It wasn't the high-pitched beeping of the alarm clock that woke him up: it was his mother. Her soft yet annoying pokes in his ribs were getting to him. Outside, a cacophony of orchestral chirps flowed through the air.
"Wake up sweety, or you'll be late for school," they chirped.
Funny how they sounded just like his mother. He had long since learnt how to block out irritations and obstacles by ignoring them completely. And through meditation. Cain loved meditating. Almost as much as he loved the cool kiss of the shower as he stood under her head. That's what he loved: feeling the icy touch of pure recycled water trickling through the leaky shower-head and into every crevice of his being. He often stood silently as the water gushed out sporadically, enjoying the churning sound and rattling of water against metal.
His clothes were almost always laid out for him. He never wore them. Somedays he felt like taking a felt-tip marker and writing poetry across the front of his shirts. His mum would often freak. His walls already resembled the insides of a halfway house, save for the pastel pink that glowered beneath the lines of Cummings and Plath. They had wanted a girl. His parents. He decided to wear blue today.
Breakfast was a tedious affair. Cain always found it easier to smile and nod throughout his mother's fussing and his father's grunts and sports commentary. Cereal: the usual. After the pleasantries, he would retreat to the bathroom to wage war against personal hygiene...and his mother, who was always armed with a new Afro comb and conditioner. He always won these battles. His mother never knew what to with his hair and ultimately retreated to his father.
"It's no good Eli, I just can't tame that man. We need to find him a good barber, preferably one who's similar in tone."
Drives to school were tedious. He preferred to skip through those conversations in the car by skipping through songs, or reading a good book. Reading was always good. Much better than listening to his dad prattle on about which box he should tick on forms when he gets older, Once he got to school, Cain slipped into the group of individuals he called 'friends.' They weren't particularly close per say, they just shared a few common interests and their parents (well, Cain's dad) all grew up in the same neighborhood. If anything, they hung out together because no one else wanted their company.
Cain hated his teachers. They were all the same,. Condescending white liberals who thought that they could take a crack at indoctrinating 'poor' inner-city kids. If they took a glance around the class, they would see that the minorities were in an even bigger majority, with most being upper middle class. Cain tended to only speak when spoken to and even then his comments were met with enthusiastic 'Well done's and awkward handshakes.Everyone seemed to think that he was either a nutjob or mentally handicapped. If only.
Cain's favourite lesson was English because he got to read peacefully for half an hour if he finished his work early. He always did, not that his teachers would care if he didn't. They always let him do as he pleased in that lesson, for fear he might jump out the window. Again. Lunch breaks were the worst because he didn't know where to sit, or rather, he didn't like where he sat. Cain had the awful dilemma of being stuck with a group of people that he wasn't quite sure that he liked. Today he sat with them anyway, piping up occasionally when they asked him a question. They were discussing the slaughtering techniques of butchers and whether or not this meat was kosher. 'God, if I wanted a whiny commentary on the rights of cows then I would've sat with the vegans', Cain thought. But he kept this thought to himself. He often did.
After pumping enough pills in his throat to rival that of a frequent addict, Cain went to the football field. He so detested these social gatherings. What fun. Watching a group of overgrown meat-heads bashing into one another, their veins pulsating eerily from all those steroids injected into them. Exuberant cheers filled the stands as the home-team scored. Sweaty supporters rose and shot their arms into the air, releasing their heavy hot breath around Cain. He felt boxed in. It didn't help that all these greasy ne'er-do-wells rubbed their sticky limbs against him. Their clothes clung tightly to their skin, darkened in areas where perspiration had accumulated. Cain eyed the particularly sticky back of one of the girls in front of him. It glistened in the sweltering October heat. Tiny hairs jutted out from the sink holes between her spine and shoulder blades. Her tight tank top revealed no trace of the ever visible bra-strap. Sudden;y, a deafening buzz thundered through the stands. The home team had won. A sea of arms and legs and faces and hands and smiles and laughs rose from the stands. The rancid stench of vomit also wafted through the air, as one of the away team members retched violently.
Navigating through the sea of limbs, he found his bag underneath the stands. It had been toppled over and was decorated with suspicious dots of sludge. Cain reached inside and dug out his Polaroid camera and his medication bag, A shuffle of pills accompanied the roar of the crowd. He took two this time. Angling the camera, Cain took a snapshot of the chaos on the field.
"Savages," he mumbled.
"Wake up sweety, or you'll be late for school," they chirped.
Funny how they sounded just like his mother. He had long since learnt how to block out irritations and obstacles by ignoring them completely. And through meditation. Cain loved meditating. Almost as much as he loved the cool kiss of the shower as he stood under her head. That's what he loved: feeling the icy touch of pure recycled water trickling through the leaky shower-head and into every crevice of his being. He often stood silently as the water gushed out sporadically, enjoying the churning sound and rattling of water against metal.
His clothes were almost always laid out for him. He never wore them. Somedays he felt like taking a felt-tip marker and writing poetry across the front of his shirts. His mum would often freak. His walls already resembled the insides of a halfway house, save for the pastel pink that glowered beneath the lines of Cummings and Plath. They had wanted a girl. His parents. He decided to wear blue today.
Breakfast was a tedious affair. Cain always found it easier to smile and nod throughout his mother's fussing and his father's grunts and sports commentary. Cereal: the usual. After the pleasantries, he would retreat to the bathroom to wage war against personal hygiene...and his mother, who was always armed with a new Afro comb and conditioner. He always won these battles. His mother never knew what to with his hair and ultimately retreated to his father.
"It's no good Eli, I just can't tame that man. We need to find him a good barber, preferably one who's similar in tone."
Drives to school were tedious. He preferred to skip through those conversations in the car by skipping through songs, or reading a good book. Reading was always good. Much better than listening to his dad prattle on about which box he should tick on forms when he gets older, Once he got to school, Cain slipped into the group of individuals he called 'friends.' They weren't particularly close per say, they just shared a few common interests and their parents (well, Cain's dad) all grew up in the same neighborhood. If anything, they hung out together because no one else wanted their company.
Cain hated his teachers. They were all the same,. Condescending white liberals who thought that they could take a crack at indoctrinating 'poor' inner-city kids. If they took a glance around the class, they would see that the minorities were in an even bigger majority, with most being upper middle class. Cain tended to only speak when spoken to and even then his comments were met with enthusiastic 'Well done's and awkward handshakes.Everyone seemed to think that he was either a nutjob or mentally handicapped. If only.
Cain's favourite lesson was English because he got to read peacefully for half an hour if he finished his work early. He always did, not that his teachers would care if he didn't. They always let him do as he pleased in that lesson, for fear he might jump out the window. Again. Lunch breaks were the worst because he didn't know where to sit, or rather, he didn't like where he sat. Cain had the awful dilemma of being stuck with a group of people that he wasn't quite sure that he liked. Today he sat with them anyway, piping up occasionally when they asked him a question. They were discussing the slaughtering techniques of butchers and whether or not this meat was kosher. 'God, if I wanted a whiny commentary on the rights of cows then I would've sat with the vegans', Cain thought. But he kept this thought to himself. He often did.
After pumping enough pills in his throat to rival that of a frequent addict, Cain went to the football field. He so detested these social gatherings. What fun. Watching a group of overgrown meat-heads bashing into one another, their veins pulsating eerily from all those steroids injected into them. Exuberant cheers filled the stands as the home-team scored. Sweaty supporters rose and shot their arms into the air, releasing their heavy hot breath around Cain. He felt boxed in. It didn't help that all these greasy ne'er-do-wells rubbed their sticky limbs against him. Their clothes clung tightly to their skin, darkened in areas where perspiration had accumulated. Cain eyed the particularly sticky back of one of the girls in front of him. It glistened in the sweltering October heat. Tiny hairs jutted out from the sink holes between her spine and shoulder blades. Her tight tank top revealed no trace of the ever visible bra-strap. Sudden;y, a deafening buzz thundered through the stands. The home team had won. A sea of arms and legs and faces and hands and smiles and laughs rose from the stands. The rancid stench of vomit also wafted through the air, as one of the away team members retched violently.
Navigating through the sea of limbs, he found his bag underneath the stands. It had been toppled over and was decorated with suspicious dots of sludge. Cain reached inside and dug out his Polaroid camera and his medication bag, A shuffle of pills accompanied the roar of the crowd. He took two this time. Angling the camera, Cain took a snapshot of the chaos on the field.
"Savages," he mumbled.
***
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