They Tell Me I'm Maladjusted

[MurderWeasel]

Come lunchtime, Sven wandered in from one of the places he might have been.

It felt like it had been a long week, though it hadn't yet. That made things worse. It was only Wednesday. He wished it was later. Friday would be preferable, Thursday at least vaguely adequate. Middle of the middle day of the week in the middle of the semester was altogether too much time left on his hands. Every day was another struggle to tune in and focus and care and not let the little things get to him. Today, that hadn't been going so well. That's why he was here.

The art block was a place Sven didn't spend too much time these days, and there were still sections of it which he avoided. Today, however, it had seemed like a good place to go to be alone. He hadn't wanted to spend yet another lunch in the nurse's office, not if he didn't need to. That would just wear on the patience of those who already extended him so much understanding. The Library had been... a poor option today. Lunchroom was too busy. He didn't feel like sitting outside; it was sunny and walking into the sun made him sneeze and he really didn't like sneezing. Of course, the journey from main building to art block brought him through the outside (making him sneeze, twice, like always), and the journey back would do the same, so he'd be sneezing more than had he just sat on the lawn. It wasn't about that, though. Post-sneeze, the outside world just felt hostile in some nebulous way. He'd have to examine that feeling, later and likely with the assistance of his therapist.

The drama room was a place Sven wasn't actually sure he'd ever been before. Maybe he'd stopped by once or twice, but the topography was unfamiliar. It was wide, open, overwhelmingly black, particularly with the lights out. He liked that. It was like walking into a void, floating in space. He strolled through it and listened to his own footsteps, and while they weren't loud he imagined an echo.

Was this even a place where he was allowed to spend lunch? He wasn't eating, in case that mattered. He was hungry but he hadn't brought a lunch and he wasn't feeling up to dealing with the lunch line so he'd just have a pre-dinner when he got home. There were some frozen meals his family kept around for just this sort of situation. A box of Amy's frozen macaroni and cheese sounded divine, but he could be patient for a few hours until it became reality.

One wall of the room, he realized as he walked closer to it, was different from the rest. It was wavy, wiggly, covered in cloth. A curtain, he thought, and curiosity took hold, beckoned and whispered and promised, so he walked over to a corner and pulled it aside and recoiled when he found mirror. Curiosity laughed as he let the curtain fall back and stumbled back a step. He blinked, letting the total darkness of a closed eye serve as a reset, and tried to view the room as the same welcoming void it had been moments ago. It wasn't quite working. It was hard to ignore the truth without forgetting it. Acceptance was much trickier than self-deception.

In an effort to put the ripple behind him, he ventured to a corner of the room, where sat one of the few objects not black and featureless: a large cupboard. It was sitting open now, but Sven had to walk around to peer inside. Doing so, he again found himself face to face with a monster.

He started at the huge, green, toothy head leering down from the upper shelf, and curiosity barely suppressed its giggles, and then after a moment he realized what it was. He'd come to Little Shop of Horrors, a couple years ago now. The entire cupboard was full of props and costumes, most much less recognizable than the maw of Audrey II. This probably wasn't supposed to be open. He certainly wasn't supposed to be messing with it.

So he backed away, back to the center of the room, even though there was a certain appeal to stepping through into Narnia.

[MurderWeasel]

Sven did not go to Narnia, tempting though it was. He sat in the middle of the room, eyes closed, and he waited. He drifted. Time passed. It was a relief not to know how much.

Then, suddenly, he jerked from his trace by the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He dug it out, checked his texts.

[+] 0

[+] What

[+] is

[+] the

[+] purpose

[+] of

[+] forced

[+] complicity

[+] in

[+] narrative

?

[+] The

[+] reader

[+] is

[+] asked

[+] to

[+] do

[+] more

[+] than

[+] merely

read,

[+] is

[+] asked

[+] to

[+] engage

[+] with

[+] the

[+] text

[+] in

[+] a

more

[+] direct

[+] and

[+] physical

[+] fashion

[+] .

[+] But

[+] to

[+] what

[+] ultimate

end?

[+] Is

[+] greater

[+] meaning

[+] or

[+] artistic

[+] merit

[+] derived

[+] from

[+] the

process?

[+] Or

[+] is

[+] it

[+] merely

[+] another

[+] way

[+] to

[+] grab

[+] attention

,

[+] flash

[+] and

[+] glitter

[+] but

[+] ultimately

[+] insubstantial

?

[+] Perhaps

[+] it

[+] falls

[+] upon

[+] each

[+] individual

[+] reader

[+] to

[+] decide

how

[+] much

[+] dubious

[+] affectation

[+] they

[+] are

[+] ultimately

[+] willing

[+] to

[+] put

up

[+] with

[+] .

[+] But

[+] could

[+] any

[+] payoff

[+] really

[+] justify

[+] the

inconvenience?

[+] What

[+] do

[+] you

[+] think

?


Sven frowned. His phone hadn't buzzed after all.

Hand trembling slightly, Sven put his phone away again. Maybe he actually should go to the nurse's office for a little. That sounded like a good idea.

When he stepped back into the daylight, he sneezed twice.

((Continued in Meditation and Premeditation))