Jasper's Symphony

Chapter 1- A birthday, and a book

'Jasper? Jasper dear, wake up now!!'

Ugh, mum. My eardrums are already throbbing madly because of a mad music marathon that went on the whole of last night, and she finds it very important to yell into my ears like that.

'Mum. Please. My head hurts' I mutter, grabbing her hand and putting it over her mouth. She laughs, and tousles my already messy hair.

'Oh c'mon dearie, it's your dad's birthday today; don't you want to wish him when he wakes up?'

'What's the time anyway?' I ask, my head buried under my pillow.

'5 dot. He'll be up anytime now for his walk. Oh, and did you get him anything?'

I get up sleepily, and stick a hand into my closet. Out pops a wrapped present. Mum gives me a condescending look. 'Clean up your cupboard, how many times do I tell you that? You're going to have a deluge in here someday.'

She takes me by the hand, and literally drags me down the staircase, as I am in no mood to open my eyes or walk of my own accord. 'The living dead, that's what you are', mum mutters.

'The dead; living, mum'- I say sedately.

Like the almost dead who weren't supposed to live. Count me in your ranks, great men of yore.

Jasper Sky. Hello.

Also called the "Anti virus" by some dorks who think the world of their crappy puns. (Don't get it? Fine by me.)

I'm nobody special- when you count all the things I ought to have done by now, but haven't. I'm 16, but don't really look like it, as my psychotherapist admonishes me, whilst adjusting my spectacles' frame on my bony nose. I am not cool, I don't drive an Iroc, and cannot play the violin to save my life. I live in the country of my thoughts, and let my imagination soar in the free, sunny skies when I'm happy, and brood myself to death when I am depressed, which is a lot.

Because, the only thing that is probably worth mentioning about me is this- I survived the greatest plane crash of the century, when I never should have. This is also why I suffer from PTSD.

Post traumatic stress disorder.

I'm not addled, I must add. I've just been through something so awful, that it will take me a long time to recover from it; as I tell new acquaintances who look at me as though I'm diseased, whenever I start to hyperventilate without provocation. I also need Clonidine, when my brain refuses to stop arousal. And no, that isn't a girl, it's a drug. A drug designed to keep my memories and dreams pain-free.

I obsessively connect with, and research more stories of this kind. Did you know that Aerosmith almost signed their death warranty when they were about to board a plane where the two pilots were drunk? Fortunately for them, that never happened. But, one man's rubbish is another's come-uppance, as the band Lynyrd Skynyrd found. Don't ask me who named their band, because I don't know. Suffice it to say that they died soon after; leaving their fans with their last album- Street Survivors, with an ironic album cover that will almost certainly choke you up.

And Jimmy Buffet and Bono were almost shot down by Jamaican authorities when they were high in the sky. Almost.

Terrifying, like a James Bond movie come true; as Bono would admit. I know that feeling, all too well.

'There he is' whispers mum, stowing her present behind her back, beckoning me forward. I feel like gagging. 'Mum. Honestly. It's only his birthday, not a freaking horror show.'

'Shush, Jasper!' mum says angrily, slithering against a wall, and peeking at me occasionally to see if I was following. Wearily, making as much noise as I could, I shuffle behind her. I know dad always sees her, but acts as if he hasn't. Honestly, who's the kid in this house?

Dad grins like a maniac and pulls us into a deep hug before we can hand him the presents. Mum and I start up a happy chorus of the birthday song (so cliché now!) as dad laughs indulgently. He's only 43 now- but already there are streaks of grey in his hair that I'd probably attribute to my troublesome behaviour. We finally hand him our presents, mum's is a long thin package; while mine is a stocky rectangular one. Dad's face is lit up, as he eagerly opens his presents- mum has gifted him..

'Golf sticks!' dad says, enthused, running his fingers down the shiny metal. Truth be told, I cannot really imagine why he's so obsessed with a sport he can barely play.

Mine is a book- "Stories of the Universe and Mankind's doings & undoings"; by my father's favourite author of all time- Brian Merl. Though what his publisher and printers must have thought of him when they saw this ridiculously long title, I can scarcely begin to comprehend.

Dad yelps and literally shoves the book up his nose in his eagerness to read the Author's note; which he says changes with every book, and holds a mysterious verse with deep meaning.

'Let him be now' mum says. 'He's not going for his walk, that book will have him hooked.' I grin, and run my palms over my ruffled brown hair. Like father, like son. I'd wait with well practised patience for my turn to read.

My mum checks up a few dates on her phone, and sighs. 'Jasper, apparently Mrs. Vermont has an important patient she has to attend to today. She wants us to come another day.'

I shrug, and stare out of the window. All the beautiful colors of the sunrise merge into another and throw shadows on the trees, lighting them up in a way that makes my heart quiver with newly-found happiness.

'So, what are you going to do this morning?'

Oh. Being home-schooled has its disadvantages, I should tell you. When your mornings stretch out like an incredibly overt hourglass, and the long hours beckon you like a swing beckons a child to kick off their shoes and play. When kids your age look at you like you're a different pie altogether. It was a conscious decision my parents took when I was young, and at times I like it. Most times though, it gives me a constant reminder that I'm nowhere near how my social life should be like.

I try, believe me. My last girlfriend got annoyed at me, and broke up because I ate biscuits in her bed, and often forgot to brush the crumbs off. Apparently she got blamed for eating the "special guest" biscuits, and I got kicked out without having a single say in it all. The memory of her yelling at me- 'You crumbled the biscuits just like you did our love' still brings tears of mirth in my eyes. Ah jeez. Love is weird.

'There's a club meeting today, mum, in the Astronomy Tower. I might go there.'

'Alright love. Make sure your father eats his breakfast before you leave; he's taking a holiday with his friends that we have to remind him about.'

I smile slightly, and help her with the breakfast.

It's so good to feel good about silly things. To have this nonchalant attitude for a while.

Because, truth be told, it never lasts long.