The Great Nascent
I
My eyes met darkness; its sudden appearance left me disconcerted for a moment.
I soon focused, however. After a few additional moments, occupied with the action of
throwing my arms about in a flurry and kicking the bed-sheets from my legs, I was able to ease
myself into a relaxed state of mind, a skill I have had the fortune to practice regularly over the
years; I still, however, felt somewhat ill, although I was not in pain.
With interest, I took note of the numbers to my left that filled the room with its glowing account
of this epoch. I ingested the familiar, odorous scent of my bed-sheets. I felt the air entering
from behind my head, through the window located just behind my pillow, and felt it play about
my ears. I was in my bedroom; it was early in the morning and I had been dreaming.
I noticed how the moisture of surprise had saturated my skin, as I squirmed about in my
bed. Each time I moved my leg the slightest degree, my nerves would be met with the sensation
of dampness. This puzzled me, for the night was cold and my window was opened wide.
I must have been frightened.
Perspiration that had previously been beaded upon my forehead now began to stream down
my right temple, merciless to my sensitivity. I shuddered and then resolved to ignore these
physicalities. Instead, I attempted to recall what exactly it was that caused my body to amass the
dampness that I was presently soaking in. Just as each previous attempt, however, the effort
proved fruitless. It seemed that I would once again play victim to the blankness that always
remained after these frequent bursts from blurred images into darkness.
The uncertainty and mystery surrounding my dreams had always left me drained. The
feeling of sickness I had acquired diminished in this instance, however, enabling me to entertain
lighter thoughts; I noted this with interest before drifting off to sleep once again.
I awoke a few hours later, at the usual time. The glow of the numbers indicated that I was
to begin my day performing the usual routine if I was inclined to make the bus on time.
Accordingly, I arose from my sheets and began to dress.
In an hour, I was outside, near the highway, awaiting the arrival of the bus. The morning
made my ears red. The low temperature prompted motion in my arms and legs--and encouraged
that this motion be maintained. Still, it was with appreciation that I noted both the surrounding
sun-light and melodious sounds that the birds, flying far above all that I would be forced to
reckon with on any day, exhibited for purposes I would not begin to fathom. The air was too
cold to detect any sort of scent; in fact, my nose was met with irritation each time I made the
effort to determine the fragrant quality of the surrounding oxygen. Thus, I resorted to breathing
through my mouth and experienced a much more tolerable irritation, which left me momentarily
satisfied.
Eventually, the bus arrived. The yellow trap pulled to a stop, its brakes piercing the
tranquil morning air with a shrill squeak, and opened its doors for me. Without a look behind, I
climbed the steps, greeted the driver and placed myself in the very last seat. Promptly, I closed
my eyes and attempted to prepare myself for the next seven hours I would have to endure at
school. This, however, was made impossible by the children.
The children on the bus went round and round within my head. Every morning they did
so, without mercy, without exception. One would think that a person could adapt to such an
atmosphere. I was, however, still very much a victim of their yelps, yells and unconscionable
verbal attacks against their peers. The reprimands and threats from the driver are too idle to be
of any consequence.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bus pulled alongside the high school in the usual
slow and steady manner. Several moments later, I was able to make my way past the throes of
squirming children to the front of the transit vehicle, almost inadvertently knocking several of
them unconscious with my book-bag over the course of the procession. I then proceeded to dive
out of the door, landing hard onto the pavement. I noted with curiosity--as I seemed to do each
time I took the bus--that I felt as if I had accomplished a great task, just by managing to survive
the ride.
I shook out the tiny, embedded stones from my hands and advanced upon the school
building.
I passed several students on the way to my locker. It was interesting to see that I seemed
to represent some sort of threat to the general passerby. I once computed that only twelve
percent of those individuals actually looked at me in the eye as we passed in the hall. On this
morning, three of the four avoided me; the eyes of the fourth darted from my eyes to the ground
before the he let out a hurried yelp and muttered an apology. I raised an eyebrow but said
nothing in response.
My locker was broken. Conveniently, it did not require an intricate combination to open
it; rather, it usually gave way on the third wrench, if one was to use the halfway-protruding door
as a handle. One might worry that belongings would be unsafe in such a broken locker, and that
assumption would undoubtedly be valid. I, however, had nothing of importance to clutter the
box up with, so I cared little whether or not it was tampered with.
It took me a few moments to shift my weight accordingly. I placed my left leg against the
wall, my right leg behind me and my fingers within the crack of the door, all with great
deliberation. With all of my strength, I wrenched it a total of four times before it swung open
with a loud crack. With satisfaction, I took note of the result and wiped sweat from the small of
my back.
I stuffed my book-bag inside and rammed my shoulder into the door, a maneuver that
seemed to bring about more glances from passersby than the previous action. With this burden
absent from my back, I briskly strode to the entrance of the library, paused to prepare myself for
the encounter I was sure to face, and opened the door.
The library was one single room. It was enormous.
I entered slowly, and saw, as usual, the several hurried bodies that moved about in a
frenzy, grabbing at the books that lined the shelves and at the magazines that were strewn across
the assorted plywood tables. Voices meshed into one single buzz, pencils scratched and tapped,
and--much to the dismay of the hissing, wild-haired librarian that scurried around, as frantic as
the students--they could not become quiet. As I walked about, observing and occasionally
jumping aside to narrowly miss a passing student, my ears began to throb. It was interesting how
quickly this occurred each morning I came to the library, almost without exception.
Suddenly, a finger tapped my shoulder. I turned around to find Iris staring shyly at my
feet.
"Hello, Smith," she stammered with effort.
I muttered a cordial response and proceeded to walk over to an unoccupied computer. I sat
down, hoping to be left alone. This, however, was not meant to be.
"Don't you like me, Smith?" Iris demanded shyly, creeping up behind me. With a small
voice, she seemed to mumble, "You hardly ever speak three words to me, Smith."
I attempted to explain to her that it was not anything personal. It was simply that I did not
have the time to form a relationship with anyone at the moment.
"But what are you so busy with, Smith?" she inquired.
I was shaken by this question. I really had not expected her to ask. I stuttered a quick,
blatantly false excuse and scurried away from the computer, making haste for the exit and taking
pains to avoid knocking anyone aside.
It was interesting to note how glad I was to leave the swollen room.
The first period bell rang and I retrieved my book-bag from my broken locker without any
further confrontations. I made my way to class, dodging the mass of students coming from the
opposite direction and maintaining my balance as I was pushed from behind several times
throughout the journey. It was with great skill that I was able to slide into class without any
bruises.
The first half of class focused on typical rhetoric. My interest was held together by the
billowy clouds hanging against the soft, blue backdrop that was visible through the set of
windows, as well as by the possibility that I would be able to survive the next six and one quarter
hours of school. To my surprise, the observations and mental computations I was occupied with
were interrupted by an interesting question that the teacher posed, the point, I surmised, being to
allow the students to delve into a thoughtful discussion.
"What would it be like to suddenly find yourself completely ignored by society?" asked the
teacher, setting the thesis.
I raised an eyebrow. The students yawned.
"What emotions would you encounter? What questions would arise? Would you be
afraid? Would you pose, to the general public, the question: 'What have I done to deserve this
treatment?'" the teacher continued.
With an encompassing glance, I surveyed the class from my position. A few students sat
hunched over, chins resting on their hands (they stared blankly ahead). Others sat a little
straighter, with their backs against their chairs, arms crossed (they also stared blankly ahead).
One or two lay sleeping, their heads cradled in their folded arms (it was impossible to see which
direction their eyes were).
The silence was deafening.
Before I was able to manage an adjustment to my posture, the sound of a throat being
cleared smashed the air. I moved my eyes about and saw that it came from the teacher, who was
now walking around the room, staring intently at each individual face with a roving pair of eyes.
Everyone had lunged in shock at the sound of the throat. Each student was now quite aware of
their role in the proposition of the teacher and several began to speak at once, in response.
I, however, was suddenly preoccupied by the appearance of two young boys--whom I had
never seen before--making their way past the windows.
At first, I could not be sure if the peculiar colors they consisted of were what drew my
attention to them; they both had blond hair and dressed in yellow, which, for some reason struck
me as odd--as if their alignment suggested that the two were identical, even though they were
obviously unrelated and one was much taller than the other. After a moment, I was unsure if the
attraction was due to the fact that they walked with such slow countenance. Eventually, and in
conclusion, I was convinced that it was their completely blank facial expressions which caught
my interest so completely, and the fact that their eyes focused on mine the entire time they made
their way past the window. I was obliged to reflect that those eyes--both sets--did not lack any
sort of emotion; indeed, they both seemed to be afire with the utmost of intensity, in complete
contrast to the lack of expression upon their faces. I could not understand why such eyes had
been directed toward myself. I felt a sharp sweat produce at the small of my back.
After what seemed like several minutes, the boys had appeared and disappeared in a matter
of seconds. I sat at my desk, lost in thought. I hardly noticed the excited chatter of the students
and nearly missed the statement that the teacher made, with the same level of excitement
exhibited by the pupils.
"We'll continue this discussion the next time we have class," the teacher shouted.
The excitement of the students, however, was now irrelevant to me.
The bell rang.
I rushed from the classroom, ahead of everyone.
II
I am certain that I dreamt of those eyes that night.
Upon awakening, however, I was unable to recall precisely what the dream entailed; it
seemed doubtful that it was of anything but those eyes.
Without surprise, I noted how damp my sheets were. Without interest, I ignored the glow
of the clock. Instead, I strained my memory and attempted to uncover any further details of the
dream. I broke off the attempt in disgust shortly after commencing--why should I be making
such an effort to recall those eyes? They were distressing.
What was it about them that bothered me so greatly? That was a mystery I felt bound to
uncover. I spent the rest of the night examining the question but drifted off to sleep before
making any progress.
I awoke in the morning with a nauseating headache. I found it difficult to dress with any
measure of excitement and cared very little whether or not I was to eat oatmeal or hamburger
stew (even though the latter had once made me vomit for hours; the mere thought of it made my
stomach turn). It was interesting to note that I did, however, anticipate reading the local
newspaper; equally interesting was the fact that once it actually came into my possession, its
smell revolted me.
It seemed as if the day would prove interesting.
I finished my bowl of oatmeal without taking so much a glance at the nauseating
newspaper. I passed my yawning parents in the hall, acknowledged them with a respectful nod,
had one returned correspondingly, and went back into my bedroom; once there, I fell backwards
onto my bed, laid the back of my head upon my hands, and noted that the cold, sterile air in my
room hurt my throat and nose. I turned over and closed the window in an effort to stifle the
chilling effect. As I returned to my former position, my thoughts began to turn over an
interesting thought that I had been recently exploring in my head.
The thought had plagued me for some time, but only recently had I molded it into
something resembling a coherent rationale; it was more of a theory, really. This theory was,
quite simply, that human beings have the necessity to hate without remorse.
It must be stressed that the necessity to hate without remorse occured only among fellow
human beings. The direction of hatred toward anything that was not human was completely
superficial and unnatural. For instance, when a person claimed to despise a political system, the
hatred may be sincere but it was also inadequate. Thus, it became inevitable that this person
would cite an official representing that political system, in some form, to espouse their hatred. If
that political system had not been manifested--if said official did not, in fact, exist--then that
person will accordingly hate whomever derived the mechanics of that system.
This hatred of human beings was by no means exclusive to individuals, but could be
manifested as organizations, governments, and so on.
Looking back upon history, it was obvious that war and violence both stemmed from
hatred of fellow man. It could be assumed--and it seemed only natural--that hatred would one
day lead to the extinction or wholesale slaughter of humanity as a whole, turning citizen against
citizen, neighbor against neighbor, and--inevitably--friend against friend.
If one was to observe the present-day society, it was clear that human beings promote the
idea of hatred. Division was the most common-place manifestation of this policy. In the United
States, diversity was applauded. How else could diversity end but in blood-shed? Because it is
natural for human beings to hate, would this diversity not encourage individuals to take arms
against one another--ultimately in disgust?
"Love" seemed, quite obviously, to be a lie; or perhaps, a mere abstraction. Or perhaps it
did exist. In that case, it was nothing like that which is professed to be "love" in society, but
some sort of strange, obscure, emotional phenomenon. It was most definitely lacking definition.
I had no solution to my theory. I did not believe that anything can be done to prevent the
inevitable. It was merely what I believed would happen, in light of my thoughts and
observations.
Now, as for the matter of remorse...
Much to my vexation, I drifted off to sleep sometime during the examination of my theory.
My mother woke me in an excited manner and informed me of the impending arrival of the bus,
which only intensified my annoyance. I grabbed my book-bag and lunch, hurried out the door,
ran down the steps, noticed the dark clouds beginning to enter the sky above me, and managed to
stop the bus before it passed on by. I boarded the yellow trap, huffing and puffing, and, in
accordance with routine, seated myself in the very back and prepared myself for another day of
school. This time, however, I was short of breath and even more irritated with the burgeoning
hate-mongers than usual.
The rain began to pour down heavily outside.
My social studies class immediately followed lunch, and provided an interesting--albeit
perplexing--experience that afternoon.
The regular teacher was absent and had been replaced by an unfamiliar substitute. The
bell rang and the students casually sauntered into the class-room. I sat in the usual desk, away
from the others. All of the students were louder and more insipid than usual, due to their valid,
collective expectation that they would be subject to less restraint with the regular teacher gone.
The substitute was an individual of average height and rather non-descript in appearance.
He wore the typical outfit and had an unremarkably modest hair-cut. He was not particularly
handsome, although he was not ugly, either. To his credit, he was not an easy target of
mischief--his features were difficult to make fun of, and, thus, he was bound to receive little
harassment from the students regarding this aspect of his personality.
What struck me as interesting was his voice. In a matter of moments, it would be observed
that the other students felt likewise. For, in utter contrast to the usual, meek vocal capacity of
all other substitutes I have encountered, this man had a throat of thunder.
"May I please have your attention," he rumbled.
It was a surprise that the walls did not shake. Several students did fall from their desks in
astonishment, however. Many let out unimaginative cries of terror and then muttered an
utterance of distress as either their heads hit the wall or their feet kicked painfully at the desk in
front of them. A few moments later, after the disturbances had abated, all attention was focused
on the unfamiliar substitute. I could not help but raise an eyebrow.
"Thank you," he said, apparently somewhat surprised at the response he had received, as
the following, awkward pause indicated. "My name is Mr. Mason. Your regular teacher has
come down with an ailment and can't be with you for the remainder of the week, in all
likelihood. Thus, I will be the replacement until his recovery and return. In light of this, I have
something I like to call an 'alternative assignment' for you all."
He braced himself for the collective groan that both he and I were expecting. We were
both surprised to find, however, that the class remained quite intent upon his discourse. My
eyebrow remained raised.
"Now, if you would be so kind as to keep all that we discuss from reaching the ears of your
usual social studies teacher, I will inform you of the details," Mr. Mason continued. A strange
grin began to form upon his face.
I was quite interested in this seemingly non-descript man. His humor, however, fell rather
flat with me. The students, on the other hand, all tittered in amusement. Many sat up straight in
their chairs, interest then prompting them to lean forward, as if to maintain such a position
would help them to soak up the initial magnificence of the exotic sage they had coincidentally
encountered.
"I have always longed for the opportunity to face a class-room of this size and form what is
called a 'debate club'--an organization that, if formulated properly, will help to spur students on
to explore their opinions of certain matters in society. I hope to one day become an actual, " and
the supposed sage paused at this, widening his grin, "social studies teacher. With your
cooperation, I can slake that present thirst until that glorious time when I have achieved such a
position!"
At this, the students all burst out in laughter. It was baffling. Tears ran rampant from their
eyes and the sound of knees being slapped hard by the palms of hands was nearly deafening. I
was astonished and rather confused. What left me increasingly bewildered was the attitude of
Mr. Mason; indeed, he was laughing hardest of all. Both of my eyebrows were raised painfully
high. I believe my mouth may have even been slightly agape, although I could not be sure. I
was hardly paying attention to it, anyhow.
I raised my hand. Several moments later--after Mr. Mason had gotten up from the floor he
had fallen onto and the class had regained its composure--I was called upon to speak. In silence,
I stood and cleared my throat. In a respectful tone, I requested that I be excused from the
class-room to use to the rest-room. The students resumed their cacophony of laughter. My
eyebrows remained raised. Over the tumult, Mr. Mason waved his hand for me to go and then
fell from his seat, howling. His tumble into the garbage-can only intensified the chortles
exuding from the students, but I was not surprised at that point. I quickly made my way out of
the room and into the quiet sanctuary of sinks and toilets.
When I returned to the class-room, I was surprised to find that everything was completely
in order and that the students were just pulling their discussion to a close. Even the overcast sky
had cleared up a bit, allowing a modest measure of sunlight to play upon the desktops. Mr.
Mason ignored my entrance, but asked me a few moments later, in front of the entire group of
staring students, "Mr. Smith, I have been informed, by many of your fellow students, that you
fancy yourself to be an intellectual. How interesting!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with
excitement, as well as something else I had difficulty identifying.
"My question to you, Mr. Smith," he said, suddenly pointing his index finger to the ceiling,
"is this: what exactly does that mean?"
I was shaken at this question. I had not expected him to ask. Still, I was interested at this
challenging inquiry and told him so.
"Go on," was his response.
Clearing my throat, I suggested to Mr. Mason that being an intellectual entailed various
aspects reflecting the intellect of an individual mind--which was, perhaps, quite obvious.
"Interesting. Go on," he replied.
From that point I spewed forth blather that struck me as inanely humorous (although I kept
a straight face the entire time, out of necessity), but held the rigid attention of the students. The
latter did not particularly surprise me. After several minutes of speaking words and concepts
that made several of the students gasp and squirm within their seats, I was stopped by Mr.
Mason.
"That's enough, Smith. I believe we all got the message," he said, his mouth breaking into
a grin again.
I nodded my head. Our eyes broke contact and mine could not help but wander to the
window. The sun was beginning to dim outside--clouds were passing overhead, directly below
it. I could no longer see its light upon the desk-tops. It appeared that the sky would become
overcast--once again--very shortly.
Mr. Mason interrupted my respite.
"Now, Mr. Smith, it must logically follow that, owing to your gift of intellect, you have
formulated some interesting theories in your spare time," and here he gave a small laugh. His
eyes quickly scanned the students, to which they responded with laughs of their own. "Would
you be so kind as to share one or two of these potentially-revolutionizing concepts?"
I experienced a series of curious sensations after my brain had finished taking his words
fully into account. This stimulation was unlike anything I had ever felt before. My throat
seemed to swell, my ears seemed to burn, and my arms suddenly felt quite awkward behind my
back. The strangest occurrence of all was the sudden appearance of cool perspiration, which
beaded at the top of my forehead and quickly proceeded to stream down over my right temple.
Despite its attempt at rectifying the sudden shock my mind had encountered, I could not utter a
word. My arms hung loosely at my side.
"Look at him--he's sweating!" exclaimed a student, quite unnecessarily.
"Indeed," noted Mr. Mason, his face bereft of the grin. It was interesting to note, in fact,
that it almost resembled a look of pain, although I could not understand what I had done to make
him feel so. He began to say something but was cut off by the bell. The students burst from the
room without a word.
I quickly regained my composure. As I began to gather my belongings, Mr. Mason called
out my name. I looked up at him.
"Smith," he repeated, slightly opening his arms as he walked toward me, "I'm sorry I said
all that. I didn't realize you'd take it the way you did. I was just curious and I guess I got a bit
out of hand. Would you accept my apology?"
He held out his hand. I shook it, and said that I would. It was interesting how loudly my
words echoed in that room, once nearly everyone had left.
"Gee, that's great," he said, placing his hands within his pockets. His voice sounded frail.
He attempted to grin once more.
I nodded and then promptly burst from the room without another word.
Continue to The Great Nascent Pt.2
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