Chapter 1-Constance

~*Chapter 1-Constance*~



I sat on my bed, holding a silver pocket watch, watching the seconds tick by. I was fully dressed and ready for school; I had been since three thirty-two and seventeen seconds a.m. I didn’t usually time everything, but time seemed to drag between the hours of twelve o’clock midnight and five o’clock in the morning. I noticed time then. Nothing happened. There was no light outside my window. There was nothing that I needed to be doing. There was no reason for me to be alive. Between these hours of the morning, I had nothing to do to pass the time. I had already counted the number of stipples on my ceiling; I had finished that last Tuesday, at two fifty-seven and four seconds. I had already plucked every last ball of fuzz from every last sweater in my closet; I had finished that last Friday at one thirteen and forty-two seconds. I had already scrubbed each glass surface in my bedroom with Windex until it gleamed; I had finished that yesterday at four twenty-six and eighteen seconds.

Now, it was four fifty-nine and forty-seven seconds.

I saw the faintest glimpse of warm light silhouetting the treetops of the woods outside my window. The sun. I shifted positions so that I would be sitting in a shadow when the brightness came glaring into my room. I did not mind the sunlight, but only when it was not blinding me. Light did blind me. I attempted to stay inside between sunrise and sunset, but sometimes, there was nothing I could do; a trip outside was necessary on certain occasions.

I looked across my room and saw my white dresser begin to glow with morning. It was now five thirteen and six seconds. Finally something was happening:  the sun was rising. Another day was beginning.

I sighed.

Yet another day. After so many drifted past, they no longer felt like a luxury. Another day was just another day. There was hardly any incentive for me to leave my bedroom anymore. Days passed, and I scarcely noticed. The only way I was able to keep track of something that affected me so little was by using the silver pocket watch in my hands, and by watching the sun rise and set. Not that time mattered any; days would pass, as would weeks, and months, and years. None of it was anything to me.

I sat still on my bed until precisely five-thirty. At that time, I got up and went over to my vanity. I picked up my hairbrush and looked at the mirror, wondering what others saw when they looked at me. As I ran the brush through my hair, I realized that I had already done this at two forty-three and eleven seconds this morning. No matter. I proceeded to work the imaginary tangles from my hair, appreciating the feel on the brush’s bristles as it separated each strand of hair from the others. My mind went back to its previous question:  What do others see when they look at me?

What would they see? There was not much to look at, if I placed my bet correctly. I was not the most beautiful, or the most elegant, or even the most fascinating creature to look upon. In fact, compared with some of the girls at my school, I was nearly invisible. There was something about me that not only kept me from standing out too much, but it seemed to also literally push others’ eyes away from me. Nobody appeared to be able to look into my eyes for more than approximately ten seconds at the absolute most. I wondered if what they saw there was something undesirable, or if it was just not considered acceptable to stare at people for longer. Not that I wanted the attention; it would not help me any to have people gawking at me as if I had an additional head beside my first.

I laid the hairbrush down, and began twirling my hair around my fingers absent-mindedly. It was soft today; my hair never changed, but some days, I could value the texture of it more than others. I noticed vaguely that I had caused a knot to form where my fingers had been. I immediately picked up my brush again and worked the hair until it fell through my fingers like corn silk. Then, I set the brush down again.

“Connie, you up yet?”

The voice of my guardian, Celeste, called to me as she walked past my room toward the stairs. I could hear her feet shuffling along in an attempt to keep the slippers on her tired feet. She was still half asleep, I knew it. She would not fully wake up until much later. She always went back to sleep after seeing me off to school. When it came to devotion, she transcended anyone else, regardless of whether the child was theirs biologically of not. She was only twenty-seven – much too young for me to feasibly be her daughter – and she still took the burden of motherhood better than a pack mule takes his rider. She was truly a gem.

“Yes, I’m awake,” I said, my voice just loud enough to be caught by her sleepy ears waiting on the other side of the door.

“M’kay,” she replied.

I heard her pad to the stairs, then take them one step at a time. Once she got to the bottom, she headed for the kitchen. I fought the urge to groan quietly; she was cooking for me. She was making me breakfast. Celeste had been rather worried that I was not getting a decent breakfast before I left for school. I always ensured her that I picked up some tea and a muffin on the way to school, but, for some reason, she no longer believed me. It was frustrating; I never ate breakfast normally, but watching her go to all this trouble guilt-tripped me into eating whatever she had prepared for me. Not that I felt guilty; I just did not want Celeste scolding me about my diet – or lack thereof.

I got up from my vanity and walked over to my bed. My feet made no sound, though my boots had heels. My pocket watch lay on my deep purple comforter, sunlight glinting off its silver cover. I squinted as I picked it up, the brightness immediately ceasing as I drew it from the ray of sun. With a soft click, the cover opened to show an ornate face with three hands, each inlaid with several emeralds. The minute and hour hands remained still, the facets in their jewels glittering in many shades of green. The second hand ticked away, the emeralds shining differently with each movement. It truly was a lovely timepiece. It read five forty-six and forty-nine seconds.

I waited eleven seconds and then left my room.

Celeste was wrapped in her short pink, polka-dotted bathrobe, her purple pajama pants showing from underneath. Sure enough, she was wearing her slippers.

“Good morning,” I said quietly.

She jumped in surprise. I merely raised my eyebrows. I had not realized that I had been so quiet in approaching her.

“Constance!” she said, “Don’t do that! You scared me!”

“I’m sorry, Celeste.”

She caught her breath, and then pulled a hair band from her wrist, twisting her golden hair up into a knot on the top of her head. I watched her and thought of my own hair. I wondered if it was still free of tangles or if it had knotted up from the time I had brushed it to now. I ultimately decided that it did not matter that much.

“How many pieces of French toast would you like?”

Honestly, none. But, I would answer. I would give her a number, and then I would eat what she made.

“One will do.”

There was a soft sloshing sound as she submerged the slice of bread in the concoction used to make normal bread into French toast. It smelled of eggs and milk. She dropped the bread into the skillet, and it began to sizzle quietly.

“Milk or juice, Connie?”

“Juice, please.”

The light in the refrigerator came on as she opened the door, grabbing the carton of pomegranate juice and pouring me a glass. I felt useless, just standing there, not doing a thing to help. But try as I might, I could not think of a thing to do. Still, I made myself busy doing little things like straightening the papers stacked on the edge of our counter, turning on the TV to get the weather forecast for the day, and putting away dishes sitting on the towel beside the sink.

After, according to the pocket watch, three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Celeste set a plate on our little, two-person, wrought-iron bistro table. She sat down and I followed. As I silently cut tiny pieces of the toast to eat, Celeste opened the newspaper. I knew she was not reading, though. She never actually read the paper. She just pretended until I finished eating. She knew I hated it when people hovered.

As soon as I finished, I took my plate to the sink and washed it by hand.

“You could just put it in the dishwasher,” Celeste said, peering around the edge of the paper, watching me.

“This is fine,” I replied, drying the plate with the towel hanging on the wall beside the sink. “I don’t mind.” Then I reached for the skillet.

After I had finished washing all the dishes in the room, Celeste looked at the clock on the wall. “You just spent almost a full five minutes to do what it would have only taken you about thirty seconds to do if you had put it in the dishwasher.”

“I know. But, unlike you, I’ve got time enough to spend five minutes washing dishes by hand.”

“Okay, Cons. Whatever makes you happy.”

I pulled out the ornate pocket watch and checked the time. It was six fourteen and fifty-four seconds. School did not start until seven thirty, but I did not want to just sit around the house any longer. I decided that now would be an opportune time to leave.

“Celeste, I’m going to go ahead and go to school. I want to study some Calculus before I get to first period. I’ve got an exam today.”

“Oh, okay,” Celeste said. “Midterms?”

“No. A chapter exam.”

“Oh. Well, drive safely.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I went into the hall closet and grabbed a coat and my school bag. I plucked my car keys from the hook beside the door, and left the house. As soon as I was on the porch, I set down my bag on the porch swing and slipped into my coat. The cold did not bother me at all, but I realized that I would look odd if I did not wear some form of a coat during early March. Once my coat was on, I slung my bag onto my shoulder and grabbed my car keys.

Around the west side of the house, our driveway sat, half-occupied. Celeste’s car was in the shop, I recalled. My car, however, was sitting there, sleek and perfect as ever. I had gone through a car wash the day before on the way to school, thinking that there was just a bit too much salt from the roads on the shiny black metal.

I had another car too, but it sat in the garage, usually untouched. It was my favourite car by far, but I could not drive it around our little suburban area very often. Not only was it extremely ostentatious, but it was designed to top out at two-hundred and ten kilometres per hour. I definitely took advantage of that fact; there was no point in having a three-hundred thousand dollar European car if you didn’t drive it properly.

I slipped into the driver’s seat of the black Mercedes parked in the driveway, and set my school bag on the passenger seat. With a turn of my key, the engine hummed to life, the sound slightly resembling a cat’s purr. I touched the gas, and then I was off. I coasted out of the driveway, going fairly slowly through the neighbourhood. Children lived here, and they would dart out into the middle of the road without warning. I do not know of any child that would be awake, playing outside at six thirty-three and seven seconds, but I would not put anything past some people.

After I got out onto the freeway, I sped up, completely neglecting the speed limit. I had never gotten a ticket, but I could not remember a time when I abided by the posted sign. I had never gotten into an accident either. I considered myself a rather safe driver.

I flew past a minivan at eighty miles per hour. The soccer mom driving just watched, bewildered. I looked in the mirror; I did not know her.

After ten minutes and eleven seconds of driving, I pulled into my parking spot at school. Then, I sat back, turned up the radio so that it was just above silent, and sat there. I had the radio tuned in to a station that played only piano music, and the sound filled my ears as I waited for the time to reach seven fifteen exactly.

This must have been what it felt like to sleep. My mind went completely blank for a few moments, when even the music seemed distant. I closed my eyes, but, of course, sleep would not overtake me. I wished with all of my being that it would; I so wanted to be normal. I wanted to know what sleeping felt like. I wanted to know the different tastes of food. I wanted to know the sensation of shivering when a chilly breeze sliced through my clothes. There were so many things that I wished I could know, but I knew I never would.

Why did it have to be like this? Why did it have to be me? Of all the people in the world, why was I the one who got stuck with a life like this? And why would people be so willing to give up their normal lives? I could not understand why they did not appreciate what they had. Their lives were gifts; mine was curse. I was able to comprehend a lot of things, including how I came to be this way. But the one thing that was never able to penetrate my mind was an answer to my one, echoing question:  Why? Why me? Why not somebody else? Why did this have to happen at all? Why did I have to keep this from others? Why did secrecy have to be the mantra of my life? Why did I continue to pretend? Why was I deprived of so many things that are often taken for granted by most people? Why was this life not like my expectations? Why did so many tragedies mold me and shape me, but joys leave me feeling empty? Why would I never get a chance at normality? Why me?

Out of desperation, I looked at my pocket watch. It was seven fourteen and fifty-two seconds. After eight seconds, I got out of my car.

Looking around me, I saw several other seniors getting out of their cars, going to meet their friends. There were groups of people everywhere. To my left was a cluster of girls marveling over a magazine with a picture of a perfect, porcelain-doll girl on the front. The headline read, “Seven Easy Ways to Get Your Best Look Ever!” I felt sorry for them; they were all thin and relatively pretty.  They immediately flipped open the magazine, and found the specified page, poring over the text as if it held the key to true happiness.

A group of guys carrying lacrosse sticks crossed in front of me. I caught snatches of their conversation; they were talking about the new season training program for spring sports. They did not think very highly of it. It was not difficult enough, so they were afraid that they would not be ready for the first game in three weeks. They commented on how the basketball team had used the same training methods this winter, and they only won two games in the whole season. I was still listening as they walked away.

I heard a car door slam on my right. I did not have to turn my head to know that a girl had just gotten out. She ran ahead of me into the waiting arms of a boy who I knew played the lead role in the spring musical. The boy could sing like nobody I had ever heard before. She was a dancer who was also in the musical, and she was built like one too; petite, thin, and graceful. Her flowery peasant blouse fluttered in the breeze as she took her boyfriend’s hand and walked into the main school building.

I reached into the passenger seat and took my school bag in one hand. I shut the door and slung my bag over my shoulder, looking around me again. Everyone was in groups. I seemed to be the only one standing alone. Even the kids who appeared to be outcasts were walking to class with other outcasts, all enjoying the inclusiveness of having other outcast friends. I was the only one who did not have anyone to be with.

It was not the first time I had realized that; it happened almost every day. I would notice that I was alone more often than not, but still, every time it happened, it always hit me like a wrecking ball. Every time. This fact hurt me more than anything else:  I looked a lot more respectable than some of the kids at school, but still people refused to talk to me.

Deep in my heart, I knew it was safer for them to stay away, but I was first and foremost a teenager. And, no matter how mature I seemed, I still wanted to be liked just as much as the next person, if not more. It was not like I had lived an entire life without anybody on my side; I had known friendship. In fact, I had known it so well, I was permanently torn apart when it ended without warning. But, even after something like that, I still longed to be included in the teenage population.

With this in mind, I fought my way through the crowded halls to get to first period:  American History.

This was the dullest class of the day. They were all rather dull, but this one surpassed all of the rest. I already knew all of the terms and events that we were being taught, so I never took notes. I always stared into space, thinking. There was not much to think about today, so I picked up a red pen and doodled red swirls in my notebook.

The red ink seemed to glow in the fluorescent lights of the classroom. The idle swirls began to become more and more like shapes and pictures. The red ink formed little droplets on the page, like rain. Red rain. I held my pen in one place for a while, allowing the red ink to seep through and tint the paper a deep burgundy. It was the most beautiful colour I had ever seen. I could almost feel its warmth. The red pen danced along the page, creating pictures that I did not think about before drawing. My pen was never once lifted from the page, making everything interconnected. The red ink held everything together. I drew people from red ink, animals from red ink, puddles from red ink, red glasses filled with red liquid drawn in red ink . . . the red ink made everything come alive on the paper. I wished that I could write in red ink for the rest of my life.

After a while, I could not see the pictures any more. I only saw red; lines of red, dots of red, swirls of red. The page was saturated in red. The colour made my breathing quicken with excitement. It was so subliminal a colour that I allowed myself to become immersed into it, tumbling mentally, head over heels into a huge vortex of red. The red ink seemed to flow like water, lapping against the edges of my brain, causing me to slip into delirious stupor. The red drew me in, beckoning, calling me by name, promising me comfort and happiness. I did not bother to fight it; I knew it was worthless to fight it. My eyes closed, and the red vanished. I hurriedly opened my eyes again. There it was, perfect and inviting. I looked at it without seeing; the feeling that the red inspired in me was enough.

Suddenly, the bell rang. I had expected it in my subconscious, but my mind had been submerged in the red ink. I took one last look at my drawings, folded the page up, and slipped it into my pocket. Still holding onto the red pen filled with red ink, I left the class and went on to second period.



The day dragged on and on. Second period Calculus was a restatement of things I already knew. Third period English was class time used to read Antigone, a play that I had read countless times. Fourth period French involved me filling in pointless charts and graphic organizers with vocabulary. Fifth period Computer Programming was just another free day on the Internet. Lunch was boring as ever with no one to talk to. Sixth and seventh periods were college-level Biology. Of course, I had learned the material before.

When it was time to go home, I went out to my car, weaving my way through the throngs of students who were rejoicing at the end of another school day. I sat in my car, blocking out the noises coming from outside my windows. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the paper almost completely covered in red scribbles. I looked at it for a second, but then I folded it back up and put it back into my pocket. I would look at it again when I got home.

After the parking lot was almost devoid of cars, I touched the gas and made my way home. The traffic was not bad; I was able to pass and speed as much as I liked.

When I walked in the door, I did not see Celeste. The house was dark, but I could see fine in the absence of light. It was no problem at all. What worried me, however, was the absence of my guardian. She was always home when I pulled into the driveway. She could not have driven away; her car was still in the shop. Someone must have come to take her somewhere. Maybe she and her friends were having a mall day. Thank goodness she was not dragging me along, in any case.

I did not turn on the lights. I just walked into the foyer, hung up my coat and keys, and proceeded into the kitchen. Everything looked different in the dark; it all looked clearer somehow. There were no shadows. Everything was in vast relief, silhouetted in the blackness. I found a note written in Celeste’s handwriting on the kitchen counter. It said:



“Connie,

Went to the movies with friends. Be back soon. Love you!

Celeste”



I sat down at our bistro table and drew the curtains closed, noticing the fine layer of dust that had covered them since this morning, when Celeste had flung them open to let the sunlight in. The darkness became darker, and I felt more and more relaxed with each reduction of light. I took out my paper with the red drawings and stared at it for a good minute or two. Then, I turned in my seat and pulled off my boots. I walked purposefully out the door, struggling to stay at such a slow gait. The paper remained on the table, unfolded and untouched.