Mayhem's Beginning (Everybody Changes)

Chapter 1: Andrew Mayhem

My foot tapped, drums beat, horns blared, music rung. The sounds of Benny Goodman bounced throughout the room, a bass so farty I felt vibrations in the brass of my sax. Raising the reed to my lips, I began blowing, contributing my part to the piece. The prominent tones of harmonizing was dessert to my ears, a natural smile coming to my eyes. My solo was coming up, it was my time to shine.

I had the world at my fingertips. In a split second I felt seven billion eyes turn my way. My mini limbs pressed buttons, a single line of complex licks tangoed out the barrel of my instrument. The notes were bullets, all firing in perfect progression. Every note drifted into my pores, through my ears, up my nose, fas it finally reached my aorta. My ears rung, my heart rose into my shoulder blades, my facial muscles distorted.

A single squeak of horror came out my barrel as my eyes turned into Brazil nuts. My lungs exhaled in shock causing an even more horrendous sound. The other sax players grabbed at their ears which made the rest of the band crash and burn. “Cut! Cut! Cut!” a furious voice called from the front of the room. A young pudgy woman came to a stand in the center of our Colosseum. “Mayhem, how many times do I have to get on you about this solo? You gotta' tear it up man!” the woman scolded.

“I-I'm sorry...” I began turtling back up into my shell, throwing my confidence into Davy Jone's Locker. “...I just can't hit that note. It's too high, Mrs. C.”

“Can't? I don't want to hear that word ever again. Anybody can do anything. 'Can't' is a commonly used excuse for slacking off. You're the section leader Mayhem. Start acting like one!” I could do nothing but nod in embarrassment. I've been trying to hit this one note for days, but it seems as if it was at the top of my range.

I didn't understand why I was the only one being picked on. Other section leaders mess up their part all the time, but yet Mrs. Clawstrike seems to only get on my case. “I want to hear that note by next week. Practice it.” Were Mrs. Clawstrike's final words before slamming her folder shut and walking off into her office. I packed up my things, then walked out the band room. The bell rang then, the buzzing of a blatant B note.

New Amsterdam Heights is where this story begins. A typical start, a high school on America's most famous island, Manhattan. Yeah I know, seems a bit cliché, but what can I say, there is approximately one point five million humans living here. Everyone has a story to tell.

Andrew Mayhem is the name. A kid who if someone were asked to describe would simply use one word. “Average.” I was not very thick, not very skinny. Not very tall, not very short. Not very dark, not very pale. My hair wasn't long, it also wasn't a buzz. Like I said... Average... a despicable title.

 I've always felt that my brain functioned in such a way that was not what most would consider normal. I don't really know how to explain what I'm talking about. Smarts isn't the word, although getting straight As came with no effort. Perhaps maturity is the word I am looking for. An extreme maturity that made me stick out even in a crowd of adults.

My backpack slung over my shoulder, the sounds of the heater roared, and my soles squeaked against the linoleum. My head was tilted downwards as I lifted one foot after another. My hands instinctively took shelter in my pockets. I didn't want to look up. Even the most subtle sign of happiness might attract the terrorist.

The terrorist in this case meaning Chance Warsaw. He was the president to the unofficial “I Hate Nerds, Geeks, and Gays Committee.” When thinking of him, just picture the most stereotypical athlete you can imagine. Brawny, lofty, usually attired in a letterman's jacket and Red Wings. I don't like the word “popular,” it seems a bit elementary. Let's just say he was well known, and for obvious reasons. He was the Boogie Man and in comparison everyone else was a six year old child.

I was a walking target and Chance was looking down the scope of a sniper.

“Hey Gay-hem! Long time no see.” My body tightened slightly. I tried to brainwash myself to feel nothing. Sadly, fear was inevitable. “Look at cute little Mayhem, too scared to say a word.” Chance teased. I slowly raised my head as him and his group came into sight. I didn't dare to let our eyes connect.

“Don't call him cute, Chance. He might get a hard on!” one of Chance's friends chimed in. An endless sea of laughter was the response to the pun. My palms grew sweaty as my ears warmed. My legs started to tremble as my eyes scanned the scene. I would not dare show a physical sign of terror, but that was near impossible when the odds were not in your favor.

“Actually, my erection is throbbing at the moment.” I replied. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I just let someone make fun of me. My lungs were imprisoned oxygen as my heart raced at a thousand miles per hour. A thin stream of sweat rolled down my neck as the shudder of my hands warmed my blood.

Chance jolted forward as I found myself flinching. I prepared for the worst, fists in face, knees in ribs, etc. Chance was relentless with his beatings, and I'm sure he would terrorize me just because he didn't like the color shirt I was wearing. He stopped in mid-motion, smiling as the rest of the guys began cracking up. “See you around, Gay-hem.” Chance said, him and his friends walking away laughing. My pulse slowed down at the moment as I recollected my bravado. I watched their small pack leave, never looking back. I sometimes wondered if he felt like he day wasn't complete until he ruined somebody else's.

I leaned against the locker and exhaled sharply, sliding down the aluminum until my bottom touched the tiled floor. A daily life through the eyes of Andrew was something along the lines above. “Get to class, Mayhem.” The school's security guard told me as he strolled on by. I scoffed. It seems as if nobody was ever there when needed.