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I feel like I’ve fallen.
No, I have. The dirt and stones are the worst kind of pillow, and yet that’s where I find myself now. Dust scattered in the air, a blaze barely holding on where it should but raging on behind me, consuming the wooden Mess Hall. It was like a sight right out of Norway in the 90’s with those black metal bands. Hell, I have a tape which features an after photo of one of those church burnings in my room.
It would’ve been nice to have been asleep right now. Or at least in my bed. I can’t sleep. It doesn’t feel like I’m allowed to anymore, and nobody can help me.
…
A few weeks ago, Timmy had a rather turbulent nightmare. He’s been no stranger to nightmares and terrors leaving him shaken, the number of those in the night compounding ever since that clash with aliens he and his other superhero friends had as kids. Every other month, then every month, then once every other week.
It felt like a lasting reminder to not ever get himself involved in anything stupid ever again. Not then, not now, never again. Putting that stupid game to rest was one of the best decisions he’s ever made for himself. It’s like this curse that’s befallen him actually saved him for once.
Though, it isn’t gracious at all to him.
Everyone and everything feels like a lie. How do you grow up like this?
How could anyone? Especially someone like him.
Timmy doesn’t speak very lowly of himself most of the time. Neither did the other boys around him, at least not exactly to his face. It’s the little things that get him, like misunderstandings, or speaking past him when he’s right there. He probably doesn’t get the worst of it, which is both a good and bad thing.
Elementary school comes with its own set of crass views and exchanges of words. High school, however, is its own putrid pile he has the misfortune of sitting through. Literally.
There’s no way to properly explain or even begin to understand why he possesses the abilities of a psychic, but it’s cemented Timmy in an utter nightmare scenario: knowing what everyone is thinking, at any time.
How terrible is it to know just how much everyone is so insecure, yet so willing to stab a fellow peer relentlessly with words in their head? How cowardly is it that they won’t say these things to the correct faces, and will store them up like wine as they sit in cellars to be brought out at the right time?
The nightmare, right.
It had a tone just like all the ones from past nights, and carried with it the same turbulent burdens and worries. You’d think he’d have developed a tolerance to it by now, but something always seemed to refresh his mind and body to sudden jolts and sweating in the dead of night.
A digital clock read [4:47 AM] on his nightstand, as Timmy’s arms jolted upward and his eyes flashed open. Sweat glazed his forehead, his ginger hair stuck to it while in a frizzy mess. He could see the moonlight from the window bounce against his arms, his skin ever so pale and blue at this hour. A faint green glowed against the insides of his arms. That was from him.
Besides the more psychologically harmful reminders, this one color has stained his mind with memories of his foolish endeavors. Something had come down from space, and it’s all of their fault for attracting it here.
The green had faded away with time, as Timmy tried to catch his breath. He slowly lowered his hands, folding them over his chest as he focused on the ceiling to his room.
His room had become a bit of a mess. Or at least his desk had. Stacks of unfinished schoolwork, books he’s picked up and left unfinished with bookmarks hanging at various stages within, his CDs haphazardly stacked together, and laundry left by his desk or in the small crevice between his bed and window. It’s hard to really feel much of a need to fix these things. He can’t motivate himself to do it, or forgets to regularly, and worst of all it can feel like a waste of time and utterly pointless.
Nothing really matters, everything’s screwed up, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it.
The dream was a mockery.
Graduation was a year away, but Timmy was scared of falling behind.
The dream was a laughing stock, all him, as his peers called him out one by one and pointed out everything wrong with him in all of this time. It had such precision only he felt he could muster about himself, yet with the same venom he’s heard covertly or overtly from their heads and mouths. In letterman jackets, or jerseys, or old hand-me-downs, or brightly colored tees, everyone had a hand in making him look like a fool, an idiot, a…
Timmy wasn’t exactly a star student, but he had his moments to excel. He was great in Music, and has always received high marks for English classes. A talent show was coming up, and he had considered submitting into it to perform a piece he’s been teaching himself. A lullaby of sorts.
Oh, how he wished for one right now. His head was pulsing, as if it could split open at any moment. Timmy clutched his head, feeling the sweat in his fingertips and palms as he ran his hands through his hair, clutching at the scalp.
He can’t keep himself composed, his head silent. Thoughts zoomed out of him as soon as he could feel them arise. He’s had nights like this in much lower stakes, but with the added curse, it was so, so much worse. He needed to take something for this.
There was Advil or Ibuprofen somewhere in the kitchen. The problem was that he’d have to get out of bed and fetch it himself. In such a tense moment like this, he could barely keep his telekinesis in check. It would go flying if he tried to hover it over to his room. His joints hurt, and his legs felt very tense whilst sprawled out on his mattress and under the covers.
He’s so needy, isn’t he?
…
I can hear crickets in the bushes over there.
It hurts to lay on my arm, so I’ll roll onto my back.
Crap, there’s a rock.
God, I’m so needy. Look at this place. It smells like shit, it’s hot, there’s probably bugs crawling around me like I’m decomposing.
On really bad days, I do sometimes feel like I’m decomposing. It’s like I’m holding onto my humanity and dignity on a copper wire, and everyone insists that I continue like this.
They know nothing.
I hear it everywhere, the contempt they feel for what I am, who I am. ‘I could never live that way’, they’d say. I’ve heard it sometimes when I go out with friends on pointless ventures to City Wok, or simply going down the streets of town. I get silent prayers from the other side of the road, murmurs from churchgoers who pray to nowhere about how sorry they am for me.
They can’t help me. Nobody can. I don’t even know if I want them to at this rate.
This pebble is getting on my last nerve.
I tossed it away, but the unstable grasp I have on things right now sent it flying into the inferno in the Mess Hall. Oh well, no glass to shatter there.
What changed? Why do all of my supposed friends think less of me now? Is there some sort of curse the others have, too?
No, I’d know. I’d definitely know. You’d tell me, right?
…
It was after school hours, and Timmy sat alone in the music room with the piano. It was old, a dark wood, the keys with faint stains to them on their ends. It was slightly off tune, but he could manage. He’s had to manage.
Everyone else in the class’ ensemble played other things, like brass instruments, strings, a couple of woodwinds, a xylophone was in there somewhere. There too were the every abrasive drums. And on them, someone he once thought of to be a friend.
Timmy helped himself to begin the song, a repetition in the middle section of the piano. Both of his hands were at work. Building dexterity like this took time, but it was time he felt confident in.
Playing with the band sometimes felt grating. They’ve all been at this for over a year, and some of them still can’t play on time? They can’t find their place on the sheet music? That asshole can’t not show off in fills? No wonder some artists stay solo.
Timmy’s eyelids hung a little, focusing on the keyboard and only occasionally looking back up to the pages that sat on the piano. He had to pick up the pieces for the bass that normally should go with this song, or at least in the recording he had started with. The brushes on drums should’ve been here too, but he’d be caught dead asking for him to be here. It’s quite difficult to avoid one of the only few disabled kids in school when lumped in with them at the spark of a thought.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to make friends. Timmy can almost in an instant see the flinch, physical or mental when it happens. How much more effort he has to give to be a part of a conversation. Typing out everything to speak properly at least built dexterity, but nothing beats the speed of the human brain firing a neuron. He treats every focused moment on that fact like a race, and he always loses. It would be nice to hold someone’s brain shut so he can get a word in. But no amount of force will get him understanding.
As he progressed through the song, his head sway a little back and forth, eyes still trained to the keys with a quick dart back up to the sheet music. His hair raised and lowered off of either shoulder as he did. Though very aware of these senses, including the ache in his legs, the oil on his face, the frizz of his hair, the way his shirt stuck to his chest, these moments of music were the few times he could force his head to shut up. All he needed to do was focus on this. Hone in on the melody, what key it’s in.
Not a single care else in the world.
…
There was the sound of wood snapping coming from the giant blaze to my right. I turned my head to get a better look at it, and was met with a wall of reds, oranges, and yellows. I had done that.
To think that there were so many memories that we shared in there all that time ago. How pointless it all was in retrospect, it matters less than the dirt on my cheek. I can swipe it away with less effort than it’d take to forget about this.
But I can’t forget about him. I can’t forget about the games we played, the laughter we’ve shared, the adventures we found ourselves in through the power of imagination and utter circumstance. I miss his smile.
The fire over there reminds me of him, believe it or not. Jimmy always had a passion within him, I could peer into him and see it for myself. Yet I had to wonder why he felt so incompetent with me when I first talked about all of this.
‘I can’t help you’, he says.
I had to become very accustomed to hearing that. But did it have to start with him? My heart was tender then, and I cried over it. I shouldn’t have told him anything. I should’ve left it as simply resigning myself from the Freedom Pals.
Thinking about that name makes me sick. I feel like I’m trying to convince arenas to take a performance of clowns. To make a museum accept the drawings of a five year old. They’re vile people in stupid costumes. They’re stupid themselves, they couldn’t keep either team up for even a year after I quit.
Over and over, I hear about some of them coming back together again to protect the city. I can see Professor Chaos getting bored of it all, but desperately clinging to the thrill of being a bad guy, when that kid underneath the tin foil is only wanting some sort of rebellion. I can see Mysterion still keeping up this act of Robin Hood, and I’ll give him credit in that he has sometimes resolved conflicts and crimes that the police would’ve never given a second glance at. He’s going to collapse under the weight of his own burdens, his own philosophy, his own commitments.
How liberating it was to cut out everything. He should’ve given it a chance. Eric did. He calls it all gay now when he was one of the most committed to the franchise. Granted, it was his poorly composed one. Even as a kid, I couldn’t believe what he had hashed up when I saw it. It was a hot piece of shit, just like him. His name smeared into it. His stupid alias, getting a rise out of nobody when it should’ve. Mysterion had put him in his place time and time before on the battlefield, but Kenny is a hypocrite, going back to him every day after like he doesn’t have a burning hatred for the things he says and does. He backstabs them in more ways than one, but it’s like nothing happened once the next day comes.
They’re all hypocrites.
How can they live with themselves?
How can I live with myself? And you.
You don’t make it very easy.
…
Two days ago, Timmy had the bright idea to try again.
Going out on his own at night was something he’s done a couple of times. Albeit, teleportation made this easy, but he did this the more human way: actually riding out.
His right hand held onto the lever of his chair, guiding him on a fixed path down the neighborhood. He knew where he was going, but felt dread brew each house he passed.
Timmy wondered whether Jimmy even had the capacity to talk to him again. The silent treatment seemed to do wonders when they were kids, and the sight of his old friend smiling less and being less friendly seemed to scare him. Did he ever see the green in his eyes?
Timmy stopped at one house, turning to face it from the sidewalk. It was late, but the lights upstairs seemed to still be on. He didn’t have the confidence right now to go and ring the doorbell. Funny, they still had the ramped entry to the door. Jimmy’s parents had to put that together as opposed to the normal steps since Timmy used to come over so frequently. Guess they still get good use out of it.
He didn’t need to go inside anyway to get an idea for what was going on. Timmy leaned to the side and tapped his head through his large head of hair. He closed his eyes, and listened in on the happenings of his once best friend…
‘Of c-c-course I talked to her about it. B-But I don’t know. L-Leaving here for college is q-quite the change…’
‘I won’t let s-some girl—or boy!—change any p-plans, w-who do you take me for?’
He’s on the phone with someone. Timmy can’t quite catch the other person’s dialogue, since hearing things from the brain and actually in the area are quite different.
College.
He should be thinking about that, too. One of the school counselors offered to help him with that stuff, like applications or trying for scholarships. Is there even a point to any of that, though? Timmy hardly feels accomplished enough for that sort of thing. Everything is so scattered, does a piece of paper like that matter?
He holds in his hands power that can move the Earth beneath him if he tried. He can gather everything wrong with someone in an instant, peering through lies told to him or oneself. He has the ability to plan things out at what would probably be a college student’s level.
And yet he can’t even clean his own room.
He can’t focus in classes half the time.
He can’t take the time to study, or to finish things that have been due or are coming up.
His confidence to hold conversations have been waning. Go figure he’s been stubborn about speech therapy.
He can’t even knock on his friend’s door.
Listening to Jimmy like this, or even at all, was grating. His lighthearted tone felt like needles piercing through him. He missed it.
It was however, what separated him from Jimmy. Jimmy remained outgoing, funny in a way that degraded himself at times but seemed to make everyone laugh, and kind.
Timmy? Look at him. He looks tired, a mess half the time, barely in order, and nearly given up on trying to talk to people. A pointless endeavor, really. He cant hear everyone just fine.
Why can’t Jimmy hear him?
…
Why did I do this?
Being sleep deprived probably does this to anyone.
But you won’t let me rest.
I’m tired. I’m worried. I’m hungry. I’m in pain. I want to go to bed.
The frenzy I went on is all kind of a blur right now. The flames over there are beginning to feel like a hug, but they aren’t getting any closer. Some embers have fallen on the dirt beside me, but nothing further.
I needed to rip things apart. For my own sake, to hopefully get rid of these stains on my brain. That’s why the camp is in shambles now.
I had started with the old base for Eric and them. All I needed was a slight view through the basement window. Somehow, there were still some things from all those years ago tucked into a corner.
It was a balancing act trying to set it ablaze. Luckily, Eric Cartman is still a sly bastard with a destructive mind. Matches, and then the seemingly accidental fall and spilling of lighter fluid. You really shouldn’t have your hands on this stuff anyway.
I don’t consider myself a pyromaniac. Though I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it was very relieving and rejuvenating to see that basement lay waste to what seemed like hellfire from where I sat. The moment I had to leave was hearing that fat bastard scream. But I got what I wanted.
I saw that billboard burn, that costume turn to dust. Scheming material and tools lost to that inferno.
It was good.
Thank you.
I think I came more to my senses here though, at camp. Am I to my senses? What are my senses anymore?
Tearing apart these wood buildings, having stood here for years and kept in it’s original shape. Maybe if these were as thick and modern as the school building, I wouldn’t have been able to tear it apart. Planks snapped like twigs in my hands. Not my actual hands, the ones I’ve been given.
Glass made satisfying crunches as windows became crumbs, a sink bursting with water once a cabin had come undone. To think, the swipe and clench of my fist did this.
I can tear out the Earth like sand in a sandbox. All of these things before me are like toys, and I’m a kid with an overactive imagination. Nothing matters, and I need to get this out of my head.
It’s like popping your back, scratching an itch, cracking your knuckles. I’m watching the support beams, the flooring, furniture and old drawings fly into the air, in a whirlwind above my head. My jaw tends to stay clenched tight, one of many contributors to my difficulty to talk, but I’m brandishing a maniacal grin. I can see a faint green reflect back at me from the debris above.
Water spewed from the remains, turning the dirt to mud. I could feel shavings of wood falling like snow from the cyclone above. It stung in my eyes, but I couldn’t have cared less. This is amazing. I could get out of my seat at this rate.
Looking to the Mess Hall filled me with even more of a fire.
With one hand in the air, I brought the other to hold out at the building, slowly beginning to close my fingers. Cracking, thudding came from inside. This didn’t come as easy to me, and I don’t know why.
I tried to get some sparks going. It was all in the balance of my fingertips, scratching and slamming together wood like we learned here all those years ago. Though, instead of dry sticks it was whole planks and shards of wood. There isn’t much of a fuel source anywhere around, at least from what I can remember. I don’t know where the counselors would normally keep things like gasoline or propane. Somewhere in the kitchen, perhaps.
A small fire from the wood I had crashed together began. I knew because I could feel it in my pointer finger. My vision was getting a little blurry now, but I wasn’t tired. I hadn’t been able to sleep for over 24 hours, and yet this small flame kept me awake.
You have a bigger one in your heart.
There’s not enough fuel for it, though. I’m helping you, since you’re too useless to do it yourself. To think, you wanted to run away and into the cold a bit ago.
There’s nothing for you out there. The people of this town loathe you, the very sight of you. Everyone you know has been vicious in and out of their own minds, and feel not an ounce of remorse for it.
He doesn’t care about you. You heard it yourself.
All he’s thinking about is his girlfriend, who will soon see how wrathful he can get, and suddenly he is in the dumps over his own stupidity. Everyone will find out soon enough where their venom will get them.
What’s your problem now?
My head.
…
The Mess Hall became engulfed in flames, but grew with a bang. Timmy didn’t know what exactly caused it, but there was surely a larger fuel source in there somewhere. It was enough force to shove him, and loosened his grip on the whirling debris above him.
In a quick thought to protect himself, he threw his hands forward to push himself out of the way of the falling debris. Though, it was too much force. Way too much force. His chair collapsed, and he fell a few inches from it, too.
Embers sprinkled in the night sky like stars, landing around the rubble which riddled the central part of camp. It seems a small fire managed to start in the actual fire pit.
The explosion was loud enough to capture the attention of some people. Some familiar people.
“Would he really be doin’ something like this?!”
Professor Chaos questioned, fearfully clutching the wheel of a car which he… hot-wired, of course. Fastpass was in the passenger seat, rubbing his hands together in a nervous manner.
“I c-could only imagine it would be h-him!”
“But you guys haven’t been over here in years! None of us have! Is it another alien invasion?”
…
I was out of it when I hit the ground. How long? I don’t know for sure.
I didn’t think I was capable of that much strength.
It doesn’t even matter when I’m at school. What good is breaking everything down to ash when people can’t disappear that easily?
Or maybe they can.
I feel like I’ve failed.
I’ve disappeared, in one way or another. I’m falling into myself. Look at the mess I made here. I can’t even bask in it, I have to get out of here soon.
Do I even enjoy this?
Of course you do.
No, I don’t. I think destruction can be cool, but I don’t want to do it like this.
I want to go to bed.
You aren’t as weak as every other human mind. Don’t fail more than you already have.
There’s footsteps.
My arms are very sore, and I can barely pick myself up to look. There’s someone walking over.
No.
Not you.
Fuck you.
Go away.
Why the hell are you here?
He’s not here for you. Not really.
…
Fastpass carefully navigated around all of the debris on the ground. It was a sight he could only compare to all of those years ago, when mayhem befell camp on what was supposed to be just a mystery investigation. There wasn’t much of a mystery here, though. The culprit was lying in the dirt.
In a haste, Fastpass hauled himself over, lowering himself quickly to Timmy’s side.
“Oh my g-god, Tim! Are you o-okay?!”
He did try and move the hair in Timmy’s face out of the way, but Timmy responded by grabbing Fastpass’ wrist.
‘How dare you come here,’ he communicated with an angry weight. ‘How dare you interrupt me?’
“I-I didn’t— Why are you here!? It’s nearly the d-dead of night!”
‘A lot of things happen while others are asleep. Or simply not looking.’
“This isn’t the t-time for ominous statements, T—Ow!”
Despite not having an actually strong grip, the psychic force Timmy was dispensing on Fastpass’ wrist was leagues above what he should be able to do. He could sense every pain receptor firing, the nervous system communicating danger.
Timmy was a threat, and Fastpass should really consider dealing with it.
…
I’m much happier hurting him.
I owe my ten year old self this. The moment he gave up so quickly on trying to listen to me, to hear me fully instead of disregard me as crazy. I should’ve choked him, or snapped a bone, or worse.
We can always do worse. It’s in your nature.
I could see his face tensing, tears beginning to form. His pleas to let him go were barely registering to me. I could see green reflecting in the stains coming down from his eyes, and on his shirt.
All of a sudden, I felt a fist his my face. My eye.
I screamed in pain, letting go of him in an instant and clutching the eye he punched.
…
“C-Calm down! Something’s w-w-wrong with you!”
‘You don’t think I know that!?’
Timmy replied with a vengeance. He let go of his eye, as it seemed to flicker between light and no light.
‘I’m a mess, I’m an animal! But you all are worse!’
“W-What are you talking about!?”
‘You can’t seriously be deluding yourself this badly. The people of this town hate us. You sucker up to them when you get the chance, when they all have something to say about what you are on the outside. No jokes, no sob stories, no public speaking event will earn you their respect!’
Tears now began to flow from Timmy’s eyes.
This did stun Fastpass into silence, as Timmy pierced through to watch him construct his next words.
…
He’s already pretending. Wait and see, he’ll try and sell you on a fantasy.
I know that. It’s in his nature to tell a good joke or two to keep the mood up. God, I hate how relaxed he can be. Yet, it takes one little spark to set him off.
There is a burning within you that you aren’t maintaining. Are you no better?
I’m tired. I can’t keep doing this.
But you want to.
Maybe, but I’ll return to it.
You already cemented yourself in this. Look at this masterpiece you made. Look at what a monster you are. Yet somehow, he finds you hear. Make him get lost.
…
“Th-there’ll always be people who say horrible th-things ab-b-bout us, Tim. It happens all ov—vv-er the country! But not everyone is l-like that!”
‘You don’t help by degrading us.’
“I’m n-not degrading anything! It’s comedy, I like t-to make people happy!”
‘Sure you do.’
“You kn-n-now it better than anyone!”
“—en why —id —ou f—ail —e!?”
Timmy shouted through slurred speech, stiffness in his throat and jaw. He sucked in a breath of air, and finally began to cry.
…
He’s staring at you. Wide eyes, even more pity tears. He feels bad.
I hope he feels bad. He’s a liar if he thinks that he does a good job at making everyone happy. Not everyone thinks he’s funny, and I’ve heard that be true. He doesn’t know the half of it. Maybe some people he knows laughs, but they do a lot of gymnastics to feel okay with it.
He was a horrible friend for you.
…
Fastpass had come closer, taking Timmy into a hug. With the angel he had, he looked at the burning Mess Hall, the inferno slowly beginning to come down, but still seemed tall from what he was actively gathering.
“I’m sorry, T-Tim. I-Is this,” he sniffed, “ab-about what I said?”
‘Be specific.’
“Th-that… That I c-couldn’t underst-stand? H-Help?”
‘You can’t.’
“Y-You didn’t make m-much sense then! But… I s-see it now. Literally!”
The eyes. The green, he couldn’t believe that there was possibly a link to that evening and all of this. It still felt illogical, but a confirmation was right there, etched in fire.
“Wh-what are you th—…thinking about right n-now?”
…
My head feels like it’s going to split open again. My eyes are on fire, and my throat is dry.
I really needed this hug. I’ve been hoping for it for a few years now. I wish it didn’t have to come to this.
It’s your fault.
Shut up.
Please, shut up.
…
Timmy’s fingers dug into Fastpass’ shirt. The sound of collapsing wood startled the both of them, but now the only noise filling the air were cries. Cries that were long overdue.
‘No one can help me,’ Timmy delivered, gasping in tears.
This statement lingered longer than he wanted it to. His tongue lay flat even longer. This isn’t something he should be leaving alone for this long, and Fastpass understood that now. Can Timmy blame him? He was a kid, and so much was already happening or always happening every day.
It shouldn’t have taken this much time for him to get an inkling of an understanding. What happened here terrified him, and he could only imagine what lead up to this. Professor Chaos and him had drove past a burning house, which even though it was Eric Cartman’s, inspired a rushing fear and a sinking in their stomachs.
Something he didn’t want to admit right now was that he did briefly see Timmy outside of his house a couple of days ago. It was for a brief moment, when he went to fix the curtains of his room. He was seemingly rolling away, but at such a late hour to be out for any sort of reason. It was one of the few times in years that Timmy seemed to reach out.
Is there much room for regret, now?
…
How much have I been lied?
How much have you lied to me?
Despite the burning in my eyes, I don’t think I’ve ever been able to sit and think this clearly. You cower now. I don’t feel you, but you hang on and hide like a kid in a shit hiding spot.
I wonder now what he’s really thinking. Maybe it would be better if I simply waited.
…
“C-Can I,” Jimmy sniffled, “Can I at l—l-least try?”