Masters of the Unknown

Part 1- Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Frankie Simsons was a poor girl. Very poor. Extraordinarily poor. Not in the sense of money, no. Her family had too much of that. She was poor in the sense of emotion. Emotion is what she lacked due to emotionless parents who had sold their soul many, many moons ago for power. This may seem a bit dramatic but, it gets to the point through. Ms Simpson was like a broken window with no light shining through. Instead, behind her pale blue eyes, you could only see darkness.

Some say, when her parents bargained with their souls, a little part of hers was taken too. She's the kind who will probably die on her feet cause she's too stubborn to fall to her knees.
She's like that captain that will sink with his ship or a less emotional Elizabeth Bennett who doesn't love a Mr Darcy because she doesn't believe in love at all.

Her father used to tell her to man up. 'Don't be one of those weak little girls' he'd say. She was six. Andrew didn't care.
Her mother barely said anything to her at all. She forgot she had a daughter most of the time. Mrs Simsons would usually be far too interested in the young bartenders at some upper east/ west over the top priced country club. Always near the martinis of course.

Family meals only existed when her father would be dining congressmen. They'd be fed tales of a Simsons family mask. Of three people who loved each other deeply. Then the public would leave. And Andrew, Mrs Simsons and Frankie would take off their masks and become strangers once again. Same house. A very big house.

Right now Frankie Simsons is waiting for a biology test that she failed but doesn't care because her dads gonna buy her way into college.

Whilst the teacher drones through the class speaking in a language foreign to anyone but herself Frankie sits and draws. Small sketches Scribbles and homes. Homes with people who love each other. Homes with a mother who bakes things with her own hands. And a father who knows what a shovel looks like instead of the backside of his secretary.

I guess some of us are born. And we know what we are. And some of us are born. And told what we are. The there are us who are born. And will die without a clue. We'll die empty and alone. And be content.
Some of us are tired because we've been waiting for things that will never happen. Text books that are continuously placed on back order, fathers that go to the corner store and get lost, or a God to redeem our poisoned souls.

****

At four am on a Tuesday Frankie woke up two hours early. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, scowled nastily at her alarm clock. Said some unrepeatable words. And accepted her fate.
By eight she was walking to school with a bag that was packed and re packed five times give or take.

This may all seem very normal. But on this fateful morning something utterly ludicrous occurred. Frankie Simsons walked straight into me. Grazed my shoulder, and didn't look back. There was no eye contact or fowl words shared. I was invisible. And so was everyone else.
We were at the amusement park named Frankie Simsons and we were the souls of lives lived. Of people passed. And Frankie Simsons is the loneliest ghost here.

****

Andy

Advanced literature has five people this year. That is if you don't include the teacher Mr Donare. A prematurely balding 28 year old with horrible body odour and a genius mind.
Myself, Frankie, a painfully stereotypical gothic girl who likes to be called Eve, a too cliche to be truly normal guy Charlie and a boy who smiles too much for it to ever be sincere; Alexei.

I think his parents are Russian immigrants. I think.
I know he has a handsome older brother. And a bratty younger sister. I also know he plays harmonica after school in the quiet of a sound proof music room because no one ever became famous for playing a harmonica. Except Mickey Mouse. And only cause he's a talking rat.
And his parents are nice, and they care. And they're so very naive. Because a son who plays the harmonica and has no friends except the ones in his head and who reads about death and destruction is not normal. Nor is it normal to have a son who sneaks out in the middle of the night once a week every Monday and shows up to his Tuesday Lit class half drunk of fatigue and half high of something illegal.
And little cliche Charlie is the boy next door. But if you look in the third closet to the right in his basement you may find something illegal there too. It's hidden under his toy cars that have gathered dust through years of waiting to be raced again. But Charlie doesn't play with cars anymore. Lately he's been playing with the strings of life and the Fates are seeking revenge because he doesn't know how to weave.
Now too different to ever be normal Eve is actually Madison Jones. Dead family except for an alcoholic brother and an aunt that cares too much. They're well off. But, Eve doesn't want well of or comfortable or nice. She wants danger and death waiting around the corner only to be dodged by her yet again because her metaphorical ninja moves are undoubtedly 'in the scene'.

And I've never spoken a single word to one of them. I exist but they don't know. And I watch. And I learn more from the actions of a group of teenagers than what any adult could ever attempt to ingrain into my mind.
And we're all surviving in the wrong ways.