit in; Mrs. Doons was of course, a neat freak. Before Patricia took in the realization, the amazing truth, Smack! right in the face, Patricia felt the blood oozing from where Mrs. Doons' rings had pierced her.
Mrs. Doons looked a fright, and her expression, along with her fists all balled up, was not that of a normal psychologist. Patricia did the only thing she could do to avoid being sent straight to Emerson, or who knows where.
"I want her gone!"POOF! The only thing left of Mrs. Doons were dust particles, only seen in the light rays, and a small dust heap. They all sang to her. All of them, the same thing.
"I'm from Caitlin Jane Doons, who died December 14…."
Half of Pat was excited. She had reached another level, the most important of all, the one that would get her mother back. The other half of her wanted to sit down and sob. This wasn’t magic anymore; the kind all her dust friends at the Jones Home would make games with, like, "Who Hears the First Dust on Jannette's Sock," or "Who Hears the First One on Sabrah's Brush." Patricia had killed someone. She had killed someone for hitting her. She wasn’t just a twelve year old. She was a twelve year old monster.
"Hello Patricia. How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"I really love that color on you. It compliments your hair very well."
Pat gave no comment.
"Do you wear dark brown often? It makes your blonde hair even brighter. With the sun's reflection, it's blinding!"
She laughed. Pat just stared with disdain. Mrs. Doons, feeling no improvement, was disappointed with herself. Patricia wasn’t opening up.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Patricia scowled.
"Because Emerson sent me here. "
She was trying to keep her answers short, straight to the point, and generally rude. Mrs. Doons, who was a psychologist, was equipped with toys, mind bogglers, thousands of books, and funky furniture, everything a normal twelve year old would want. But Patricia took very little, if any, interest in her office. It was like a dungeon, like a prison cell. She was fine with being in the office. She loved to talk, loved to argue, and loved to win. It was that she was there on behalf of Gary Emerson. This old female geezer was going to try to connect with her. Pat thought her feelings were obvious, but they didn’t show the lethal side.
"That is true, dear. But you are also here because you need someone to talk to. I'm hoping you know that it's important to have someone who listens. Someone who is willing to hear your pain. Even you have someone one that you listen to. I'm sure of that."
"I don’t listen to Emerson."
"That is questionable, hon. I'm not here to inspect you, though. Only you know who you're comfortable with."
"Admit it. You're here to "inspect" a big paycheck, aren't you?"
"No, I'm here to listen. That’s what you need."
"If I need anybody, I'll ask my friends. "
She stood up abruptly.
"Sit down, Patricia. There is no need to get physical over anything. "
"I can hear your lies just fine from here. "
Mrs. Doons sighed.
"Alright. If that’s where you're most comfortable."
She glanced over the list of discussion topics Emerson had suggested. As if she wasn’t about to give up, with fake perseverance, she said "It's time for a new start in your lifestyle, Miss Patricia. A jumpstart."
Patricia wasn’t fooled. She had done this conversation over and over again, memorized it. Soon she would prove the social worker wrong, leave her in their shocked state, march out, grab her jacket, call Jannette, and go home. Playfully, she predicted what Mrs. Doons wanted her to say.
"Like a new school!" she exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. With a satisfied hop and arms raised, which happened to be flopping with age, she shouted "Absolutely!"
In a different tone, Patricia did something like a growl. "You want to send me to a school because you think Jones Home for Needy Children is a place for oddballs, and not a healthy environment for me. Not a healthy environment for a normal person. I will never be normal." She was streaming tears, not usually what she did. " I will never be healthy!"She emphasized 'healthy' with disgust. She began to storm out, but unlike the other psychologists, Mrs. Doons grabbed her at the door. "Patricia, all this conversation requires is fifteen more minutes. You were fantastic for the first two. Dear, only fifteen more."She gave a wrinkly smile, that obviously showed she was determined. However, she didn’t do it for Pat's sake. If she could control this manipulative girl, she would be the biggest name in psychology. Think of the money. Patricia tightened her jaw, but was generous enough. "Fine." Mrs. Doons motioned towards the chairs, thinking that was the more professional thing to do. Patricia didn’t care about that, not at all. She plopped down right next to the door, attitude written all over her. Mrs. Doons, oddly enough, even though it was completely against herself etiquette, sat down right next to her. It took a minute; she was not young. Some big retirement bucks seemed to suit her well, or so she thought.
"Gary Emerson tells me that you have developed, well, hmm, not a delusion, but the idea , that, uhhh, you can communicate with,…. dust." Pat screamed, quite suddenly. "Stop, no! No, no!" She jumped up with enthusiasm and pounded on the door, even kicked it, because Mrs. Doons had locked it. It was December 14, 1999, 3:14 pm, and that’s when it happened. She didn't feel it. No one ever feels it.
With Patricia's rage, Mrs. Doons was angered and really was only upset that this delusional girl was kicking her antique, almost priceless door like it was some toy. Throughout the whole ordeal, no matter how crazy it was, they had been talking, and Patricia was always listening. That dust saw Mrs. Doons paycheck. That dust was from the last patients toenail. That dust heard Gary Emerson, and when Patricia heard that, she thrashed even more wildy.
As she always did when Emerson dragged her to one of these stupid things he called 'therapy,' she thought to herself, "Stupid door! Go away! Go! Just leave!" but in her state, she screamed it out. With a loud POOF, and an awkward silence, the door was nothing but a heap of dust on the floor, which absolutely didn’t fit in; Mrs. Doons was of course, a neat freak. Before Patricia took in the realization, the amazing truth, Smack! right in the face, Patricia felt the blood oozing from where Mrs. Doons' rings had pierced her.
Mrs. Doons looked a fright, and her expression, along with her fists all balled up, was not that of a normal psychologist. Patricia did the only thing she could do to avoid being sent straight to Emerson, or who knows where.
"I want her gone!"POOF! The only thing left of Mrs. Doons were dust particles, only seen in the light rays, and a small dust heap. They all sang to her. All of them, the same thing.
"I'm from Caitlin Jane Doons, who died December 14…."
Half of Pat was excited. She had reached another level, the most important of all, the one that would get her mother back. The other half of her wanted to sit down and sob. This wasn’t magic anymore; the kind all her dust friends at the Jones Home would make games with, like, "Who Hears the First Dust on Jannette's Sock," or "Who Hears the First One on Sabrah's Brush." Patricia had killed someone. She had killed someone for hitting her. She wasn’t just a twelve year old. She was a twelve year old monster.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A poem from age 9: The Time Has Come
The Time Has Come
The time has come,
The hour is here,
The presents are present,
There's nothing to fear.
The cake is just burning,
The tree's on it's way down,
We kids are just yearning
For the cake burnt so brown.
Santa was coming
When we heard a "thud"
On the roof.
We stood just one minute
And suddenly, POOF!
A man in a suit
Red with glee,
Said, "I fell through your roof,
As you can see!"
We stood just one minute,
Stood in pure silence.
Then we pounced for the bag,
A Christmas of violence!
I got my teddy bear,
Joe got his notepad.
Poor Santa got nothing'
I guess he'd been bad.
We are all happy,
No one's aloof,
The thing that still haunts us
Is snow coming through the roof!
The time has come,
The hour is here,
The presents are present,
There's nothing to fear.
The cake is just burning,
The tree's on it's way down,
We kids are just yearning
For the cake burnt so brown.
Santa was coming
When we heard a "thud"
On the roof.
We stood just one minute
And suddenly, POOF!
A man in a suit
Red with glee,
Said, "I fell through your roof,
As you can see!"
We stood just one minute,
Stood in pure silence.
Then we pounced for the bag,
A Christmas of violence!
I got my teddy bear,
Joe got his notepad.
Poor Santa got nothing'
I guess he'd been bad.
We are all happy,
No one's aloof,
The thing that still haunts us
Is snow coming through the roof!
A poem from age 7: Your Cubby
Your Cubby
Compare with your heart
to be taken in right hands,
but do not fool those
who don't.
Have peace and no words
at times like battles
and floods.
Feel safe and comfortable
in your cubby.
Do not scramble and fright.
Have peace in each time.
Compare with your heart
to be taken in right hands,
but do not fool those
who don't.
Have peace and no words
at times like battles
and floods.
Feel safe and comfortable
in your cubby.
Do not scramble and fright.
Have peace in each time.
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