novels

Indigo Gems: Chapter 1

“Alright everyone for the last thirty minutes of class you can work on your group projects. I’ll be walking around answering questions if you need me and don’t forget your first draft is due next Friday !” Dr. Nafawitz is old as fuck. It’s all I think about every time he speaks. Like damn, that might actually be the last thing he ever says. He’s 87 but he looks 210 honestly. He teaches psychology here at the University of Goddard Williams where I’m earning my PhD. People hear that and tell me how smart I am or sometimes how sophisticated or noble it is but honestly I just keep enrolling in more school because I have no idea what to do with my life once it’s over. Be a psychologist you may say because after all I’ve been learning psychology for the past 7 years but my heart isn’t in it. I entered college in 2008 with an undecided major. The second year they told me I HAD to pick one so I did a little eenie meenie minnie mo between a handful of majors that required little human contact. I landed on psychology and just stuck with it because I’ve never been able to decide. So now here we are. In PSY 4310 listening to old ass Dr. Nafawitz cough out dust every time he speaks. 

“In the case study they said that people with schizophrenia have the lowest compliance rates and the highest rates of drug abuse.” Here goes Sarah with the facts. I only half listen when she or either of the other two speaks. If I listen too hard they’ll spark a brilliant idea, I’ll try to share it, they’ll ignore me and I’ll get disappointed and question what kind of God would let me be placed in a group such as this. In a life such as this really. 

“So then should we still pick that or should we make our own case for people on the bipolar spectrum ?” Emily has always has good questions. Horrible answers. 

“Well if we just wanted to go for easy we could just pick regular depression but we’re going for innovation.” Sarah is also a condescending bitch and every time she proves it I wonder how she’s gotten through life without getting punched in the mouth.

“I’m not suggesting we do something easier, Sarah.” Emily smiles but cuts her eyes. Purple people shit. Teal people like me tend to let you know without ambiguity when you have us totally fucked up. “I’m just saying there’s hardly any wiggle room when come up with a treatment plan for a group of people where 90% of them refuse treatment. We’d never be able to prove whether or not it works. 

Uh-oh there it goes again. The urge to give my two cents. Must. Resist. Sarah gets this dumb smug look on her face when she feels like someone is trying to out bitch her. It would make a great meme if I can just snap a perfect pic without her noticing. “How do you know we’d never be able to prove it ? Difficult to prove doesn’t mean impossible.” Fuck, here it goes. My brain says “don’t do it, bro. Just stfu,” but my mouth and voice box move way faster and I say. “Emily has a point. I mean we’re not even actually inventing anything. We’re just trying to get an A so why not go with an easier disease to treat.”

Silence. My hands and upper lip and spicy per usual and the three of them look at me like a French speaking three titty lumberjack. 7 seconds that feel like 7 years go by until Tamia breaks the tension, “Yeah I remember reading that fact about schizophrenia.” Bitch. I press my eyelids tight, tilt my head in a downward motion, set my elbow on the table and rub my third eye region. I start smoking an imaginary cigarette. Like were you buffering this whole time ? We’ve already moved on. What you said had nothing to do with what I just said. Still the three of them amongst themselves discuss how 90% of schizo’s be schizo’n. God I fucking hate my life. 

After class I decide to take advantage of Dr. Nafs office hours. I plan to beg for mercy as I often do when placed in group projects. Usually to no avail but you never know if you don’t ask right ? I linger in the hallway around the vending machines. I don’t want us to walk in at the same time or practically the same time or I’ll feel like a stalker. I get real self-conscious about little things like that. He walks in and I walk in right behind him, on his heels. “Fuck” I think to myself. I also have a habit of doing little things I really hate doing like that because I know they’ll make me self-conscious. My hands and forehead get spicy as fuck. He must’ve noticed because with his really old hands he gives me a Kleenex. An actual Kleenex, not just a facial tissue. Important distinction. 

“So hey Dr. Nafawitz I don’t wanna take up too much of your time I just was hoping, y’know, that maybe I could work on the project solo ? I mean I know you said that there’ no exceptions because this is a group project, I just-“ He cuts me off. He’s been rustling through papers since I’ve started talking as if he’s looking for something. “Could you pass me that stack of papers, dear would ya ?” 

“Yeah sure, so as I was saying. I know you said no exceptions-“

“I can’t find this damned article anywhere !”

“I just am having a really hard time-“

“This is why I told them I didn’t need an assistant. I’m my own organized. I can’t find anything now.”

“Connecting with the girls in my group and it’s aff-“

“Jacob get in here ! I can’t find my damned article !”

“Okay you know what, maybe it’s not a great time so I’ll ju-“

“JACOB !”

A boy who looks exactly like a Jacob comes running in, sweaty, face flushed. Odd. “My name is Cassen,” he sort of whispers. The expression on his face reveals a redundancy I can only imagine to be torturous. Not my clown though, not my circus. Or however the saying goes. It’s none of my concern so I waltz my ass out of there before I become designated paper pile passer. I feel like every day has been going like this and it’s getting to me. I’m exhausted. I don’t feel heard anywhere. Is it that what I have to say isn’t important ? Am I not important ? Are my thoughts not as noteworthy as I think they are ? Like what’s my problem ? I wish I could figure out what was wrong with me.

I get home around 6pm. After leaving the Dr. Naf’s office I decide to go to the library and knock out homework. Walking down the hallway to my apartment door I can already smell what Sasha is cooking up. Sasha went to school for culinary art. Unlike me, she knew exactly what she wanted to do for a living upon exiting high school. She’s had a passion for cooking since was 3 her mom says. She did more than just play store or play house. She set up restaurants and cooked for audiences right from the beginning. Now she’s personal chef for both the rich and famous and for me, her very picky but otherwise perfect girlfriend. As I unlock the front door it sounds like she’s in some heated discussion. “Pero, no ! Escuchame por favor ! Pero, mama !” Of course. Arguing with her mom. I make my way to the kitchen to find her back towards me as she faces the stove, neck rolling, ponytail slinging, arms flailing. My day wasn’t especially rough but it’s part of the snowball that has me feeling rough and I just want a nice calm, loving night so badly. I walk around the island and wrap my arms around her waist, laying my chin on shoulders and give her earlobe a kiss, trying to de-escalate her. She mutes the phone briefly, “hey dinner will be done soon, talking to my mom”. She unmutes it and back to yelling she goes. 

So much for a peaceful night. I go to the bedroom and text Kerf. We’ve been best friends ever since he and I shared a cot in preschool. I often, as an adult, wonder why the hell they had us sharing those tiny fucking cots but I’m glad it was a thing. I can usually rely on him to give a pep talk that motivates me to, at the very least, keep on existing on days like this where I wish I didn’t exist. “Hey, super shitty day. Whatcha got for me McNinnerton ?” I call him by his last name when I’m in distress so he knows I mean it. I flip my phone over on the bed so that I don’t watch the clock while I wait for the desperately needed reply. I get undressed and pick up some randomly shit we have laying around, a pack of bobby pins from the floor, a crumbled receipt from the vanity, two mismatched socks from the corner. I get the itch and check my phone, no reply. I flip it back over and decide to hop in the shower and bathe in existentialism. I also say the shower is the best place to cry because people can’t tell your tears from the water but honestly no-one is looking at you in shower anyway…hopefully. So it really doesn’t matter. I cry my heart out, step out and dry off. Half an hour later I check my phone again. No reply. I don’t feel like eating anymore. I don’t feel like ANYTHING anymore.

Should I write More ? Let Me Know !

NaNoWriMo Days 6 to 10

Journal Entry:

I’m constantly trying to make sense of everything but I never feel like I’m getting any closer. And I can’t tell if anything about the dreams is helping or hurting. I mean there is no real concrete evidence that our dreams tell us anything at all, right ? Not that things without tangible proof aren’t real. I know things are real that we simply can’t see like the wind or God. But we can see the effect of them right ? At least what we believe to be the effects. We see tornados. We see miracles. If we recognize them. Maybe I don’t even know what I’m talking about at all. Well here’s how last nights dream went:

I was sitting at a table in what seemed to be the middle of the forest. There aren’t any forests around me in real life so I’m not entirely sure where in the world I was in the dream. I had a feeling of confusion deep inside me but everyone else was pretty relaxed so I didn’t want to make a scene. Everything was cottage core. I had on a floral pink, yellow and white dress. The flowers looked like daisies and sunflowers both. I didn’t particularly like the pattern. It had a frilly collar and frills at the edges of the sleeves. The sleeves came to my elbow. The bottom hem came just below my knees. A respectable length and appropriate for the weather. It was pretty uncomfortable. I had on frilly white socks and black kitten heels. This is something I never would have picked out for myself in real life in a thousand years. That’s how I know for sure it’s a dream.

I have a habit of trying to remind myself while dreaming that it’s definitely a dream that I’m experiencing. Blame it on the movie Inception.

I move my eyes from what I have on to the table in front of me. There were several of what appeared to be maidservants scrambling around. They were setting up for what appeared to be a feast. I looked around for signage. My first thought was that it was a birthday party. I had no idea whose birthday it could have been. But the dishes being placed on the table reminded me of Thanksgiving. I saw stuffing, a whole turkey, pineapple glazed ham, smashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, greens, greens beans and buttered rolls so far. The most peculiar thing is that I couldn’t smell any of it. I didn’t feel sick at all. I think the food just had no smell. Then I noticed it had no color. Then I looked down at my outfit again and noticed it had no color either. I began to panic.

Just then, a small child ran up to me. This little girl seemed to be wearing the exact thing that I was. We even had our hair styled the same. I noticed that I didn’t pay attention to my hair until this moment. But from the top of her head to the bottom of her heels we were dressed exactly the same. Part of me knew that she was supposed to be a younger version of me. Yes, definitely a dream. Because in real life, we don’t meet younger versions of ourselves in the flesh. Anyway, she starts calling me Katara. “Katara, Katara ! They’re waiting for you inside !”

Before I can process what exactly is going on I notice that my body has a mind of its own and my legs are up from the chair that I was in and marching through the woods. Following this little girl who seems to be me. And I guess our name is Katara. And I have the thought that I’m not sure why I even trust her. Because what if she’s not me and this was all a trick. And just then it starts to gradually get darker around us and more cold. And there is color now but only hues of blue and purple. And each variation of the colors feels more menacing. And I’m able to see my breath now because it’s so cold. I wish I’d brought my sweater.

“How much farther is it ?” I ask little maybe me. “Not much !” I yell back. I don’t trust it. I think about going back to where we were. I notice I’m hungry. Starving even. “I know yous hungry,” she said right on cue, “but we can’t go back. All of that food was poison. See, we tried to be careful but they found out. And they don’t take kindly to killin’ kids so they gots to create an accident instead. They poisoned the food and theys was gonna say you had a allergy nobody knewed about.” Then I thought to ask…”What year is it ? Where are we exactly ?”

At this, the little me turned around angrily and grew and grew and grew until she was towering over me. She didn’t look like me anymore. She looked like my mother. And she smelled like my mother. The smell of burning cardboard, cigarettes and miscellaneous chemicals. I got scared. Before she could speak, I turned around and ran. I ran as fast as I could. Little me, although I was still skeptical, was worth trying to trust. But my mother was an addict. There wasn’t a single realm, or dream or reality that I would ever trust her in. I heard her behind me, calling me Katara and telling me to come back. A reminder that this is a dream. That’s not my name so this is definitely a dream.

I make my way back to where I first sat and they were setting up for the feast. By this time, guests were filling into the seats and almost all of the food had been placed. I also see all of the plates, cutlery and cups. I see huge jugs of wine as well. Something told me it was not going to be a great experience. But I convinced myself that it had to be better than whatever my monster of a maybe mom was attempting to lead me too. As I looked for a seat a few people exchanged pleasantries with me. A few every held their arms out to hug me. It’s clear that they remember much more than I do. That, or they’re just friendlier.

That’s when I notice that there are name tags that have appeared since I was over here initially. I’m guessing I should look for the name Katara. I look carefully, trying to ignore people’s niceness while I focus. A few people ask if I need help looking for my name and I respectfully decline. Something is telling me that my name isn’t actually on any of these and if that’s right, I want to find out alone. If that’s right, it also would feel like proof that no one is trying to poison me like mom said. How could they expect to poison me if they didn’t even expect me to eat ?

The table felt like it was at least one mile long. It sat about 110 people. No one was at the very end. So there seemed to be no leader or matriarch or patriarch. Which had me wondering again what exactly this was all for. And why it was outside. And in the middle of the forest. I have to keep reminding myself that this is definitely a dream so that I don’t panic.

Why is it that dreams feel so damn real sometimes ? On the bright side, I woke up in the safest space possible. In my own home, which I keep wildly secure and with my best friend, who is also wildly secure. We never made it to the room and fell asleep in the living room. Right on the couch and in front of the tv. Dusty was still sleep. I was starting to forget the rest of my dream. Maybe it wasn’t worth writing down anyway. Maybe I crave adventure because I don’t have much of a life so I just make my dreams more than they really are.

Most of my dreams include one of my parents and one of my grandparents at least. Maybe dreams are really just a way to process the things we try to avoid while we’re awake. Maybe it’s our higher selves being willing to do the dirty work for us while we’re not lucid enough to contest it. I don’t know. I’m not really an expert in anything. Now that I hear Dusty waking up, I guess I’ll pick back up on this train of thought another time.

“Hey, you.” Dusty says groggily as he lifts his head with his eyes closed. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t watch any of that movie at all. You fell asleep on me almost immediately. And now look at you, awake before me and writing your own move.” He gestured towards my journal which I realized I hadn’t closed yet. I wonder how good his vision is and just hope he didn’t have the kind that allowed him to have read even a single word on this page. That would be so embarrassing. And the thing is, he knows me well enough to know I would think that was very embarrassing so he wouldn’t even tell me that he read it. It would be his own secret within my secret.

“Happy good morning loser ! Of course you’ll never forget. You’re the best grudge holder I’ve ever known.” He flashes me a smile. “Teeth, face, run, breakfast ?” he asks.

“Let’s skip the run.”

“Let’s do the run first.”

“You know I don’t want to go outside.”

“Which is exactly why I’m trying to get you outside. I just want whatever is best for you.”

“What if I told you that what’s best for me is me skipping the run but that I’ll be here with breakfast ready when you get back ?”

“You know what…deal. You cook. I’ll run. Then I’ll eat while you run.” He laughs and playfully pushes my shoulder then heads to the back room to change into his running gear. I guess I am making breakfast today !