Boogiepop Phantom Fan Fiction ❯ Regrets: Finding Boogiepop ❯ Regrets: Finding Boogiepop ( Chapter 1 )

 

Death borders upon our birth, and our cradle stands in the grave. Our birth is nothing but our death begun.
--Bishop Hall

--

 

It happened when I was fifteen years old.

 

“You do know that your birthday's coming up soon.” Everyone at the cafeteria, some even not my friends, turned at this announcement. I don't like trumpets, and this is what it made me think of; trumpets, kings, and faerie tales. I was standing at the end of a long, immense hall with a king sitting atop his richly decorated throne. “Julia Maywin!” an Announcer would declare, and the spectators' heads, shadowed from my eyes, would turn. I would be escorted down the elegant red carpet, which would feel like waltzing on a cloud. I would never actually know this though; I would be too busy grimacing at the gaping faces on either side trying to get the best view of me. Then I would proceed to the king, in his fine drapery, bedazzled with many rubies, my favorite jewel, and….

“Julia Maywin!” I hadn't expected a second announcement to the king. All I saw was my friends' eyes upon me, looking annoyed and impatient. I don't like attention.

“What the hell are we supposed to get you, huh?” My friend, Mirium, a.k.a. “Mirz,” asked me. I told her it wasn't important. “On behalf of us, how about considering a surprise party?” Everyone looked at her weirdly-surprise parties aren't intended to be known by the recipient. Even I knew that.

Apparently, the bell rang, because there was a scurry of movement. I whisked my trash to the garbage receptacle last, seized my book bag, and, as if on autopilot, started en route to next class, where surely I would be called on, and everyone would stare. “Freak,” some girl would audibly whisper to her so-called-friend (whom I knew had written something malicious about the whisperer only a week or so ago-everyone knew that). I learned not to care, still mumbling my answer and looking intently at the paper in front of me. They called it “homework” but I wondered if anyone bothered to take the trouble of actually, most likely, painstakingly writing and correcting each answer. Most, including me, didn't. My genius was beyond this class, beyond these people. “People,” I would inaudibly sigh, “are just not worthy, neither me nor them.”

Raining. I would carelessly tug my hood up, and amidst the noisy schoolchildren, slamming of car doors, and the inestimable number of cars, minivans, and blinding-yellow buses, start my long, sopping wet, expedition home. The rain reminded me of my outlook on life, anyway the sun hurt my eyes, and long after, still burned beneath my eyelids. Eyelids, which were supposed to be protection, didn't function as supposed. Nothing ever did for me anyway. A car clambered by, nearly soaking me. I just stood there, dejectedly gaping at the car, which was continuing its journey down the busy main street. I don't like tears. They're a waste of time. I felt like a dried prune, without water. Or drenched in water, the irony of it. Dripping outside, dry inside. Sighing, I lifted my face to the sky, allowing the drips of rain to fall down my face, as tears would have. Should have.

_-_-_

 

My birthday inevitably came. I cannot stop it, nor can I stop other things. Time, for instance. It can stop, but wind around its face when you least expect it. Digital clocks amuse me. They show the now; the time at that particular moment. You can't see ahead. You can't see that in two hours, for instance, that your life is going to inexplicably change. You can't see that in two hours the time would've been 8:00, but with no one around, the face still changed. It's monotonous and predictable. If you aren't around, though, the time on that clock means nothing. A digital clock depicts the now, not the future. It can't even help you learn numbers.

Mirz, Jan, Margaret, Marti, and Kelsy came at 6:00. They said that my birthday officially started then, but officially, it would have started at eight o' clock this morning. I would venture to guess most didn't know that though. It didn't matter.

_-_-_

When I was eight years old, my great-grandmother died of a heart attack. I went to the funeral. It was raining, and the drops hid the tears that weren't there. My great-grandmother loved to tell stories, especially ones about faerie princesses and magic dragons, one was even named “Puff,” I believe. Everyone called her crazy. Actually, they used “eccentric” but I guess they thought I wouldn't understand them then. Great-Grandmother Nably—which is what I called her, that is, when she was alive—was crazy in her own right. The grown-ups would whisper about how much Great-Grandmother Nably was like me at my age. I don't like faerie princesses. Nor do I care for magic dragons. Adults live in their own façade of lies—I was not like Grandmother Nably, nor would I mature into an outgoing, eccentric adult.

“Where do we go after we die?” I asked my older brother. When I saw Great-Grandmother Nably lying there, inanimate, I could feel absolutely nothing. “Nothingness, a dark shadow engulfing my heart” I remember reading once, long ago. “I don't know,” he responded, “but I guess we rot, or go to hell.”

_-_-_

They didn't tell me. The boys just materialized at the door to my house—apparently, Mirz called them. They don't know me, or that it's even my birthday. No one brought a cake. Or presents. I guess they think I'll just enjoy their company. I don't like “company.” What are all these people doing at my house? I'm not sure myself. I think it's because of my birthday. I doubt they had much trouble or toil trying to plan a party. Not much of a birthday party though. Marti and her guy friend are making out next to the couch, the ugly paisley one my father bought last year. I never see him anyway. One boy keeps glancing at me. I don't like him. There aren't many I do.

Except one. His name was Jonathon. Same age and gradeschool as Mirz and I. Mirz never liked him—said that he was `too serious; too realistic'. I liked him though. When he changed high schools, unexpectedly, I felt a `pang in my heart.' I never told him how much I (cared?) for him. Other than Mirz, I had never considered anyone else to be of any importance. Regret. Sometimes, during class, I'll imagine Jonathon, doodling or staring off into space. Later, I would tell him that I like (d?) him. Perhaps.

_-_-_

“Boogiepop—she was birthed by the night, into the darkness,” they say. It sounded like something from Great-Grandmother Nably's collection of faerie stories. It wasn't. I know.

_-_-_

After the party, Mirz and I escaped and ventured into the brightly-lit city. She said she wanted to visit Central Mall before it closed. It was 1 am. Passersby, not as intent on their destination, wandered by, and faded into the crowd. They reminded me of the ronin, or wandering, masterless samurai of feudal Japan. Finding a half-full beer bottle on the sidewalk outside a crowded, noisy bar, Mirz grabbed the bottle and took a swig. Stomach and kidneys bursting with the liquid, Mirz dropped into a drunken stupor. Suddenly, she awkwardly jumped onto a bench; hand over blood-shot eyes, searching the mosh-pit of a crowd. “Hey!” She shouted, “Isssn't thaat Jo…oh…Jon—well, whatever-his-name-is?” My heart stopped as Mirz half-pulled, half-helped me onto the bench. “Damn splitting headache!!!” Mirz roared as she ran off the bench to find a nearby spot to puke. As she was leaning over a nearby trash receptacle, I spotted him. Jonathon. Heart racing, I made my way through the crowd, hopefully guiding myself to the place I last saw him. Making my way into an adjourning alleyway, I spotted the unruly black hair trademark to only two—Harry Potter and Jonathon.

_-_-_

“NOOOO!!!” I screamed. Jonathon, lying face-up on the ground, eyes open but seeing nothing, was cold, dead. It was the first and last time I've ever screamed, or even spoken above a whisper. My cheeks were wet.

Feeling a presence behind me, I whirled around; finding only a shadow, with a hat and billowing cape, recede into the night.

“Regret,” it whispered, “is forever.”

 

I found Boogiepop that night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Inspired by Kouhei Kadono's “Boogiepop Phantom”)

 

 

 

 

1