Cell Phones And Bitterness.

[Alison Carmichael]

To Alison the world was a child’s painting. The type of painting that was held, half crumpled in one sticky hand and presented at the end of a school day with a look of triumph. The type of painting that was stuck to the fridge with assorted magnets, right between the party invitations and the weekly calendar and pointed out to elderly relatives, who through their spectacles squinted and marvelled in unison.

Alison had always found herself questioning everything. Right from the very youthful age when she had first been able to string sentences together, she’d lost herself in the compelling urge to respond, as all annoying children do, with ‘why.’ She’d fallen in love with knowledge, knowing more, rolling it around her mouth and across her tongue, savouring it and storing it. What she knew was never enough, there was always more to know and she was willing to fight for it. Her inquisitive attitude however had been crushed shortly after by this neat little invention called school. For her first scheduled day she’d stood by the front door staring down at her velcro shoes humming softly under her breath, a Wiggles backpack slung over both shoulders. As time progressed she rocked from foot to foot, bouncing, excitement boiled within her. Kate sat at the breakfast table, her blonde hair neatly plaited in two down both sides of her face. She looked up from her cereal and flicked a corn flake at her sister. Alison’s ignored it that day she was too excited, too ready, too awe struck by the concept that she was going to a place that knew more than mummy and daddy. That could teach her things. Needless to say, that wasn’t the attitude she brought home with her.

Alison hated school. And with her broken attitude and upside down smile she had bundled herself into the car to be met by her mothers smiles and questions of how her day was. The girl that got in the car that morning was the not the same that went home that afternoon. School crushed her spirit, her will to learn and she wasn’t the only one. Why was it that the one place set up for our youth to learn did what we hoped it wouldn’t? What was it about school that left children feeling empty and small inside? And why is it that we teach out children that options in life are endless and still on those paintings that they clasp at the end of each solitary day, the sky is represented by a blue line horizontal at the top of the page? How is it that those children’s drawings of shaky lines of colour smeared into colour can promise whole worlds, hope and hours upon hours of stories? We tell our children from an early age that the sky is the limit and still the blue of that line, cuts options with a knife of aqua.

Upon reconsideration it seems perhaps the sky isn’t the limit, it just depended on how big your page was.

For Alison her page was large. She knew. She could feel it when she walked down the street, could feel it when she stretched her fingers wide and her arms wider, the smooth touch of paper between knowing fingers. The concept of school at a young age had shaken her like it did all young children but overtime she had learnt to embrace situations. It was easy when a constant reminder of death slept in your room and shared your dinner table. Being sad wasn’t an option when a possible worst shared your blood. Kate was many things to Alison, her reason for conception, her burden, her sister, her best friend. They were two halves of a whole, brought together by needs. Without Kate Alison felt incomplete and ever since she’d given her that final hug, the promise of seeing her soon clinging to the air, she hadn’t been able to get her out of her head.

The first thing Alison Carmichael ever gave to her sister Kate was the blood from her umbilical cord. As the years progressed what had started out as the occasional visit into hospital progressed into something further. Every time Kate was hospitalised Alison was too. When Kate needed blood or bone marrow transfusions Alison would give it to her, when Kate needed more healthy cells to put up a fight Alison would be prodded with needles, injected with chemicals and things that would double her growth so there would be enough to take for Kate. In a way she was symbolic to a harvest field. They grew things using her body and took things from her body all for another purpose that was beneficial to someone other her. The only difference was that Alison was not without emotion, that she was set up to feel obliged. Kate’s illness had given her life and in return she was expected to help Kate put up a fight by donating everything that was asked of her. For a child who was not sick she may as well have been for she became as equally well known in the hospital as her sister Kate and the tragic story that outlines her existence. For Alison her conception was not the result of too much alcohol one evening or a blue moon. Alison’s conception was far from an accident for she was created for a very specific purpose, to save her sister Kate from APL, a subgroup of myeloid leukemia, that threatened every moment she had since age two.

Alison’s parents had never held back this information. They wanted Alison to know that she was special, their saviour, their glimmer of hope for a better future for her sister Kate. And when she was younger she had clung to that. It defined her for without Kate and the leukemia that plagued her body, there would be no Alison.

Again she dialled her home number on the mobile phone clutched between fumbling hands. And again it beeped. A groan of frustration passed through slightly open lips as she struck a kick at the wall she had been leaning against only moments before. Okay, so she’d caved. She had promised herself she wouldn’t call unless they called her and asked her to return their call. She’d convinced herself that the reason she had stayed so close to her family was because they needed her but in the realisation of say, a few days she’d realised something. She needed them too.

She punched in the numbers again.

“Pick up the damn phone or I swear to God and all who bear witness-”

Her words were angry and desperate, chasing each other from her lips in a turmoil of volume. There was a click, a rush of her heart and then the voice of her younger self, speaking on the other line.

“Yep you’ve reached the Carmichael’s but we can’t get to the phone right now. If you leave your name and number and a short message after the beep we’ll get back to you.”

Another groan of frustration as Alison blinked up at the sky. They could be anywhere, but the place that struck Alison was a sudden wave of fear was the hospital. But they would have called if things got worse. They would have called. Sliding down the wall she tilted her head towards the ground and drew her knees upwards. This was ridiculous. They were probably just getting a DVD or something, maybe some Chinese food. In a last fit of anger Alison tore her eyes from the grass and hurled the cell phone away from her. It seemed stupid moment later when she glanced to the sun and realised it would soon be setting. Finding a phone in the dark never seemed like a good way to sped her day, especially after she was wrecked from classes.

This was not her day.

[[Post when you're ready, dear]]

[Liao Zhang]

alright
-nods-
I have to take a shower so I'll post when I get back

[Alison Carmichael]

-Pounces-
-Licks-
Take all the time you want. I'm going to bed soon so you wont get naother post out of me until tomorrow.

[Liao Zhang]

part repost sorry)

"You are a sad excuse for a man, you should have been born a girl little Li, all you really need are a few bows and your close enough. Mother and father sure are lucky I'M the one inheriting the buisiness. Everyone knows little girly Li couldn't handle it."

"Li! What are you doing? Don't you know art is a waste of time? Why can't you be more like your brother? Why can't you focus on your studies instead of always this insesent drawing?!"

"Liao...your father is worried you do not take school serious enough. You need to step up my baby son, your embarassing the name of Zhang."

Born and Bred in Taiwan, Liao is the youngest of of Xio Zhang. Of Zhang enterprises, the famous technical company and one of Taiwans largest producers of car parts. Xio isn't an abusive father, hes never cheated on Liao's mother, he has never abandoned his son in a mall and he's even defended him against Boa(Who obviously can not talk back to his father). How ever, now and then, Xio has been known to be harsh. Art is really,Liao's only passion in life other than archery, the only task he and his father has ever taken part in together. Sadly, artists don't make money. Art isn't a living, it can't buy you food or shelter or love of a good woman, as his father always tells him. Anger.

His brother. Boa. The tallest boy to ever grace the name of Zhang, at a staggering 6'2 currently, has been beating up his youngest brother since he was three years old. He has no real reason to. Liao has always figured his brother knew his secret from birth. That Boa sensed something was wrong. That Boa resented their differences. Or maybe it was just the brotherly thing. You know, siblings tend to wail on each other from time to time. Especially the older/stronger on the younger/weaker. Anger.

A mothers love is something special. Sun was a good mother. She cooked, she cleaned, she was on the board of trustees at his fathers business(the place the two met), the only woman to ever sit at the long black table in their conferance room. She was the first person to hand Liao an arrow, the first one to show him how to paint. It was her secret passion to be an artist herself but ended up a designer for Zhang Enterprises. Not an awful job, but not what she strived for. She, like Liao, was shy and never stood against his fathers word. So, she went along with him. Anger.

All of this, all of these words swarmed inside the boys head, as he walked down the hallway his sophmore year of highschool, books tucked under one arm. His mission: to make it through the day. But the more the words swam, the cloudier his thoughts, the worse mood he was in. He pushed through the crowds of people until someone pushed back. Down he fell, crashing as if almost in slow motion to the cold black tile floor. BRacing himself with his hands he hung his head, letting his long dark hair fall before his eyes before looking up at the boy. Anger...building. Clearing his throat, Liao shook a bit and began gathering his books. As he reached for one, a foot came crashing down on top of it.

"Whats wrong, Little Liao? Afraid of being late for class? Jeeze, don't get all hot and upitty little Liao, we got time to play a little before the bell rings."

With that the boy kicked liao's book across the hall and laughed loudly. Anger...anger...anger. ENOUGH. Liao closed his eyes and growled deep inside his throat. The winds and doors in the hall crashed open, huge gusts of wind filling the hallways. Students papers flew, girls uniform skirts went flying up, people were screaming. And then Liao opened his usually almond color eyes to stare at the boy. He rose onto his feet, as if being carried by the wind and clapped his hands. The wind directed the boy across the hall where Liao's book lay on the ground and the boy was held against the wall as Liao took a step forward and slowly made his way. People were screaming. Choas. Choas. BEAUTIFUL MADNESS. The boy pinned against the wall struggeled and closed his eyes screaming loudly. Thunder pounded outside.

"You want to play? Alright. Lets play human lightbulb."

CRASH. Liao blacked out five seconds later. He was sent to a hospital and when he was revived, he found that a freak storm had sent lightning towards the school that struck the boy. The janitors were still peeling him off the walls. None of the students revealed it was Liao, they were all to much afraid, Liao knew the truth that he had killed this boy. And so did someone else. A man appeared at his house, when he was released by the hospital. The man, calling himself The Dean, told his parents of what really happened that day in the hall. They were shocked but not appauled, it was the first time Liao's father wrapped an arm around his shoulder lovingly. The Dean told them of a school, far from Taiwan, a place in America, in New York City. A place for kids like Liao, with special talents.

Two weeks later, Liao found himself in a country he had only seen on the news.

Language was not a problem. They taught english in schools and that, other than art, was the only class he excelled in. No, the hard part, was being with people. It did not disturb him that he had killed someone. It wasn't as if he had culture shock. It certainly wasn't that he was a nerdy bookworm who didn't know how to be social. No, there were two problems with Liao's coming to Hawthorne Academy. 1. He was shy making it hard to socialize with the children and 2. He didn't like when people touched him. Atleast without permission. If someone touched him, it made him angry. And when he was angry, he was ANGRY.

This was his first year, at Hawthorne. He didn't mind it so much, the professors incouraged his art, which was a new feeling. Never before had anyone ever given him a set of colored charcole in which to manipulate a picture from. Until one of the professors stopped him in the hallway and handed him the gift. Never before had someone seen his art and complimented him on it. Until the Dean saw one of his paintings in passing. He was comfortable here. Plus, they had a feild for archery. And proper equipment though he had brought his own bow from home. A bow his mothers grandfather father in law had made him when he first married Liaos mothers grand mothers mother.

BUt archery wasn't on Liao's mind. Not tonight, as he sat on his roof overhang, just outside his dorm room window. You could see the entire grounds from where he sat, in all its glory. He really preferred to be outside than indoors. There was something freeing, something calming. And for Liao, calming was good. He had so much anger, so much resentment inside. But that was the key to his power. Emotion driven. And what a power it was. in the blink of an eye he could create a tornado more powerful than anyone on eaarth has ever witnessed. The crazy thing about this is, Liao hasn't even reached his full potential yet. having only discovered his gift not even a year ago, the seventeen year old once had the Dean said.

"You are capable of so much good, you must resist the evil. One day your power will be unstoppable. Use it to stop the destruction, the choas, the murder."

Thing is, thats what Liao loved. He thrived on pain, on suffering on Fear. Fear was respect. Fear is what kept him in control, its what kept him down for so many years and now he ruled by it. Liao looked at the sun as it set in the west. Beautiful. And suddenly he was inspired. Clambering into his room, he grabbed his messanger bag jam packed with charcole, oil paints, water colors, crayons, markers, inkpens, paper, canvas paper and even clay. He then returned to his roof overhang and closed his eyes, taking a step off. Now for an ordinary person, this would be suicide. But for Liao...a huge gust of wind rendered itself to the boy, and allowed him to (as if flying) land softly and smoothly on the ground. Without blinking an eye or dusting himself off he walked towards a tree in the darkness but paused when he heard something beneath his feet go CRUNCH and then heard a voice.

"If you'd like to make a call please hang up and dial again"

What the? The boys dark menacing eyes, eyes he had since the accident(solid black as if complete iris) looked down at the now broken cellphone and picked it up in his hand. He glanced around. There had to be an owner. Liao hated people. Honestly he did. He was shy by nature and in Hawthorne that was not a goodthing because there was not one place a person could be alone in thought. There was always someone near by, reading them.

[Hadley Chase]

Will reply, hopefully later tonight. I have so much homework and a test for Physics. For my Chem I got 87%. Rawr.

[Alison Carmichael]

Darkness fell like a shadow, crept like a thief and hid like a secret. It smothered all beneath it like an unbearable weight pressing in and down and around, suffocating and consuming and swallowing all that fell victim. It came without a sound and dragged down with it the light and warmth of the sun burning the sky into a thousand match strokes that glowed the vibrant red to yellow of the spectrum. The sky became a war of contrast, of hot and cold colour mixing like a paint pallet. Purple tinged the night and pastel tones of pink shaded the underside of clouds caught in the middle. But every night, night after night, the sun was forced beneath the horizon that claimed to be the divider and every night, like the night that proceeded, darkness settled like a cloak across the world.

Many saw night as a symbol for death, for all that is wrong in the world, for darkness and the downfall of power within society and within a person’s own conflict of mind. Alison however, saw night as a chance and a reminder. No matter who you were or where you were, your sun eventually set across the horizon. It showed that there was more to life than what you want and what you have going for you, there were things out of your control. Alison did not pride herself highly on making good choices and being independent. Truthfully she never had had to. Decisions were made for her often without consultation or her consent, things were just expected of her and she had never been one to disobey. How could you look in the eyes of a woman, your mother, who was watching her own daughter die like a part of her, so helplessly and say you didn’t want to help? Sara didn’t need to use words, her eyes spoke years of timeless talking and they served her purpose well. Alison had reached a form of understanding along time ago. She knew she relied on others and standing on her own two feet at this point and time, seemed daunting and unnecessary. She wasn’t expected to make her own decisions, she was as good as owned but simply knowing that there was something out there, beyond anyone’s control that was pulling a few strings and keeping things in check, had to be a good thing. It allowed her a small piece of mind in the tangled world she was living in where time meant very little and tension clogged the air. Her family had lost all voice of reason in acts of desperation, they now lived in the moment for the moment, just to keep Kate breathing that little bit longer, just to stretch her time out that inch more. Just to pretend that everything was going to be fine long enough to torment your mind into thinking it would be. They were beyond desperate; they were almost breaching insanity.

When Alison was twelve and recovering in her hospital bed a psychologist had approached her. Well, not so much approached. She had in fact, more or less, forced her way into the private room only to push a chair under the doorhandle, a look of triumph spreading across her face. The bizarre part wasn’t the fact that she had entered out of the blue. Nor the fact that she attempted to separate both her and Alison from the rest of the world by the use of a visitor chair. The bizarre part was rather the fact that when she sat down on the second chair and asked Alison to tell her about herself, all she could think of was Kate. Twelve-years-old with a fully functional brain and only remotely sleepy and everything she could think of as a way of describing herself held hands with her sister’s existence.

In fact if Kate didn’t exist, Alison wouldn’t either. And Kate never got leukemia, Alison would never have been needed. Alison knew through the stories told in photographs that the Carmichael’s had been perfectly content with just two children. They were considered a perfect suburban family, two parents happily in wedlock and two well-behaved, cute-faced, blonde-haired blue-eyed children. And then, as though at the push of a button, everything had spiralled and now Alison was here to be the hero and save the day. Something that had nothing to do with her super powers but rather her body and the fact that he had what Kate needed. Alison had often wondered to what would happen to her if Kate miraculously got better. Would they just get rid of her? Or keep her? And would they be reluctant about keeping her? She seemed almost like an intruder, no photographs on the mantle piece, nor photographs on the walls. To Alison a photograph was special. It says, you were happy and I wanted to catch that. It says, you were so important to me that I put down everything to come and watch. Photos were more than cheesy snapshots. They were frozen moments in time that you felt such a strength in emotion for that you just had to capture it and bundle it up in a timeless existence.

Perhaps this whole not speaking to her family thing/worrying her ass off because she hadn’t heard/ her wrists at this stupid self-fucking-pity, was going to her head because Alison could have sworn something had just flown over her head and down. The worst thing, on recognition was perhaps not the fact that she could be crazy but rather the fact that people flying was indeed a reality in Hawthorne. Yes ladies and gentlemen it is true, the Academy bred freaks. Of all descriptions.

At the sound of something breaking and knowing full well it was her cell phone Alison was on her feet and off at a run. In a flurry of seconds she had transported herself from her comfortable slouched position on the ground to her not-so-comfortable position, on top of a person.

Yes. She had tackled them. Or rather, him. She noted.

“You broke my cell phone!”

She rolled off him, desperation clinging to her voice. Any other girl would have responded in a somewhat similar manner, except, perhaps, without the physical pounce but they would have done so for an entirely different reason. That was her only contact with her parents, her sister, the hospital. She hadn’t even written the numbers down because at the press of a button she could have them on the other line. Without that phone she was an island away from home, deserted and well, basically fucked in every possible way. Any other girl would have freaked at the idea of loosing her precious photos or her text messages or the number of the cute guy from Saturday night but for Alison it was far for severe. And so she lay on her back, feeling the paranoia and panic spread and the beat of her heat quicken. She had half the mind to yell at the boy and half the mind to burst into a tearful and frantic apology on her own behalf. Instead Alison did neither. She just lay there, repetitively swearing under her breath.

This was not good.

[Liao Zhang]

AHHH she touched him!
-sigh-
and she was such a pretty girl

[Alison Carmichael]

-Gasp-
NO KILLING.
-Pokes-
And she didn't touch she...tackled.

[Liao Zhang]

The phone in his hand flashed, its screen letting off a green glow. All he heard was the dialtone and EROOO if you'd like to make a call please hang up and dial again, if you'd like to speak to an operator press 0 now. He didn't want to talk to an operator. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He hated people. He was shy, which as I've stated before is a great fault, but also Liao's biggest pet peeve was when people touched him. He didn't like it. Ever since his powers were revealed, people disgusted him. He hated their interaction, their taste, their smell. The way they touched each other constantly. He hated when they touched him(without permission), everytime a hand is laid on him, it feels like a thousand needles piercing his skin. no one is quiet sure why. There truely is no reasoning behind it.

Unfortunetly Allison did not know this.

Unfortunetly, Liao was not prepared for what was about to happen. Down down down the Taiwanese boy fell. The ground bracing him, weight pushing ontop of him, pressing down upon him. He growled deep within his throat, as he opened his eyes, flicked his hair away and stared up at the girl ontop of him, grabbing the phone in his hand. Who...what.... Such inconsideration. If he had known she was the owner, he would have given it back to her without a word and carried on his walk, continued on to finish drawing. To finish painting. To finish whatever the hell he wanted to do out there before this GIRL tackeled him to the ground. A cold wind swept across and pushed him onto his feet and he looked at her with his dark eyes.

"Who do you think you are?"

He growled. He didn't care if she was going to cry or scream or yell at him. All he knew, is if she touched him again, there'd be a replay of the night he killed that boy...or atleast the day he almost killed Praline Kline. And no one wanted that. Well...this girl certainly didn't. All Liao wanted to do was go draw, go paint. But he couldn't let this go. He could still feel her on top of him. His skin itched, burned at the feeling. She touched him, snapped at him and now lay on the ground cursing. Whether at him or at herself he didn't care.

For every action, is a reaction.

[so short...sorry]

[Alison Carmichael]

It was human nature to touch people. A physical connection visible to the eye like sinew holding two words as one for a brief moment. Bonds were formed through touching. Both friendship and enemies were conjured by the shake of a hand, warmth of a hug or thump of a fist. For Alison touching was like breathing. She needed to connection, to feel someone right there, to feel life at her fingertips, to hear another heartbeat beating out of time. She needed the clarity that reality claimed.

When she was little and sharing a room was still a novelty Alison and Kate would build a bridge between clasped hands. Stretching and straining across the gap that was never as large as it appeared they would grasp the others hand and hold on. Fingertips brushing against pulse she would walk the line between sleeping and waking, balancing between two worlds. The bridge their arms made was the physical joining of their two spirits. They’d reach for each other, their need stuffing the air was not of urgency. They were young, life and death was a background, it followed them and yet it was lost on them. Youth was indeed a bless. Alison never felt more alive and more complete than those moments as Kate’s hand felt warm in hers until she went limp and gave way to sleep and dream time.

Alison blinked up at him; a growl of words brushed the air between them.

There was not a question he could have asked that would have puzzled her more than that one. If asked Alison could answer anything on call, allowing logic to come into play she’d break things down to the basics. Simple concepts and scientific laws to build on, evidence rolling around her mouth, across her tongue, past her lips like a morsel of taste, exciting her senses as knowledge combined. But that question had left her stumped. Alison was many things; a human, a sister, a daughter, a neighbour, a donor, a miracle. But no longer was it a matter of what she was, rather who she was. Who was she without everyone else? It was a difficulty within itself to separate herself from everyone else, particularly Kate. They were sewn together by invisible thread, held by sinew, blood, bone. She was like a dusty photo frame. Trying to clean and distinguish and see what was underneath. And what you found where things you had forgotten. Even with the distance and the several train travels between Alison and the Carmichael’s she could not remove the final layer of dust. It clung. And so she wondered, did she really want to know?

Alison fell into silence. She could feel her pulse in her thumb, the damp of the grass brushing against the skin at her wrist. And all the while her phone continued to speak. Broken and repetitive like a record, it held fast the distance between the two people, a reminder that although they were within a meter they couldn’t have been further apart.

She pushed herself up by her hands. She crossed her legs, dragging time like butter across bread, stretching, delaying. Searching for an answer. The anger he had approached her with had hit like daggers, Alison would have flared up, met him at the battle line but all she could hear was the drill of her phone and the beep of a respiratory machine. What if Kate was in fucking hospital and they hadn’t been able to reach her because of satellite? What if they were calling right now?

It was then she realised, Alison didn’t think she was anything. She was told. And every thought that filled her mind concerned someone else’s well being. She wasn’t living for her. She knew who she was but she was almost afraid to say so in case it messed up someone else’s plans for her.

“At this point and time I am an island.” She paused. “Without a cell phone I’m pretty much fucked.”

And she wasn’t the only one. Kate would be fucked too. And everyone else, for that matter. And all because of this boy Liao and his inability to see shiny objects in the dark and avoid landing on them. Rawr.

Blink. Stare. Growl. Reluctant sigh. Twitch. And then hesitantly, “Are- Are you sure it’s broken.”

Man she sounded like such a prep. Let’s all wave pom-poms and show our asses in time.

[[My post is shit.]]