Finger Training

[Leotrak]

It's giving off a very complex feeling now, with all the intermingling feelings in the narrator's family... Which just goes to show you really don't give yourself enough credit, Minister

To sum up all my thoughts: It's a great piece of writing and you should keep expanding on this.

'nuff said

[Minister of Gloom]

Just wanted to inform you that I've been struggling like you wouldn't believe with the next chapter over the last few days. I still don't like the way it looks.
So the reason the story stopped is not because I've forgotten about it, it's because I just can't write it, for now.
Still trying though, hopefully there'll be some sort of breakthrough in a few days. I think I'll just give up if there won't be, I am not built for this kind of stories.
Feel free to continue it in your own imagination for now, or some such pretentious authorspeak.

[Minister of Gloom]

After completely rewriting it for the god-knows-how-many-th time, I have finally decided to just give up and post the third chapter here. I am not pleased with it, and I'd bore you with a thousand specific reasons if I didn't think it'd bore you.
Nor am I pleased with the fact that I begun writing it on the very same day I finished the second one, and here I am only posting it months later. This crap just isn't for me, I guess, I am walking with my head against wall.

Also, in case it's not clear enough from the text itself, some of the "typos" in the narrator's speech aren't actually typos, it's the narrator and his/her annoying speech impediment.


Car Ride

If my family had tried to make me feel guilty or ashamed over leaving them like this and over my behavior that morning, they sure did very well. Their displeasure was clearly there, however subtle. They were smiling, as I said, and as polite to me as always, but there was a cold undercurrent to it all. There was something about the look in their eyes, and something about their voice when they spoke. I tried to pretend that it didn't matter to me.
Never making eye contact, just getting quietly into my place in the back seat of the car while they carried my luggage for me. Bags, briefcases, clothes and books we've bought months ago.
My mother was perfectly right to mock me around the breakfast table. I couldn't carry it all by myself. I am not even sure I would have been able to carry a single briefcase. A bag, maybe. They didn't say anything about it, of course. Just put everything into the trunk and left back into the house. My dad had his work to tend to, and Mika had to go to school.

So it was just me and my mom. I wanted to sit right behind her so that I won't have to look at her face during the ride, but I didn't have much choice about it, she insisted on helping me with my seatbelt. Besides, I guess she could always just see me in her mirror, no matter where I chose to sit. It was a stupid thought on my part.

We've been to the school before, of course, a couple of times. I was shown around the grounds, and I had a long talk with a few people who tried really hard to convince me that their establishment was the greatest thing in the world. They didn't need to work very hard. The very premise of living by myself in a place built for people like me was charming enough. But I guess it was nice of them to make the effort.

It was a long ride, so I took out my earphones almost immediately. I got them for my birthday a few years ago. One of the best presents I ever got, I think. I don't really have many hobbies, as you might have already guessed, and there weren't many I was able to engage in, anyway, so listening to music was one of the only good ways I had to pass the time, besides thinking. There was also watching TV, now that I think about it, but mom never let me do that much. She said it might give me seizures. But I think it was a good habit to learn either way, so no harsh feelings about it.
Oh, and there were audiobooks. If you knew where to get them, which I did, there were a lot of books in this format out there. I loved listening to them. It feels a bit different from simply reading and it takes a while to get used to, but it's worth it because you don't have to wrestle with the pages.

I didn't speak, and neither did mom, and so time passed silently within the moving car.
Space and time have a funny way to twist like that when you sit in a moving vehicle. You don't even need to go near lightspeed and all that high physics stuff. Just look out the window with wordless music in your ears. Seconds melt into minuets, losing form and color all around you.

I like this feeling. I think I was close to falling asleep when mom stated speaking, breaking the magic. I removed the earphones and suddenly there was nothing in the air besides true awkward silence, and the soft hum of the engine.

"What's bothering you, sweetie?" she asked as if she cared.

"Nothing," I said without elaborating without even bothering to look in her direction.

"Can you please stop this stupid teenager game? I am your mom, I know when you are agitated," she replied, and this time I did look in her direction, if only due to the shock of hearing her actually using this term.

"No," I answered, calmly still. "I can't."

"You can't or you won't? Help me out here, will you? I really want to know."
It wasn't like her, speaking such words. Speaking any words, really. I wasn't exactly the most conversational person in the world, but even when I did speak, it usually wasn't with her.
Not really. I think I can count the number of times I really spoke to anyone on a single hand's fingers.
Even though, in a way, speaking with her was by far safer than speaking with anybody else. I think I already mentioned how I stopped speaking for a while after people started laughing at my stutter and the weird way I pronounced things, and of all the people, I guess the one who cared the least about those things was mom.
But I still didn't feel like speaking.

"Is it about the new school? Are you afraid or nervous? We could still turn back now if that's what you want."

I bet she'd want that. What a stupid suggestion. Of course we couldn't turn back, even if I'd wanted to, which I didn't. And she knew that very well. What was she trying to accomplish by saying that?

"I'm fine."

"You are not looking fine."

"Never do," I replied, and I admit that was just a bit over the angsty edge. I was annoyed with her, but there was really no reason to act like that much of an idiot.
Mom went silent. Maybe she decided that she'd made her token effort, failed, and now it was perfectly justifiable to stop.

"I love you," she said with a hint of desperation to her voice, as if she couldn't currently think of anything smarter to say after running out of motherly clichés.

"I know," I said back. "Love you too."

"So why won't you speak to me? You are obviously angry about something, and I don't want you to be on your last day with me."

As if I was dying. "Please say something," she continued, now almost annoyed. "I can't just guess what's bothering you. You'll have to tell me what I am doing wrong. I want to know."

"You are not doing anything w-wroong. I'm f-finee, r-reallye." I bit my lip angrily after saying this. Too long a sentence; I was bound to mess it up. I swallowed the rest of what I had to say. All the confidence I've managed to gather over the previous few seconds dissipated.
I hate it when it happens. This is why I don't speak. I hate sounding like a retard.

"Look, if you don't want to speak about it, I won't force you to. This is your own decision. But I think you should consider it again."

I would've crossed my arms back then if it wasn't so much effort. My head was leaning against the window, and I could feel the vibrations from the car's engine and from the wheels rubbing against the road moving through my face.
It was a nice, dull feeling.
I didn't want to speak, but I still did. Even though she told me I didn't have to- and even if she didn't really mean it, and I bet she didn't, she probably wouldn't have said anything had I done otherwise.

"Why are you acting like th-this?" Why are you suddenly playing psychologist? Why are you suddenly so sensible and calm and a perfect stupid mother? Why do you speak like you care? Why do you keep pretending that you care? Why won't you just say straight to my face that you want me to go back home and never get out of bed again?
I didn't say any of those things, I don't think I ever made a single statement that long in my life by that point, but they were all in my head. It was enough to piss me off.
I know I wasn't very reasonable about it. I was angry at her before for treating me like a baby, and there she was talking to me like a relative adult and I was still angry at her.

She sighed heavily and kept driving. I was looking outside the window again, and even though I didn't have my earphones on me this time, I was still waiting for time to go away. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Which is funny, because that's what I get most of the time and all I want then is not to be.

"You were angry at me," I began quietly, hesitatingly. "This morning. B-because I s-said I didn't need yoor h-help."
Mom sounded surprised. Maybe it was because of what I said, or just because I talked at all.
"I wasn't angry at you, sweetie, I was worried. You of all people should understand- you almost- you almost hurt…" Now she was hesitating. Looking for some more politically correct way of describing the occurrence, probably.
"You almost got hurt just getting out of bed! And I heard you falling in the shower a few times. You could have…"

"I could've what?" I interrupted her angrily, in a way that was far less dramatic than I'd hoped. "Bruised myself? Cut m-myself? It won't k-kill me."
"It may kill you! And even if it doesn't, it would still hurt you. Do you want to get hurt? I don't understand you, I really don't!"
She was raising her voice now, perhaps angry, perhaps just anxious.

"P-people get hurt," I said. "Everybody d-dows". I was looking at her face now through the mirror. "Mika gets hurt. Y-you do."

She was the one biting her lips now. Because she wanted to say something like "But you are different", or maybe "But you are not everybody". She wanted to say that because that's what she was thinking, but she'd never do.

I breathed in deeply, with my eyes closed. "I don't want t-to bee your r-ragdoll forever. I don't want you f-feeding and dressing and b-bathing me like this. I am not your s-stupid toy!"
I was almost screaming at that point. I surprised even myself- screaming is just not something I did. Or do, for the matter. For various reasons.

"I just want to help you. I just want you to be happy. I always did."

I didn't answer. I didn't say anything. You cannot even imagine how much ashamed of myself I felt. I wanted to disappear, or die, or just be somewhere- anywhere else.
I had tears in my eyes, and my throat felt tight.

Because she was right. And because she was also very, very wrong.

Everything was.


...................................................................................................................

Boy, isn't this all super-duper exciting? I think there was some movement there on 6:12 between wangsty bitching shot #35 and #36, but blink and you'll miss it.
And it's not even good wangst.

[Mirage_GSM]

...she probably wouldn't have said anything had I've done otherwise.

One " 've" too many...
Usually I'd tell you to stop writing if you're not having fun doing it, but this story is really good - well, we don't know much about the story yet, but the character is and your writing as well.
So I won't. (Tell you to stop that is.)

[Leotrak]

Cripes, MoG O.o This is... just... Daaaaaaaang o.O

This stuff´s Made of Awesome.

[scott1and]

Like mirage, if you don't like writing this you shouldnt, other writers have and sure, there's some bitchin but people get over it. On the other hand the character itself is very good and the potential for a good story is there, but as I said, if you don't enjoy writing this, you really shouldn't.

[Minister of Gloom]

The Car Ride of Infinite Angst continues in another fascinating chapter, this time one with so much disorderly flashbacks within it that it barely even mentions the so-called dramatic present. All this goes to prove that I really shouldn't be writing stories without taking my medicines first. Look at this mess. Look at it and despair.

Pieces of Memory

Grandma gave me a ragdoll for my birthday when I was five years old.
Mom didn't think it was as nice a gift as I did back then.
Like the aforementioned earphones, this was another gift that ended up being very important to me, though in a rather different way.

The relationship between my mother and hers was always an interesting one, you may say. At the very least, it was an interesting one ever since I was born, if the stories can be believed.

I am almost sure that I have already mentioned having a difficult birth. According to the doctors, I was perfectly fine while I was in the womb. Healthy and happy as a fetus can be, I guess, and I stayed this way until a few hours before my mother's big moment until things suddenly started going wrong. Must have been awfully stressful for her, I can imagine, so I think she was really relieved when I finally made it out alive.

This relief of hers was short lived, though, because very soon after that some genius started the whole "Wait, is this baby moving as much as it should be moving?" drama. But the doctors, ever compassionate and infinitely benevolent as they are, only told mom that there was a certain chance of that kind of mess happening, and as long as they didn't use the term "one-hundred percents" it was more than enough of a negative chance for my mother to go completely crazy about it.

She refused to listen to reason. In the little fantasy world she built for herself in her mind, her precious little baby has managed to narrowly avoid some kind of terrible lifelong fate and was perfectly, utterly fine. And if the baby wasn't moving right now, then there must have been some kind of a logical explanation for this that didn't involve crippled kids and baseless feelings of guilt.

It took everybody involved a long while to convince her to face the facts. Until that happened, she'd spend days leaving me lying on the living room floor like an exotic baby-shaped rug and expecting me to gently float into her arms on pure willpower. Needless to say, it didn't work. She was really disappointed to discover that I wasn't actually a telekinetic superhero.

Then came another crazy period marked by a sudden, overwhelming interest in alternative medicine. You wouldn't believe how many psychos are out there claiming that for a low, low price they'd speak to the gods for you or give you some kind of fantastic magic potion for babies who won't lift their heads. I thought they were mostly gone after the nineteenth century but apparently they still exist today just fine, except now they're' legal.

In the end my mom sensibly decided not to join a cult and just bitterly admitted that maybe, yes, I was broken and it was way too late to send me back to the store and hope for a refund. But no harm was done, she figured, because if her baby was going to end up being a ragdoll, she might as well make sure it's a really neat ragdoll with a very nice dress.

My grandmother, her own mom, might have been the first person ever who really tried to beat her with the ugly truth.

She asked whether this was a permanent condition, to which my mother had to finally reply that it probably was. So grandma, never one to back down from a fight tried to compensate by asking how much of an effect it would have on my life. Will the baby be able to walk around? What about playing some musical instrument? Writing or painting? Would it even be able to talk?

And my mother was forced to reply that no, I won't be able to do any of it, as it seemed to her back then, and grandma just concluded (very diplomatically) that in this case I was far less useful to have than a well trained dog. Knowing her she probably also said that I was not as half as fun to be around as one.

Okay, so perhaps these were not the exact words she used, but according to my mother they were not much nicer.

Relationships between the two were tense until the ragdoll incident. This was when my mother decided never to speak to grandma again and threw her out of the house. She kept this promise until I was about eighteen.

She was really, really angry.

As for me, I just sat their and wondered why all the adults were shouting at each other and what I did to deserve having my nice new gift taken away from me. Mom replaced it, of course, I don't remember with what exactly, but for a five years old kid it's still a pretty nasty experience to have a new toy snatched from your hands like this.

Well, probably not "snatched" as much as "lightly taken away". It was still me back then; I had all the strong grip of a potted plant. There wasn't much in the way of resistance.

I wondered what happened to that ragdoll. Probably thrown to the garbage, or maybe given back to grandma with an angry letter or something. But logic like that is beyond most kids. I assumed it just went somewhere. Maybe it was lost.

I never asked anybody about it.
Who knows, maybe they would've answered. Too late for that now.

The car ride just kept stretching in time and space, with no end in sight. I put my earphones back on, listened to some more wordless music and hoping for the world to go away for a while. I think I might have even slept a little.

When I woke up, we were already in a completely different area. By the green hills around it seemed as if we were getting closer. I checked my watch: we were already a little late.
I thought maybe the teacher won't mind it much, what with it being my first day at a new school and all.

But I was still uncomfortable. My history with the education system at large was not a very pleasant one. I went to kindergarten all-right: the classes there are tiny and the kids aren't very bright, so teachers can afford to give special treatments to each and every one, even ones with actual "special needs". I didn't have any friends, but then again, not many kindergartners do, you know? Kids so young have very shallow and undeveloped personalities. The very concept of "friendship" is not one all of them can grasp, and relationships are very short term. Either you play with another kid at a certain point in time or you don't. Past and future interactions with said kid have little to do with it.
But then we all grew up, as kids usually do, and it came the time for us all to go to school.
They did, I wanted to but couldn't. My parents didn't think I'll be able to handle the pressures of a real school. I certainly wouldn't be able to get as much attention from the teachers- nobody will be around to help me eat and move. Nobody will be around who will be able to understand what I am saying.

So for a few years I stayed at home. My parents arranged for a lot of good private tutors. They were all nice people and while I didn't really like them, I didn't hate them too much either. Homeschooling has a lot of advantages, they say, but deep inside, I still wanted to go to a normal school. It was the normal thing to do, in my opinion. It was what normal kids did.

I wanted to be a normal kid.

So I insisted on going to a normal school. I begged and I begged and in the end, my parents finally agreed, though reluctantly.

Turns out, for once in my life, my parents were absolutely right. Turns out that a charming personality and good will and all the private tutors in the world can't prepare a wreck like me for the horrors of other elementary school kids.

My first few months there were rather hellish. Kids are not understanding, you know? Kids are not nice. Kids don't tolerate differences very well. Kids can be terribly cruel and terribly violent. As far as bullying goes, I guess there were victims of bullying far worse than me around the world- kids who were regularly beaten up and such, which I wasn't, but my time in school still wasn't a very pleasant one.

I didn't say anything to my parents for a while. I couldn't, after all I went through to make them agree to send me to a normal school. I didn't want to admit that I was so wrong and that they were so right. So I faked a lot of little smiles and never talked about it.

It's not like I was much of a talker, anyway.

But after a while I just couldn't take it anymore. I've had enough of the stupid teachers and students and awful staircases and before I knew it I started crying. Phone calls were made. Forms were signed.

The private tutors all got their jobs back.

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Maybe I can claim it was an intermission and save myself some of my lost dignity? Sure seems like one, storywise.
Wonder what happened to the Narrator's personality all of a sudden. Those memories are colored in a very different shade than the present thoughts of the last few chapters. Interesting.

You know, we already gave the Narrator a family name, Okada. I'd use it instead of "Narrator" but for now, just about all the relevant characters in the story could be called "Okada". It wouldn't be very useful.

I am going to keep struggling against this work, I want to know what happens in the end. Or at least the late beginning. Nobody else can do it, right?

Edit: Just in case the thought came to you that this chapter might include a subtle revelation of the Narrator's gender, I say: think about it more closely. Yes, a ragdoll is generally a gift for a little girl, not a little boy. However, you have to remember a few things: one, at this age the differences are really rather meaningless. There are more than enough little boys playing with dolls and more than enough little girls playing with trucks, even in a country like Japan. Two, remember that even if this is a boy, it's a boy who can't do much, physically. Doesn't even have the manual dexterity to build a puzzle, probably, and running around in the backyard playing some traditionally boyish game is completely out of the question. Maybe grandma couldn't think of a better gift.
Three, remember that it probably wasn't really a gift at all anyway, it was just an old lady being nasty to her daughter to make a point.

[Minister of Gloom]

Quality Time

The feeling I had when I woke up from my uneasy sleep, and felt the car slowing to a halt over seconds next to the front gate of the school building.
Would it be unfair of me to simply refer to this feeling as "strange"? It would be so difficult to describe with any degree of precision.
It was great. It was terrible. It was scary. It was fantastic. Anticipation mixed with dread, fulfillment mixed with emptiness, doubt mixed with conviction. I could feel my heart racing inside my chest, a desperate, ecstatic feeling. I could feel my fingertips shaking with excitement.

I have been here before. I recognized this gate, and the green lawns behind it. I could recognize the buildings, though not by name. I have been into some of them.
I felt like laughing and crying all in the same time.
This was the moment to which I have been waiting so long. This was my final destination, the culmination of so many dreams. So much fear and hope. I felt like a soldier right before leaving his home to go to war, like a pilgrim setting on his holy way. Such a dangerous feeling it was.
The ending of one journey, and the beginning of another. The ending of one life, hopefully.
There was no going back from here, even if I had wanted to.

We were very late, my mother and me. Maybe it made her nervous. Maybe it should have made me. It probably would have, or maybe it even did, but I don't remember thinking about it back then. I was too busy with other things.
The blue sky above us, the clouds, the sun. Everything was perfect, like a picture from a happy children's book, like a memory from a pleasant dream.
It wasn't a reasonable feeling. It was probably a foolish feeling. But I thought I had to describe it, and this is the only way I could. Feelings are complex things, especially in those kinds of moments.

"You think your teacher will be waiting for you at a time like this?", said my mother quietly, looking at her watch.

"No", I answered, not taking my eyes off the beautiful sight in front of me. I was submerged in a magical moment, and I didn't want it to end.

"Do you think we should make a phone call?" she asked mostly herself with a troubled look on her face, carefully considering the situation. "They did give us a number in case we have any questions."

Why did she insist on using "we" like this? It wasn't my decision. I didn't pretend it was, and I didn't answer.

"…On the other hand, it would make a bad impression to interrupt them like this so early, don't you think, sweetie? But wouldn't it be just as impolite to just step into the offices like this asking for directions…?"

Mom's debate with herself seemed to be getting fiercer. I was only listening to it half-heartedly. It wasn't interesting to me at the moment, even though it should really have been. It was, in the end, all about me. Mom was just trying to be helpful in her misguided, annoying way. Though I have to admit, I was also not acting at my most mature back then. I don't know why. Maybe it was this feeling I have already talked about clouding my senses and impairing my judgment.

"Let's just go", I finally said, looking at her, feeling a slight satisfaction in seeing the look on my mother's face. "I want to go".

She should have been angry, perhaps. I expected her to be, or to go all crazy again and tell me that I can't, that I shouldn't rush, that I'll fall if I try to run. That I can't run, and that I shouldn't even walk without her to hold my hand.

Instead, she just smiled sadly to me, and a little to herself. "Will you let me help you out of the car?" she asked.

I thought for a moment, looking at my knees rather than at her face, not wanting her to see me embarrassed as I saw her before.

"No," I answered after a while. This I could take care of on my own. I could do this quickly enough if I really tried. "But with th-the bags… I need you."

I saw it as a compromise, at the moment. I hoped that she did, too. She didn't say anything, she just quickly turned the car off and stepped out. I had to struggle a little with my seatbelt to free myself of it, and then reached awkwardly to the other side of the car to grab my crutches. I fell into one of the front seats trying to balance myself, but it wasn't anything serious. A wonder that my legs didn't break, though.

In the end, mom did give me a little help getting out, so I was a bit upset as I stood there next to her, trying desperately to contain my excitement. My legs were shaking, even more than usual, and the last thing I needed was another fall that would give mom second thoughts about the whole thing.

"…Thank you," I said to her, still looking at my feet in shame. She didn't respond, and it was for the better, I think. She did try very hard to keep me happy. I shouldn't have been so stubborn and stand-offish. I should have tried just as hard if I wanted things to change.
It was a bit late to think about such things, but better late than never, right?
"Let's go now. I want to go."

"I know you do," she said with a hollow voice. She didn't hold my hand, just went by close enough to my side that she'll be able to catch and hold me if anything happens. It must have been difficult for her to do while carrying my bags for me.
"I… I want t-to help," I said after a few moments, gauging the weight of the luggage with my eyes, biting my lower lip. She shouldn't be doing this alone for me, I thought. These are my clothes, my books. They should weight me down, not her.

She gently put down one bag on the ground. The smaller one, naturally. "Will you be able to walk with only one crutch?"

"Yes," I replied with a confident voice, even though I really wasn't at all. I tried lifting it. It was very heavy, just as I'd expected. For a short second, I could see her reaching forward just a bit, as if expecting me to break down any moment and hoping to gather the falling pieces of me.
I held the bag as tightly as I could by the handle. My fingers hurt. I tried leaning to the other side for balance, and the crutch dug into my flesh painfully.
One step.
Two steps.
Five steps.
Ten steps.
"I can do this," I said, more to myself than to her. An unnatural, ugly smile was spread on my face.
"I can do this. I c-can do this," I kept muttering, forgetting for the shortest of times that I wasn't supposed to speak. That I didn't like speaking.
But I didn't care about it. I felt like I could do anything. If I can do something like this without asking for help, than I truly I can do anything, I thought. That rush of freedom came to me again, that cursed excitement.

I dropped my bag, and I almost got angry about it, but instead, I just kept smiling. I was fine. Everything was surprisingly, unusually fine. I was walking outside, carrying my own briefcase by myself just for a short minuet. I was finer than ever. I was dizzy. I was sick.

Then she lifted the bag and gave me back my crutch without saying a word. She was right behind me that whole time, of course. I wasn't exactly running ahead.
Another mom, in another time, would have said "this was dangerous, this was unnecessary."
Another mom would have faked a smile and said "Bravo! You did it just like a big girl."
And my joy would have been ruined. I didn't want to feel like a big girl. I was a big girl. To say anything else would have been to imply otherwise.

So I turned my head back, and smiled just a little, and kept stumbling slowly forward on weak, limp legs. I felt powerful, and bright, and glorious. And suddenly I was terrified.

Everything was changing. Everything was about to change. There was freedom, but all of a sudden, a great fear. It was a special school. I was going to be away from my family for a long, long time. It's what I'd wanted. But what if it really wasn't what I needed? What if I was making a horrible mistake? The members of the staff that already talked to me were nice enough, but will they all be as nice? Will the other students be? I won't have anybody to help me, no matter how much I want to or need to. I'd be alone.
Or would I be? This school was created for people like me. Maybe they would offer to help me, but do I really want help? Do I need it?

I stopped in place, breathing heavily, sweating and shaking. Mom freaked out and ran straight to me, dropping my luggage. She knelt before me and held my body straight, gently, and pressed her forehead to mine as you would with a baby. I hated when she did that, but it didn't matter to me at the moment.

"Are you okay? Are you having a seizure?" she asked in a cracked sort of voice of badly hidden hysteria.

"Yes," I answered, not even minding that I might have technically answered the second question right now. I had to get a hold of myself. This was not the time to turn back. Not there, on that way, surrounded by those trees. I have reached so far and I wasn't going to throw everything away because of a moment of doubt.
"I feel fine."

I was almost at the door. Almost at the end of my journey. Almost at the beginning of my journey.

Before I knew what was happening, mom was hugging me. A real, powerful, warm, crushing hug. Not a protective hug. Not like you would hug a baby, or a poor, pale, crippled girl who wouldn't speak her mind. It was full of sadness. It was full of pride. It was full of regret.

"I love you very, very much," she said.

"I know. Love you too."

"I am sorry."

I swallowed back the twitch rising up my throat.

"Please call me if anything happens to you. Please call me if you want to talk to me. Just call me, and dad, and Mika. We'll all miss you. We'll all want to speak to you."

"I… I'll call, then."

"And I am so, so sorry. I am sorry for everything. Everything I ever did to you. I everything I never did. I am sorry for… for… Please forgive me."

I rest my head on her shoulder one last time. "Are you s-sorry that," I stuttered weakly, "that you g-gave birth t-to mee? That I am alive? Am I a b-burden to you?"

She held me more tightly now, choking me, smothering me, as if trying to take me back into herself. "You are the greatest thing for me in the whole world. You are the most important and precious thing to me in the whole world. You are never, ever a burden to me. You are the one who carries me around. You are the one who guides me. You are bright. You are brave. You are…"

I looked around me.

I looked at her.

I looked inside of me, and I smiled at her again, even though she couldn't see me. Because she couldn't see me.

"I forgive it," I said.

"It was good."

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I made up my mind and decided to make a double post after all, even though nobody commented on the last part (probably for the better, I guess). This one went infinitely smoother. It practically wrote itself. Very impressive.
Well, that was very... ambiguous. I could go on and on and on about how a good silence is worth more than all the words in the world, but basically, it was just ambiguous.
Is her bitchiness cured? Probably not. Lifelong philosophies don't go away like this because of three sentences exchanged with mom. But that's some progress still.

As you can see, I returned to my former style. Works a lot better, I think. Next chapter, if there will be one, will actually have other characters in it. Holy shit, I need to start working on some interesting OC's fast. A single story can only feed of it's own inherent misery for so long before it gets dull.

Also OH FUCK SHE HAS A CLEAR GENDER NOW OMG MORE CRIPPLE TITTIES.
So yeah, I ended up flipping a coin. Congratulations Mrs. Okada, it's a girl and it's not moving. Could have been worse.
(figured if this story is going to die out very soon, at the very least the main character needs to have a clear image to be remembered through. And a gender is kind of a big step that way)

[Mirage_GSM]

Some tenses mixed up in there which made it even more difficult to read then it was supposed to be
Other than that, fine.
If you're thinking of introducing OCs, you're not putting her in third grade, are you? Did you mention her age...?

[Leotrak]

This stuff's like a goldmine, and you're like a miner who's lost his torch, not seeing the gold he's digging up ">_>

MoG, this is really good writing, and I hope you don't stop ^_^

[Minister of Gloom]

Some tenses mixed up in there which made it even more difficult to read then it was supposed to be
Other than that, fine.
If you're thinking of introducing OCs, you're not putting her in third grade, are you? Did you mention her age...?

Damn you, English language! Why are you not satisfied with four simple tenses?...

As for her age, it's never mentioned directly, but careful observation hints at 15. She mentions "eleven years worth of a bitter grudge" between her and Mika. Assuming that she means "ever since Mika was born" (not unreasonable), and since we know for certain that she is four years older than her, that would make her 15, ninth/tenth grade.
Why do you ask?

[scott1and]

Another awesome chapter, and yay she was/became girl

[Shades of gray]

I am enjoying this, very very much,looking forward to next few chapters

[Mirage_GSM]

..., and since we know for certain that she is four years older than her, that would make her 15, ninth/tenth grade.
Why do you ask?

In Japan, ninth grade would be 3rd grade of Middle School and tenth grade would be Highschool Freshman. Just for your reference.
I just asked because you talked about OCs. You wouldn't need them if she were in her final year.

[Minister of Gloom]

..., and since we know for certain that she is four years older than her, that would make her 15, ninth/tenth grade.
Why do you ask?

In Japan, ninth grade would be 3rd grade of Middle School and tenth grade would be Highschool Freshman. Just for your reference.
I just asked because you talked about OCs. You wouldn't need them if she were in her final year.

Thank you for the information. It's surprisingly straightforward, I think. I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that in France they apparently count the class the other way around (so you begin at the twelfth grade and you go down from there until the first grade...). Then again, the Israeli system is also confusing to many. We use letters instead of numbers, for once (and if that wasn't complicated enough, we use the biblical count of letters, which is a system unto itself), and then there's the whole separation of highschool classes from elementary classes... It's a mess.

As for OC's, I think I would have done that even if she was in her final year. The canon characters are each very well written and I am not sure I'd feel completely comfortable with using them in a story which isn't up to the standard. Hopefully I'll manage to create a few mildly interesting ones on my own. Maybe I'll reuse some from former stories or something, change them a little to fit, I don't know. I have no idea where this is all going.