Sensidolor
by Noah
Pre-Prologue
This book is dedicated to MP.
HZ, whose music is only my favorite.
And AH, whose writing is little less than incredible.
Lose your love of power, and what power you are given will be used all the better.
Iacieski - ee-awk-ee-es-key
one: darts in the wrong
I threw the dart quickly, just like Mr. Iacieski had told me. My shot went just outside the bullseye, and I pounded my fist against my back, inefficiently removing the itching thereon.
I was in the principal's office, but I wasn't in trouble. I had been waiting for someone who was. Mr. Iacieski, the principal, was sitting on his desk. I moved aside. The principal hardly even moved. The dart whistled through the room, hitting the bullseye with stunning accuracy. It seemed impossibly easy, yet, however many times I tried, my shot went just barely wide of the bullseye.
I threw another dart. Once again, it just missed. Mr. Iacieski looked at me, seemingly disappointed, yet, deep in his eyes, I could see that he, also couldn't understand why I missed either.
The first time we met, it had been in what had been the principal's office, and only the principal's office. Now I often came here while Mr.Iacieski worked, practicing dart throwing, however many times I missed. The first time, I had been in trouble, truly to blame. I had stolen the lunch money from a second grader. That time I had paid with money, and said I was sorry.
Since then, the principal had often showed me how to throw darts. It seemed perfectly easy. It was perfectly easy. And yet, no matter how many times I tried, the shot would just barely miss the bullseye.
We had been good friends ever since the day we first met in Mr. Iacieski's office. Good friends. Mr. Iacieski was an ace in darts. He was so talented, he could throw a dart from under his desk, and hit the exact center of the bullseye. Every time. There hadn't been a time he'd missed. Bullseye.
The door opened, and John, the leader of the main gang of bullies at the school, came in.
He was wearing jeans so worn down, I stood poised for another shot, staring at me. His shirt, whose sleeves had long since been stretched to oblivion, and he couldn't have been washed in a month. His face was dirty, and, to crown it all, he was in a rather bad temper. He looked bored until he took one look at the wall and scowled. James looked the same direction and saw a poster reading like this:
iacio, iacere, ieci, iactum
to throw, hurl
It was essentially a Latin flashcard, blown up to a poster size. Beneath these lines there was a sculpture of a half naked man in a throwing position. It looked unreal, however life-size it was.
The javelin was missing. In its place was a long straw-like tube, seemingly designed only to hurl seemingly harmful darts. Of course, anyone who knows anything would immediately guess this was an Indian dart gun. But it wasn't.
The Elmer's Glue hadn't even dried yet.
“Come in, John,” Mr. Iacieski said to John.
“I'm already in,” John said, an angry tone creeping into his already angry voice.
“Then you may sit down,” the principal said, looking absentmindedly out the tall, wall to wall window. An tall, bare ash tree swayed in the wind. John slowly moved toward the chair and sat down abruptly.
Only I knew what emotions flew threw the principal's head. Mr. Iacieski knew very well how to hide it, but I saw that he was angry. He was angry because a student in his school had taken something that was not his. But there was also a tinge of sadness.
I stood where I was, a dart poised inches from his ear. He couldn't imagine why he would be sad. I sat down on a chair that had been placed next to the door.
“Please empty your pockets onto the inbox.”
John looked at him with less anger than before, but with what seemed like immense incredulity. I had been in staring contests before, but, even before he had begun, I knew Mr. Iacieski would win.
Of course.
John looked away, and then he put his hands into his pockets. James saw how much tension there was between them. Seconds later, he took out one of his hands and laid a large handful of coins onto the inbox. His second hand followed. Mr. Iacieski had almost begun to speak, but John had already put both of his hands back into his pockets. They returned to the inbox, laden with coins once again. His hands took one more trip into his pockets to take the remaining coins on their short journey to the inbox. To James, it almost looked like the inbox had bent down with the weight of them.
“A tad much change for a single boy to carry around, don't you think, James?” Mr. Iacieski said somewhat loudly, a sample of his inner anger swelling to the surface and revealing itself in his low, husky voice.
I sat through the principal's fifteen minute lecture on stealing. I hadn't enjoyed it the first time, but after that, I had understood perfectly well why I ought not steal, and enjoyed seeing the emotions on both Mr. Iacieski's face, and the troublemaker, whoever it happened to be.
Later he was out on the playground, after all the classes were out. Suddenly, he flinched. He could sense someone behind him.
“Hi, James!” Sophie Winter walked over to me, and sat down on the bench. Her hair was straight and shiny, and I had often wondered how much she spent on makeup, but I knew he didn't need to know, and had never asked. She was wearing a pair of somewhat new jeans and an older T-shirt. James always wondered how she could stand this weather. It was only fall, but he thought it was much too cold to wear a T-shirt. Nonetheless, Sophie didn't change into long sleeves until early winter, as if she was waiting for the first snowflake instead of the first frost.
“Hi, Sophie,” James said, “What's up?”
She ignored his question.
“What are you doing?” she said
“I'm just sitting around after class.” James usually walked home with Mr. Iacieski and talked, but today, he thought he'd go with Sophie.
“I'm going to wait until Mr. Iacieski comes out and then tell him I'm going with you,” James said, standing up when the principal came out the door and locked it. When James told him that he was going with Sophie, he nodded, a smile on his face. But I saw the sadness in his old, wrinkled face.
Mr. Iacieski was alone. His wife had been killed as a nurse in World War Two. He started walking home.
I looked back, and he saw that the man was old. The principal hadn't ever mentioned an exact age, but I had guessed that he was quite old enough to retire any day now.
“Let's go with him,” Sophie suggested helpfully. I had wanted to do this, but I hadn't wanted to ask.
“I see you decided to change plans a little,” Mr. Iacieski said thankfully, “Company is never out of place, especially in a life mostly without it.” Sophie and I nodded in unison.
“Were you in the army?” Sophie asked, looking up into his wrinkled face. It turned slightly pale, but he controlled himself.
“No,” he replied, “but my wife was.” James turned away and looked at a couple of toddlers fighting over toys on a lawn. He didn't like to hear about Mr. Iacieski's wife. It made him sad. They walked on in a tense, uneasy silence.
“She was much, much braver than I was. The day before I proposed to her, I learned that she was going into the Air Force. I knew she had great reason to do so, but I was a coward. I feared that I would loose her, and so I did. Her name was Lucy.” Sophie looked up, surprised.
“That's my middle name!” she exclaimed.
“What a coincidence,” he replied, a small, real smile on his face. He looked to the sky, “It's going to rain.” Suddenly, he brightened up.
“Why don't you come to my house?” he asked, a pleading tone unhidden is his old voice. I considered, looked at Sophie, and, seeing her nod, I repeated it.
“Well, that's settled, then. I'll call your parents, and I'll have you over for supper,” Mr. Iacieski looked as pleased with himself as if he had been the first man on Mars. Our spirits rose just as his did.
It was a large house, in comparison to many of the houses around there. I lived in a small suburb of Houston, Texas. I had always been annoyed that the weather could get this cold.
Once they were inside, Mr. Iacieski took off his jacket, hung it up, and motioned the children through a large door. Both of us gasped.
The room itself was not amazing. It was large, but not impossibly large. The incredible thing was that the room had a glass cube in it. To Sophie, it looked like a massive doll house. In truth, her guess was the closest to the truth. Yet instead of dolls, we were gazing at both mice and snakes, seemingly in the same glass area, but, as we learned later were, in truth, actually in two different complex labyrinths, winding throughout the whole space of the cube.
Mr. Iacieski entered, and walked up to the glass room.
“The Ice Palace,” he said quietly, “a cage to make some believe things that are not true.” He turned around. “I hope you're enjoying yourselves!”
I noticed a huge dartboard, and went over to it. I pulled a dart out of it, looked at it, walked ten paces away, and turned around. I threw it just as I had always been told. There were several more rings on this dartboard, but, as I had been expecting, the dart lodged itself just outside of the bullseye. Sophie and Mr. Iacieski were watching and the old principal shook his head.
“I don't understand it. When I look at you, you seem to throw it better than me. Better posture, better aim, better everything. That is the strangest thing I've ever seen.”
“What?” Sophie asked, so far oblivious to James' dart-throwing inability.
“I've tried it more than a hundred times,” James said, “I never hit the bullseye. It always just hits between the bullseye and the secondary ring. Just like he said, strange.”
Mr. Iacieski changed the topic.
“I'll call your parents and tell them you're here,” he said, attempting to change the topic. He succeeded, and about a minute later, his gaze began to wander to the kitchen.
“How would you kids like to help me make gourmet macaroni and cheese?” he asked, turning to the kitchen, “it's been a while since I've done any real cooking, but that's one recipe I know very well.”
As they walked into the kitchen, they realized what he meant. Everything from instant coffee to microwave soup was organized in containers in his small, clean kitchen. Everything was so organized and clean that it seemed odd for someone of his age. We could see quite clearly that he hadn't been cooking for quite awhile.
two: mara
If I could have lived one less day of my life, it almost assuredly would have been this day. The day I was orphaned, the day I killed a person, and the day I first saw a more concentrated sample of evil. If I had only controlled my emotions, if I had only restrained my anger, I might have less pain than I do, but, it is now written in the book that I cannot touch.
I shall tell it from the time I left school, after a long day, and some trouble with other kids. I wasn't that tired, but I walked like I'd been in the Sahara for a few hours.
Just as I put my foot on the sidewalk, I saw that I was no longer alone. The Three Terrors, as too many of the older kids at school were like to call them, were moving toward me, slowly, but with a determined smile that could hardly be wiped away by the change I had left from buying my lunch from the cafeteria.
My only options at the moment had somewhat obviously been either to give them the money and hope for the best, or to flee. I effectively didn't even choose, because, though I did not know it, those were not my only options. I just stood there, one foot on the sidewalk, one on Newman Street, and watched them come toward me. Finally they were quite close, and I put my other foot on the sidewalk.
“Do the bakers once more beg for dough?” I asked coolly.
The three stopped smiling. I got my backpack more fully on my back, and looked them in the eyes. I wasn't afraid of them.
“Forget the begging part, we're going to let you do it,” said Joe. It was odd that their names happened to be so common. Joe, John, and Bob. Unbelievably stupid, chance seems.
“Now hand over the money, Loudmouth,” growled Bob. I looked at him quizzically. “Do you seriously think that we'd let you get away after what you put us through?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked attempting, but failing, to keep a cool, collected composure.
“Nanosquid, you know what. Don't pretend you don't,” John said, pulling up his sleeves.
“Ok, ok, I'll give you the money, but I still don't know what you are talking about.”
Joe punched me. It was the hardest punch I'd ever felt. I reeled back, holding my chest with both my arms. I found it odd later that I only understood what they were talking about after I being punched.
I took my arms off my chest, and tried to stand more straight. I will warn the rest of my readers that standing up for the second punch in less than a day is not only painful, but likely permanently unhealthy. I believe it would have been fatal for me. Any day earlier. Just not for me. Not that day.
I never felt the punch. Instead, John, suddenly jolting back, clutched his chest. He didn't for long. John was not only on a soccer team, but also had some experience in self defense, so a punch wasn't that new to him. Yet, his eyes wandered to Joe and Bob. He looked at them accusingly. They both stared back, and I traced the confusion that swept over their dirty faces. I could only guess what John was thinking. I stepped back. John looked at me, confused hate scrawled carelessly on his face. Suddenly the hate disappeared from his pained face. He fell down on the grass, his face upturned, and paling. His body was entirely still, except his eyes. First, his eyes rolled dangerously skyward.
Then he turned them to me.
I felt the pain. I could feel my heart quake. John was having a heart attack. The only odd thing was, he couldn't feel it.
I could.
But I was a coward. At that time, I wouldn't take someone's pain on myself for anything. I thought I had enough of my own.
And, as is a custom of cowards, I ran. I ran faster than I had ever ran before. But I still felt the pain. It was following me. I covered my ears and ran faster. The pain was so intense that I was soon forced to limp, but that hardly inhibited my speed. I was finally home. I went into my bedroom, locked and bolted the door, and crawled into bed. I was exhausted later that night when I fell asleep.
It was later, in my bed that I was woken by the doorbell. I looked at myself. I was dangerously sweaty.
I was at the door when I realized that it wasn't there anymore. I had walked through it earlier that day, seemingly without noticing that it was not there. One can't take much trouble about their surroundings when one is having a heart attack. Even when not truly.
It was the police. They wanted to take me down to the station, and had queried as to why the door was gone. I couldn't answer, and inwardly wondered.
They left the door as it was. Gone. The door to my home. My life, as I knew it, I would later find, had been taken away with the door. I was put in a cell in the juvenile section of the detention area.
I was woken from a deep, yet unhappy dream late the following morning by a policeman that seemed to have had less sleep than he ought to have.
The first chapter is going through major revamping, and once that's done, the second will be corrected when it comes to consistency. Comments, criticisms, suggestions, and rants are (mostly) welcome. Thank you.
In Christ,
Noah
