Chapter 1- I Have No Idea
Trite has always known there was something wrong with him. Even though his parents tried to hide it from him, he knew the truth. He was deaf and it was pretty evident. What made it less evident was how he could always hear some sort of voice in his head. Judging from his knowledge of psychology, that must’ve been the schizophrenia part.
What was weird was how he had figured it out only yesterday.
Trite remembered it clearly.
He remembered sitting on the check-up table with his back facing the ceiling and a mind as empty as his emotions. His mother, an elderly woman, sat next to him in a waiting chair for elderly patients.
Trite’s mother didn’t often talk, well, not in English. She preferred to speak in sign language but only rarely would she use English. That was mainly why they went to a certain doctor for check-ups.
His mother was an elder but elegant woman with eyes that appeared to glow in the dark. Her physique was slim and statuesque and her hair was a coppery gold.
Trite’s father was the exact opposite of that. He was a stout and husk man with dark eyes and a gruff voice. Aside from that was how his dad had a fetish towards Mohawks and mullets. So basically, he has a mullet and Mohawk hybrid that’s possibly the most hideous idea of all.
How Trite’s parents met is the one thing he never understood.
What was stranger was how only his dad’s cousin was bipolar or had any mental disorder. In many ways, it was strange how Trite could inherit such a burden.
Trite himself looked nothing like his mom or dad. Trite was a tall fourteen-year-old like his mother but he wasn’t slim. Instead, he was muscular. His eyes were a dark hazel and lacked of any color. His hair was a dark blonde and only slightly looked like the color of his father’s Mohawk-mullet. Trite’s hair was styled similar to Adrien Agreste’s but was neatly styled at the bottom and arranged into neat rows of blade-like tails.
His younger sister, Ophelia, was also in the waiting room. She was sitting on her phone joyously and playing what looked like a rip-off of Angry Birds.
Trite looked at his mother when the doctor came into the room. He was practically running.
The doctor, Dr.Hamby, waltzed over to Trite’s mom with a clipboard of papers.
Trite watched as the two of them shared a conversation in English, one that he couldn’t understand.
This was suspicious to Trite. Usually, the doctor would speak in sign language without any problems towards what Trite heard.
Using the worst lip-reading techniques, Trite attempted to figure out the conversation.
“What’s _______ supposed to be?” asked his mother.
“It’s not___________. It can be cured in_________________.” replied Hamby.
“Are you sure? Are there any ________________ he can take for __?”
“I could per__________ some medications if _______ ________ ______.”
The rest of the conversation was spent with Trite’s mother and Hamby talking in direction of the wall.
Trite looked up at his little sister.
“Hey, River!” he called in sign language.
Trite failed to unglue his sister’s eyes from the device.
Trite snapped his fingers in front of River’s face like a hypnotist. In about a second, she was face to face with her older brother.
“Could you tell me what their talking about?” asked Trite.
“No. I need to finish watching this!” snapped River.
“Please?”
River scowled and looked back at her device. Trite, giving up, sighed and rolled onto his back.
Above him lay the horizon of ceiling tiles placed gingerly by past engineers and builders who created the facility.
Before Trite could begin counting them, he could hear some sort of voice in the room.
It was a feminine voice, crisp and smooth like burnt sugar but tart like a sour candy.
“There’s eighty-five of those you know. I already counted.” said the voice.
“Uh, hello?” Trite said mentally. He never noticed how awkward he could think until this point.
“Hey. You’re Trite, right?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
The voice continued to go on about the ceiling tiles once more. Trite, since he couldn’t do anything else, listened through it all.
“I kind of like counting the ceiling tiles in the hospitals. Hey, I found six ceiling fans in that restaurant the other day. I think it’s so cool how your eyes glow in the dark! I found at least eighteen fauns yesterday. Do you know what a faun is? What color do you think my eyes are?”
“Okay. One, yes. Two, purple. Do you have a name at all?” asked Trite.
“No. I never had a name. Or friends really. I’m just a little voice inside your head that you choose to hear on a day-to-day basis. I see that in the situation you’re in, I should be the ears for you in this time of need and desperation.”
“How is that possible?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Trite sat on the hospital bed and hesitated. Then, after a long time of thinking, he agreed.
Many believe he let the feminine voice in his head do such a deed for the point of entertainment. He did this out of curiosity. He didn’t know if he had schizophrenia or if he just happened to be speaking to someone for real.
“Okay, I think I can understand what they’re saying.” the feminine voice noted.
“Go on.” rushed Trite.
“Your mother is asking about some random disease. They say it’s ADHD. Then again, it does sound like DID. She’s asking if it’s fatal. Hamby says it isn’t. He also says that you’re the first case of a deaf person with DID (or ADHD). That’s interesting.”
“I suppose so. What’s ADHD?” asked Trite.
“It’s basically a disorder that makes you not focus well. However, most people outgrow it.”
“What about DID?”
“Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s uncommon nowadays. It’s basically a disease where a singular person has multiple personalities.”
“In that case, I’m not sure if I have it.”
Trite could feel for the first time in his life something incredible. He was finally right.
His heart practically fluttered in his chest when he was told by the doctor he didn’t have DID. Quickly afterwards was when his heart sank. Indeed, Trite was correct. He didn’t have DID; he had something worse than that. He had a disease known as schizophrenia.
The disease itself is better known as bipolar. However, it’s far more than that.
This meant Trite would always hear some sort of voice in his head, and it wasn’t always the same feminine voice.
That day, Trite left the doctor’s office with a mother in tears, a child addicted to a show, and a voice in his head going on and on about ceiling fans. It was at that moment when Trite had realized two things, one: he was surrounded by girls, two: how was he getting prescriptions for a mental disease from a doctor?
Trite lied in bed that night with his eyes wide open. He was tired and he had the veins to prove it. The voice in his head was finally gone but his mind wondered upon certain things.
He wondered of tomorrow frequently but never the same way he did this day.
Normally, he would wonder if he would get hit by a car when crossing the street or get killed by someone in an alleyway because he couldn’t hear the last victim’s screams.
This time he wondered how he was going to go to school and still be able to focus.
In order to get his mind off things, Trite began to sketch on a piece of old notebook paper he laid next to his nightstand the day before.
Sketching had always been a great hobby of Trite’s. He loved how the picture went from being a line to being a beautiful masterpiece.
It was at this moment when a voice popped into to Trite’s head.
“Oh, Trite! Can you draw me?” asked the feminine voice, “Oh I know, what about a butterfly?”
“What kind of butterflies do you mean?” he replied with hopes of being able to find inspiration.
“Monarchs are my favorite. Then again, so are cattails. I suppose either one would be fine.”
Trite’s pencil was about to make contact with the page when he had finally figured something out.
“So, do you have a name?” asked Trite.
“Nope. Do you know any good ones?” replied the feminine voice.
“What about Mariposa?”
“Mariposa?! Where did you come up with a name like that?”
“There’s a festival they have for mariposa butterflies in Spain. Well, I think it’s in Spain. I’ve been to one before with my dad. They’re really cool.”
Trite looked down at his notebook paper and noticed it was still empty. Not a single word nor mark was on it. The sheet was empty.
To fill in space, Trite attempted to draw a butterfly as requested. He worked from the body to the wings at a slow pace with much attention to detail. When he thought he was done, he wound up restarting a section of the page he just finished.
When he was actually done, he frowned intensely.
The butterfly he had drawn looked, to him, like a mess upon a canvas with no inspiration what-so-ever. It was almost like it was a space-filler of a sort with how it appeared.
“That’s it.” Trite confessed in frustration.
“What’s it?” Mariposa asked.
“I think I’ve officially lost all my inspiration. I haven’t had a single good idea in ages, not even now. I’ve gone dry like a desert in the fall.”
“Oh.”
Trite looked up at his bedroom ceiling then crumbled up the drawing he had made.
Sometimes, this is the moment in which Trite looks back at. For, this moment was when Trite figured out the name of something awful.
And its name was Mariposa.
Realistic Fiction
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The disclaimer at the beginning of the story had me thinking this might have some language in it, but the story did not. I don’t think it’s necessary to offer a warning when only the topic is discussed. There weren’t any actually racist comments made in the story. Also, “The name is not mentioned for certain reasons unknown” doesn’t make any sense. First, if the reasons are unknown, they cant be “certain reasons.” Second, if the child being interviewed is a minor, s/he must receive parental consent for their name to be published, especially if it’s in connection with a lawsuit. Based on the evidence about this kid’s family, I doubt Mom would have let the name be published. You don’t want to tie specific kids to the lawsuit because crazy people exist and could try to hurt those even remotely involved or who attend the school.
“The facility itself is nicer than I used to expect.” – Redundant. The facility is nicer than expected.
“staff is fairly pleasing, i’m kind of exceeding, the teaching is remarkable” – These don’t sound like comments a kid would make. The line about the teachers not complaining as much as they did at the old school is perfect. That’s definitely something a kid would notice.
“The staff is way more different in 8th grade” – ‘more different’ is redundant; should be just ‘way different’ or just ‘different’
“I call this chapter “The Effect of Doctor Hamby” for certain reasons.” – Careful not to inflate your story with this psuedo-mystery stuff. It leaves readers leery of moving ahead with the story because you aren’t talking about something earth-shattering here. A guy made some horrible comments, a recording was made, he is being sued. The end. It’s called justice and it happens every day. Unless your life is literally in danger, share the details and bring us into your world.
Also, this is incorrect: “caused demean”… Something can be “demeaning.”
Okay. Doing line-by-line comments is exhausting. There’s so much work here. I guess I’d leave this advice: build up the villain as a good guy. The student knows Dr. Hamby as this fellow who gives of himself, has built all these important places for the school, who shows up, who talks to kids, who gives the teachers hugs, etc. etc. Then they come to school and suddenly there’s whisper of a lawsuit. The student is in disbelief! What could someone find wrong with Dr. Hamby? They ask Mom, they use the internet. The truth comes out. Talk about the effect on the student, the student body, how people talk to each other differently, how the gossip pervades the halls and lunchroom. Then we see the truly dark internet comments, people flinging words around because they’re so angry. Does the student feel afraid now? Were there any threats made directly to students at the school? How do the parents feel now?
Going even deeper, does this attitude cheapen the concrete contributions this man made to the school? Do the students feel a certain way about interacting with buildings or programs this guy has made? Has there been an outcome of the lawsuit?
You have all the makings of a good “this is not who we are, we are better than these comments” story, I think some attention needs to be paid to structure and pacing.
Thank you for the feedback.