The KW1 Files

 

Starving. Hungry. Tired. No wait, starving and hungry are the same thing, sort of. Whatever.

Starving. Hungry. Tired.

Starving. Hungey. Tired.

It seems these are the only words I can remeber.

Starving.

Hungry.

Tired.

Maybe the only reason I can remember them is because I am starving, hungry, and tired.

But I can't stop. Not now anyways. And besides, even if I did stop, what would I do? Sleep and let the heartless attack me? And it's not like I have any food. It's just me and this dead forest.

Sigh. Even though we won the war, we still lost. In the end, "Master" Xehanort still got what he wanted, darkness took over Radiant Garden--er, Hollow Bastion, and Myde and Ale are dead.

I stopped walking and bowed my head in silence. But this time, no tears came. I guess I used them all up.

I raised my head and looked around. Of course, there wasn't much to see except frozen dead tress and little flakes of snow falling. I shook my head and curled into a ball on the ground. "Nothing really matters anymore anway."

I closed my eyes and listened to the world around me. A few bushes rustled and pretty soon I felt them. I guess they could sense the darkness in my heart.

As the heartless neared I tensed up, but then relaxed. What's the point in fighting if you don't have anyone to fight for? Myde and Ale lost their hearts and died trying to protect me, and what did I do? I stood back and let them. Maybe in the next life I can make it up to them.

 

The heartless came and went, but they didn't leave empty handed. I surrendered to them, but I guess they figured that out when I didn't try to fight back.

I lost my heart within seconds, and at the time I didn't really care. But if I had known the consequences, maybe I would've kept going.

 

 

In which a mistake is made....

 

Note of Caution:

Some material may hurt.

Is it because it's true?

To an extent, it is.

Though, maybe not to you.

 

 

 

Sob stories.

They're those pathetic excuses for someone to talk to you about their problems. Even worse, it's an excuse to talk to you in the first place. As much as you'd love to just walk away and say you just really don't care, you don't have it in your heart to do so.

The least you can do is listen.

 

You sit there, clipboard in hand, scribbling down notes about this recent person's sob story. Said person is lying down on the couch in front of you, while you sit in a cruddy wooden chair. Only a table lies between you, a box of tissues stands within arm's length.

 

You're bored out of your mind. This person just keeps going on and on about their pathetic life. You desperately want to just yell at the person and tell them they should be out there trying to fix their problems than sit in here and complain about them. Silently cursing to yourself, you wonder why you chose this profession anyways. Helping others....what bullshit. If people actually used their common sense, they wouldn't need therapy. But then again, the modern society has lost sight of that. Children now are told to "keep trying until they succeed" or "everyone's a winner." Children are praised to lose sight of their common sense. Children are praised to just "go with the flow."

Children are useless.

If children are our future, then the future will not last long. But you know that in the end, there will always be the one person with their brain turned on, pulling everyone's strings. Some call this person a dictator, others the government. But that's ridiculous, the government is made up of many people, not just one.

 

After what seems hours, the timer finally rings and you stand up. You shake the storyteller's hand and wave them goodbye, pleasantly giving them a "Have a great day!" even though both of you know that's utter crap.

 

You sigh. Normally you'd pack up your stuff and call it a day, but you've got a new sob story to listen to. The door opens and gently closes behind the newcomer. You turn to greet them and are slightly taken aback when you see that this new storyteller is not some miserable looking adult or some out of control teen, but a very small, fragile looking girl. At first you are confused, but you welcome the child anyways.

 

You set the timer and watch silently as the child makes herself comfortable on the couch. You introduce yourself and try to give a heartfelt smile, but the girl only slightly nods and acknowledges you're presence.

 

The silence is screaming in your ears. The mysterious little girl just sits there across from you (sitting up, if I may add), taking great interest in the floor. You take this as your opportunity to actually look at the girl without feeling the awkwardness of her staring back.

 

The Mysterious Little Girl:

Pale, white skin.

Dark brown hair

Goldish-chocolate eyes

Short

Appears malnourished

Unnaturally skinny.

 

As you make these observations you desperately feel the need to reach out to this poor girl and tell her everything will be okay, but something on that girls face tells you she does not want to be touched.

Or helped.

Or in this room.

 

Before you know it, the timer goes off. Within a second the girl is up and at the door before you even turn off the sound of both your freedom. She reaches for the handle and turns her head. You give her a weak smile and say you'll see her next time. She whispers something quietly and silently slips out the door.

 

What the girl said:

"I'm nine, by the way."

 

You stand there, your feelings mixed between shock and inner victory. You're shocked because she's only nine years old and looks so terrible, yet you feel victorious that she at least said something. Smiling, yet frowning, to yourself, you pack up your stuff and head out the door, murmuring a small "goodnight" to the secretary on your way out.

 

 

 

After three consecutive sessions of silence, you finally decide that the only way this girl will talk to you is if she can learn to trust you. And seeing how that's probably never going to happen vocally....

"Have you ever kept a diary?" You ask shyly as the girl settles herself on the couch. She looks up at you and shakes her head. No.

You smile and pick up a small composition book from your desk, put it on the table between the two of you, and slowly slid it over.

"I want you to to start one. You don't need to say 'Dear Diary' at the beginning of every entry, though." The girl looks at you. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a diary? she asked silently.

You catch her drift and quickly edit yourself. "Actually, don't think of it as a diary at all. Think of it more as your life story."

You give her a small smile and, for a moment, the usually stone faced girl almost returned the smile.

'Almost' being the key word.

 

The timer dings and the girl repeats her usual routine of wordlessly flying out the door.

But not, you smile, without silently pocketing the journal.

 

 

 

"Why does the road I walk not comfort me?"

 

Never had words been more true for the small nine-year old girl. Headphones on, ipod singing... For the girl it was just another day sitting in her room, leaning against her closed door, gazing out the window. In her right hand, she still clutched on to the journal you gave her. In her left hand she held a small, black pen.

My life story? she wonders. The child contemplates for a few minutes. Does she want this stranger to know? Would it be worth her while? Would anyone else read it?

Was she brave enough to even write it out?

 

The girl puts the book on her lap and neatly writes her name on the front. After a few moments of staring at the letters, she opens up to the first page.

 

Dear whoever is stalking me by reading this,

 

 

 

"Just for a future reference: I don't mean to sound racist. It's not my fault that's the way things actually are.

 

You look up from the first sentence and glance at the girl. She's drawing on some paper you gave her while you read what she wrote the night before. And like always, she pays you no attention.

 

"It's hard to be a white girl in a black neighborhood.

It's hard to be a Jew in a Christian town.

Even worse, it's hard to be a Jewish white girl living in a hellhole.

 

I used to be friends with them. Those black people. We used to play hopscotch together. But they were older than me.

And they were bigger.

I don't know about you, but I live in a very racist town. And it's full of stereotypes.

Blacks are the gangsters.

Whites are the "good" guys.

Christians are the superiors.

Jews are the inferiors.

But then they added crossovers:

Whites + Christians = superior "good" guys.

Whites + Jews = intellectual inferiors.

Blacks + Christians = respectable gang members.

Blacks + Jews = .....currently unknown.

 

The dark skinned people outnumbered the light skinned people 5 to 1. And due to the insulting stereotypes, our town has been labeled as a gang town.

And out of the few white people, I am only one of the Jews.

I've grown up with it. Ever since kindergarten, people have never looked at me the same.

 

It was Christmas time. Everyone was going around giving people candy canes and cheering,"Merry Christmas!" Except me. I sat quietly in the back of the room, reading a book. And of course, there was that one person who dared to bother me.

 

"Merry Christmas!" she said, handing me a candy cane.

I looked at her.

"I'm Jewish." I turned back to my book. Ignoring the girl giving me confused looks and walking away.

I felt so insulted. No "Happy Hanukkah" ???

 

Most of the white kids were the snooty rich people who lived in single family homes.

Well, that's as rich as you get in this town.

I, and most of the black kids, all crammed ourselves in apartments and townhouses. I lived in a townhouse. My friends lived in the townhouses next door. We'd all meet eachother outside and play hopscotch.

 

I used to be jealous of my friends. I used to gawk at their beautiful golden skin in the sunlight. My skin never glows, it just burns.

I'm not jealous of them anymore, though. They pushed me into a thorn bush one day. That was the day our friendship ended.

So I don't care about them anymore.

 

Why did they push me into a bush?

Because I "embarrassed" them.

 

One day, this prissy white girl came up to one of my friends and called her a very mean word. I didn't understand it at the time, but seeing the hostile look on my friends' face and the evil smirk on the other girls' face, I assumed it was not a happy thing to be called.

So I told her to apologize to my friend.

The white girl laughed.

"Friend? You need to get your priorities straight."

She turned and started walking away.

"Why don't you hang out with people of your own kind?" She said over her shoulder.

My own kind? I don't believe there's such a thing as my own kind.

After she left, my friend pushed me down, right into the thorn bushes we were by, and told me never to speak to her again. Angry, embarassed tears streamed down her cheeks as she marched away, the rest of my friends trailing before. Some of them gave me apologetic frowns, others glared at me as if I got what I deserved.

 

For years, I've been alone. I still am.

I don't want friends. Why befriend people who hurt you so easily?

So in my withdrawl of the world, I started living up to my stereotype.

I read books of a higher level than everyone else. I practiced writing while everyone else played outside. I actually did my homework.

But through the lonesome years, I lost my ability to speak. Whenever people talk to me, they don't expect an answer.

But that angers some people.

I can't tell you how many times I've been beaten to the ground. And for what? I never knew. It seems I was hurt over mindless reasons.

 

Sometimes I lie sprawled on the ground where I was beaten. I looked up to the sky. I watched the birds fly by.

The sky always gave me comfort. It's neverending, goes on forever.

It's also where Adoni is supposed to live and watch over us.

 

Mother told me about Adoni.

He is our light.

He is our guide.

He is our life.

I'm not really a fan of Adoni. He sounds like a meanie dictator dividing us up into groups and giving us all labels.

I thought Adoni was our savior.

I thought we were all the "children of Adoni"

"Adoni, our God."

But if we are all his children, we are not very friendly to eachother.

My doubts in Adoni have gone unknown until now. Is he really there for us?

He's not here for me.

 

And that makes me feel even more lonely.

If Adoni, our Lord and God, doesn't care for me...

Who will?"

 

 

You sit there in shock. That was definitely not what you were expecting. You were expecting her to write something about maybe a pet or her family or something...not religious beliefs vs. her beliefs and the amount of racism in her neighborhood or anything like that.

You look up at the girl and she staring back at you. You look down at her picture: It's a picture of many types of people; black, white, Asian, Hispanic, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, etc., all together on the street playing a game of hopscotch.

"May I?" You ask, indicating the pen in your hand and the journal on your lap.

The girl nods.

You quickly scribble down a response to the child's essay and had her back the book right as the timer goes off.

The girl leaves her drawing behind and leaves you in her dust.

All you can do now is sigh, a feeling of uselessness washes over you as you too pack up and leave.

 

 

 

"Dear girl to whom I'm apparently stalking,

 

Hope is the most powerful force in the world. If you lose your hope, you might as well not be alive at all.

But hope also ties in with courage.

There are two types of courage: The courage to live and the courage to die.

And let me tell you, it's takes more courage to live than to die.

Die now, and you're nothing but a hopeless coward.

Die now, and you wouldn't have existed at all."

 

 

The class of nervous 4th grade kids were lined up on the field.

Two kids were chosen as the "team leaders" and were to evenly divide the class into two teams by taking turns and picking someone.

 

"Jane."

"Chris."

"Sam."

"Carly."

"Erin."

"Joe."

"Maud."

 

Pretty soon, there were two even teams of 12. Problem?

It was an uneven class.

 

As the children laughed and played, one little boy with messy brown hair sat in the corner and watched. He wasn't considered one of the brightest students, but even he could figure out that no one liked him.

They thought of him more as a liablity rather than a person.

The boy looked down at the grass and starting poking at the weeds. He wondered why they were called weeds and not flowers, even though they looked the same.

He shook his head to escape the thoughts and looked back up at the game he was not invited to play. He lowered his eyes.

 

He was always casted out. In everything. Games, groups, partners, buddies...People mocked him by calling him "Number 9", since 9 was the boy's favorite number. The boy, however, never really understood why that wasn't a compliment.

 

The boy shook himself from his thoughts again...only to find the weeds he was absentmindedly playing with before were now torn from their stems and lying spread out across the green grass. The small boy panicked, and tried to reattatch the weeds to their stems. But nothing worked.

Nothing ever did.

 

For some unclear reason, the boy felt like crying. Crying for the lose of the weeds by his own hand. As he hugged his knees to his small chest, another pair of hands appeared to try and fix the weeds. In one hand, however, was a roll of scotch tape. The boy looked up, surprised. No one ever came near him. But one boy did.

The boy with the tape had auburnish hair, though it was a little more red than usual, in a spikey ponytail and bright, emerald green eyes.

"Want some help, Myde?" the redhead asked. He even cocked a smile a bit, which--for once--looked more friendly than mocking. Myde, the boy with the messy flop of brown hair, observed the redhead for a second before cautiously nodding his head. He knew this boy's name...but he couldn't remember...

 

The auburn-redhead smiled and handed Myde the tape. He then started gathering the weed heads and Myde caught on what he was planning. After a few several minutes, the two had managed to tape together all the weed heads back to their stems...or at least, they hoped they were back on their stems...

 

As the bell rang, signalling the students inside for class, the two small boys waved eachother off. Little did he know, Myde would never see that boy again. He still hadn't learned his name, but he would within a few days.

 

He just wished he hadn't learned the boy's name through the newspaper.

 

 

Acceptance