Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Coke Bottle Feline ❯ Contented Kitty ( Chapter 2 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Contented Kitty

I forgot, and I couldn't figure why I did. October 12th was my birthday, that was today, and I didn't notice. I remembered it every year, but why not now? I should be the first person to remember, but I was the last. Not last, my mother was the last. She never told me when I was born, the reason I learned when my birthday was was that I read my birth certificate, when I was ten years old. I didn't have a single party to celebrate my birth until I was eleven.

Anyway, when Mrs. Flintare said those words, as you can tell, I was absolutely ecstatic. She looked like she could have been my own mother, with oven mitts, and a sunshine apron. Her smile warmed my, at times, cold heart, and she wasn't wearing makeup, which showed she didn't mind me seeing her not so glamorous. She was short, and looked worn I was envious that she wasn't my mother sometimes, but I wouldn't take her away from Alex. Yet, I dream that my mom might have an eighth of what Mrs. Flintare, just sometimes.

�You forgot your own birthday, didn't you. You're turning 16 today!� She giggled like one who was much younger than her real age.

Alex chimed in hurriedly, �I ma-made sure I did-di-din't re-re-r-rem-remind him.� He was making more speech mistakes because of his enthusiasm. �I tried to g-get-get hi-h-him to st-stay t-th-the nig-night, bu-but he ha-h-has ho-home-w-wo-ww-wor-work.� The poor kid sounded disheartened as he endeavored to say homework.

�Oh, Alex,� I voiced as I pat his head familiarly. �I'll stay late, and pull an all nighter to get that assignment done.�

We laughed, and talked for what was hours, and I loved every minute. It was my best day of the year, and the end of the year was nearing. Alex's mother even bought a petit, rectangular cake with my name on it, and a lion drawn in the top left corner. It was childish, but it was a thoughtful thing to do. After dinner, we ate that cake.

During that time, I heard the door slam, and found it eerie. There was a silence among us, and my friend clearified what was going on. �That-th-that's m-my siss-sister.�

Thinking nothing of it, I said, �Does she want to have cake with us?� It was late, and most teenagers would be in trouble if they came that late, but they were not bothered, or concerned.

The silence became awkward after my comment. �Uuuuuuuum, no. She doesn't like cake.� It was excuses like this that made me speculative.

I had to ask if I could meet her, my questions about became more, like what her name was, and why they wouldn't tell me anything about her. �Can I see her? I mean, we have been friends forever, and I don't know your sister's name. That makes me feel like a bad friend.�

Alex, and his mother had a lengthy conversation without talking, and they decided Alex would tell me. �O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ok-ok-okay-okay. I'll tak-take you th-t-there.� What was so nerve racking about me meeting his sibling?

We ventured back to the living room, turned down a hallway I hadn't taken note of before. He knocked on a black door. �E-Em-Em-Emma. L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-Le-Le-Le-Le-Leo,� told you he had a hard time with his name, �wa-wants to me-m-meet you.� Wait, Emma? Same Emma that I have a crush on? The door opened to reveal secret crush. Her hair was messy, and she wore a silky black tank top, with baby blue pajama bottoms. It felt odd to see her in her loosened up state. She looked so well dressed, and neat, but that looked to have changed when she got home. The only thing that didn't change was her book.

Oh god, I'm going to have to stop having an adoration her. I've heard too many anecdotes about loosing friends that way. �Hey, I'm Leo from your classes.� I wanted to ramble my thoughts into one big sentence, but that would make me have a bad impression on her. We had not talked in school, because of how solitary she was. �I wanted to meet his sister, but he hasn't mentioned your name so I never knew.�

She had this consistent air of indifference encompassing her. �Yeah, now you know. If you're questioning why we have different last names, I was adopted when I was a baby, and mom decided I should keep my first name.� My heart throbbed hearing her voice. I wanted to record it and then I could listen to it when I was thinking about her.

�That makes sense. I should get going to finish homework.� I agreed with myself to terminate the language before something went terribly wrong. �It was a pleasure to meet you.�

�It's great to meet my little brother's best friend.� Her ebullience didn't match with her tone, kinda depressed sounding, with a little upbeat. Like a side note, she remarked as she closed her door, �Happy birthday, Fenik.� A chill ran down my spine when I heard Fenik, but I dismissed it as she forgot my name, because I wasn't that memorable. Though, she did know it was my birthday, too, so I was thrown off. Our conversing lasted four sentences, but regardless, it made me content, and feel like kissing her.

Fantastically enough, I heard a snicker on the other side of the door, like she had heard me.

I said my goodbyes to Alex, and his mother, and walked home. Not that I was going to sleep that night, I didn't sleep much on the nights I when to the high school; a couple of hours on average.

I took off my shoes, and walked in the cool, lush grass, doing a sort of an unwinding, meditating type of thing. I took my time getting home, and felt goose bumps pop up on my neck, and down my arms. I wore a pale, brown, sweat shirt that kept me at a neutral temperature. Chilled, I pulled my hands out of my pockets, blew into them to get circulation, and stuffed them back.

I spotted my house, and ran into a tree. Not necessarily into the tree, but in the branches. Twigs stuck unmercifully into my chest, and cheek. The tree was conveniently in front of my window, that was on the second floor, so I could sneak into the house without questions. Questions are a pain, and mother, and father don't ask if they don't see. This sort of relationship goes either way.

I descended into my bedroom carpet, which the texture created a irritation, and took hold of my costume. I called it a costume, because I like to be dramatic, and have an alter ego, thus I let my imagination take a hold of me. With my tight budget I got from allowance, I bought specific clothing that would be fitting from a second hand store. It's fascinating what I have found there; masks, soft souled shoes, capes, dramatic hats, and gloves. The best thing about preowned gloves were that if, for some reason, they were searched for prints, other people's prints would be detected, and they would be completely thrown off my trail. Not giving any ideas, but...

Anyway, I was once again at the school. I hesitated, but I wasn't sure why. I shouldn't, but I was more nervous than usual. Emma had bewitched me in every way, and the thought that she was this close the whole time excited me. It shouldn't, because it took on a creepy factor, but it didn't matter because she wouldn't look at me again after our meeting this evening.

Still, as I always do, I took a moment to numb my common sense to jump inside. I did several pull ups inside the office to do quick get tensed, and ready. When I got in the school, I relished running up, and down the halls, while dodging the cameras at the same time, so it was I good idea to do some preparation. It was surprisingly colder in Mr. Raptor's office than outside, but I thought it was always the opposite. Plus, don't cold blooded creatures need a warm environment. Get it? It's a joke... about Mr. Raptor... dinosaurs need warmth... whatever.

The halls were eerie, and gloomy, but I could hear Martin singing some foreign song in the distance. This one sounded Russian, with a hint of Japanese. I've studied the basics various languages, and as follows, I know how they sound. I adore learning culture, and I have a practically photographic memory thusly memorizing is effortless. Accents are a long way more absorbing than actual languages; they can tell you were incisively a person is from while languages can be from many countries.

Anyway, I wasn't knowing what I was going to do today. Perhaps an amount of vandalism would work, or mild revenge. My adventures from last evening ruined several relationships within social groups, much to my satisfaction, and I hope to get that result again.

After much decision, I arranged to glimpse at Emma's locker, but I wanted to speak with Martin first. It's not as lonely at night knowing I have someone to talk to if I want to.

He was in one of the many math classrooms, vacuuming, and moving desks, according to the teacher's orders. I can't help, but feel a little pity for him. He works each night, and teachers complain the next day because it's not quite what they wanted. Sometimes it's something like he didn't dust, which isn't part of his job, and he gets rudely corrected.

As I entered the room, he said, �Martin say hillo, Leo. Good day, hmmm?� He didn't turn from his work, and just continued to vacuum, which I found strange. I can't say anything about strange, being that I was wearing a dark purple cloak, and an elaborate masquerade mask. If anyone saw me, I would be considered the odd one in this situation.

�Yes, the day has been nice.� That was a moderate way to put it. I has still happy about my birthday celebration. I was the equivalent to a little kid when he learns there is a jolly old man that breaks into his house, and leaves presents. �How is this night treating you?� That sounded a little more off than I intended.

He finished the area he was working on, and sat down in one of the student chairs. He looked to be out of breath, and was sweating greatly. His eyes were closed , and he was trembling as he answered, �Martin fine. No worry about Martin. Martin tired, 'h old.�

How could he work every night when, to me, he looked like he barely stand after half a night. �Rest a while. I don't know about Mar-,� his way of speaking was contagious. �you. Do you have stories you can tell?� Martin appeared to be an stimulating person, with scars of every shape, and texture, and eyes that could tell their own tale.

He made himself more comfy, and his eyes snapped open after a minute or so. �Martin live by self jungle Jahfric'.� Africa, if you can't understand. �Martin met wamon. Girl beautyfulous in wold. Luve her.� His expression clearly showed how dear she was to him. �Our live togeth for year. I hunt, she coke,� cook, �and gathrd fuit. She wonder wamon. Hap, hap time. At end year, she kill meh.� He forgot to add the word, try, obviously because he no longer would be alive. �She give me sar.� He pointed to a deep, jagged scar going through his lower, and upper leg. �Ting went wong. Sick in head sudden. So sad. I try save, no.� He was so pained, and unshed tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Pathetic guy, the girl he loved dying. What killed her could have been anything, no medical help from where he was. He told me more about her; attitude, beauty, and habits. While he did, his demeanor changed into a docile

My throat tightened, but I wanted to ask, �What was her name?�

Martin looked up in a bittersweet way. �Ilsak. Her named Ilsak. Not say name time.� He rested his quivering fingers on the marring, and winced, similar to if it hurt after all this time. A smile found itself on his face, a fond yet gloomy one.

�I'm extremely sorry I brought up these memories for you.� I patted him softly on the shoulder. �I have things I need to do before I leave, but thank you for the story. I'll see you again next week?�

He switched to his normal persona. �Yes, bye Leo.� He removed my hand as a sign of his well-being.

I smiled weakly as I decided my next course of action, Emma's locker. This is my last hurray before I forget about her... hopefully. Locker 942 belonged to her, and I feel like a stalker because I knew that. I located it without much trouble, and rested my forehead on it. She had touched the cool metal each day, felt frustration, and different emotions as she opened, and closed it.

I spun out her combination, since I had carefully watched her as she had a respective number of times. I mouthed them to myself when I did so. The door swung, and clanked against the adjacent locker, showing me what I yearned to see. It was somewhat cluttered, with her feminine, curvy handwriting on papers scattered around the space, and binders. There were several textbooks between everything else. A magnetic picture frame held an antique, sepia photograph of a couple. I presume that it was her grandparents, or great grandparents, but I can't be sure. My curiosity couldn't be helped, and I inched the photo out of the plastic case to check if there may be a note on the back. There were a five words, �Ellson, Fenik before last trip.� Those were names I wasn't familiar with, not knowing what kind of region it was from.

A part of my brain clicked, Fenik. Emma called me that. I brushed it off, thinking she was thinking about her family. Before she said that, she was talking that she was adopted, and she might have said his name by mistake. That was it, I was certain now. I did kinda look like Fenik, if I added four to six years to my image.

I dragged myself from the picture, and inspected the rest of what was in the locker. There was a lone quiz paper from the beginning of the year that I stole for my personal use. Not that personal use... perverts. She got a hundred on it, of course, since she had more intelligent than me. She was in most of my classes, and excels me in every way, even physical education. It might be because she reads so much...

Considering what I was doing, I reasoned that I would give her a little semblance of privacy. I shut the contraption, and shivered slightly from the light breeze created. It was midnight by this point in time, and I thought I would go home, but ultimately, my teenage need to destroy stuff caught up with me.

One word, spray paint, and I knew exactly who had it. I tend to be observant, because perhaps you haven't noticed, and I glanced at other people to see if they or their possessions can service me to my advantage. It was this guy a year above me, a junior, who was into smelling spray paint from a brown paper lunch bag. In slang terms, I believe it is called huffing. There are quite a few names that I remember from middle school, but huffing sounds the most adequate, or maybe sniffing. Sniffing is a slang for it, too.

He had two colors, the ones were the best for huffing, which were gold, and silver. As I pondered it over, I was helping out his guy get away from his addiction, but not really because he could only get more if he wanted to. He probably did not want to, since he knew the safety risks, and continued regardless.

I shook the contents of the can to properly mix it. The outside of the can was red, and it read, �New Graffiti, new formula with every can.� Later on, perchance I would buy that brand if it was decent. It's difficult to find quality spray paint when it counts, ya know? I used, �ya know.� That's kind of cool for me. To sound natural has been my goal, or at least more natural. I discover it problematic at times when I cannot locate a one syllable word to describe a considerably larger one.

Okay, I wasn't going to paint on each person's locker what I thought about them, that would be positively stupid, and give me more credit than that. I had thought about it, it is tempting, but I can't risk loosing my spot at night. They would find me out instantly. On top of that, I would have to alter my handwriting to have them not think of me. The school wouldn't necessarily pin me down in the first place to sneak in and vandalism school property, but one can never be too careful. The principal was going to check the tapes, I knew this because that is the logical thing to do, but I wouldn't have to worry about that. If you wonder why... um... you are none too smart...

I determined to go to the cafeteria to unleash my creative genius. I dashed between the rows of tables, and sprayed a single line of paint on the middle of each table. The tables in the room were in giant rows of about twelve feet long each, and ten in each row, about. There were five rows, total, in the room. This sounds like a math problem you get in elementary math classes, aft I think it through. The rows were close enough so when I stretched my arms out, they could reach both sides. Therefore, I could paint two tables at once.

I'm about 5'6'' so how far is the distance in the middle of the tables? Make sure to add the units, and round to the nearest tenth of an inch. No, don't do it, I'm just joking.

When I concluded that task, I grabbed five chairs, and stacked them on their sides. This got more distance upward, but it was much more treacherous than standing one on top of the other. If I was normal, I would fall the moment I got onto one, but I was able to get onto all four chairs without problem. It was one of my talents, excellent balance. I thought it was to everyones ability to be able to stand on top of a door with only one foot, until I went to junior high. Don't ask me how I got up that high, that's a long, and boring tale, that's not worth getting into.

Once on the precariously placed chairs, I started to write a short poem that would take up the majority of that wall.

My pencil point becomes dull,
Ideas bouncing around my fatigued skull.
I write what may come to mind.
Concepts intertwined.
Memories come to life,
Some as sharp as a knife.
The feel of glass against my palm.
The devastation before a calm.
I write these all on my paper
And try not to taper.
I realize something in the end.
A concept I learned to defend.
Life is pure fiction,
Only with restriction.

That was an abridged version of a poem called, �Fiction's Restriction,� by Brisa Christian. It was one of those poems that was like a riddle, and meant something different to every person. I had read it in a book once. This wasn't hardcore vandalism, I personally thought it added to the feel of the room. It did feel pleasant , however, to, �ruin,� something that wasn't mine. School was like a prison, and students needed something new from time to time. Unless said students decide that it's lame, then they don't need anything new from time to time.

Satisfied, I signed it with a symbol of a curvy, elegant feline. It would have been mirthful if I had put big, goofy glasses on the kitty. Then it would be a coke bottle feline, isn't that cool?

Dear Reader,
If you try to find Fiction's Restriction on the internet, you will fail miserably. I wrote it, and wanted to randomly add it into the text. If I get a request from anyone who wants to see the whole poem, I will put it on. Please review to tell me how I can improve or if you would mind editing for me. I take advice seriously, and if you have a recommendation, I will see what I can do.
GK