The Cracks in my Mind

September 7th, 1995

Author's Note: Thank you to kawaii_dashie for the incredible cover!

Today, my class went to see the plane wreckage.

There were reporters everywhere. Literally everywhere. They swarm around, taking pictures of everything, and asking people questions. What happened? How did the place crash? Where were you when it happened?

I know what happened, of course. I can see the flames inside the wrecked hull of the plane, burning bright. Sabotage, though I don't know why. Something personal, I think.

The spirits are here too. I squat down, and trail my fingers along the dusty ground. Little clouds float from my finger-tips. They open their eyes, whisper out to me, but I can't here them. You can never here ghosts.

"Ooh, look! It's the Dust Girl, in her natural habitat."

My back stiffens at the words, whispered not-so-quietly from a few feet away. I know who it is, without even turning around. Lidia Chase, and her friends. What some might call the "mean girls" of the school, though I know better. They're just a bunch of friends, that take out their problems on other people. I'm their favorite target, but they're not picky. They'll make fun of anyone, as long as they won't get into trouble for it.

Lidia doesn't let up. "What're you doing, Dust Girl?", she calls. "Making some kind of messed-up art?"

"I bet she's eating it," says somebody else, and the whole group erupts into laughter, with a few ews mixed in. I stand up, pretending not to notice them. Still, I brush my skirt off, sending dust flying. The laughter increases, and I turn away.

Hey, I'm human. Whether you believe it or not.

A few feet away, Sandra Bellana sends me a sympathetic smile. If there's a popular kid in our school, that'd be her. She's nice, smart, funny, and beautiful, and everyone likes her. She's tried to stand up for me before, as have others. But nobody can beat Lidia and her friends when it comes to word battles.

I smile back at her, then get into the school bus. My teacher, Ms. Klien, doesn't see me. She's daydreaming about her fiancée, the one she thinks nobody knows about. But it's plain to everyone, what with the smile in her eyes. She doesn't notice as I walk past her, and take my seat in the back of the bus.

I can't stand being around the ghosts any longer.

______________________________________________________________________

On the bus, one of the boys start a sing-along of R.E.M's Losing My Religion. I don't join in, but I watch the people, hear their voices carry through the bus. I can feel their happiness collecting around me, but I can't let it in. Something else is pressing on me.

And sure enough, as I step off the bus, it hits me.

The air closes in, forcing it's way into my lungs. I gasp, and close my eyes, my breath forcing it's way out of my closed lungs. All around me, the people slow down, sluggish movements that I can see through my eye-lids. I wrap my arms around me, digging my nails into the soft skin of my upper arm. Stop. Stop. Don't go any further.

But it doesn't work. Since when did it work? I open my eyes, watch as the color fades. I feel the heat on the back of my neck, feel it through my clothing, feel it in my bones. The dust sticks to my skin, sticky with sweat. There is no wind, only the hot, heavy air. I start coughing, unable to get enough air. Everything is so slow, so sickly-sweet like molasses. The sound has slowed to a crawl, a droning monotone.The heat rolls around me, a never-ending wave. I groan, my parched lips opening in the silent cry of a drowning man.

And then there are people around me. I gasp in air, cool, fresh air. People are touching me, shaking me, their voices stumbling over each-other. Ashly! What happened? Are you alright? What happened?

I close my eyes, blocking it all out. Because the heat is not gone. It clings to my skin, it's thick air nestled in the bottom of my lungs. But the worst is over, and I can move again.

There is a two-year drought, here in Lelinda. But it seems so much longer. I've heard people talking, complaining about weather patterns and crops. "I don't understand it," I heard one man say to his wife. "All the rain just passes right over us. There must be something wrong with the atmosphere here."

But no. There's nothing wrong with the atmosphere. The problem is the air. I don't know why people can't see it. Lelinda is poisoned, poisoned by the people. All the lies, the faked happiness, the "small-town" closeness. Just because nobody wants to admit that anything is wrong. 

I know. though. For two years, I've felt this way. For two years, I've been suffocating, drowning in the honeyed lies of the people around me. Watching the crops turn to dust, and the joy of people turn to dust. People used to be happy. But now we're just perfect.

"Nobody cries here," I heard a women boast to her cousin, visiting from out of town. "We all know and love each other. Why, it's all sunshine and happiness!"

She's true about that. For two straight years, the sun has shone down. It shines down now, slowly killing us all. And when we die, I'm sure we'll die with smiles on our faces, still sticking to the lies we tell ourselves.

There is nothing wrong. Everything is perfect. I don't need to cry.