Memoir.+Roy's.

 Funny how whenever I am on this website, I happen to be in the worst moods I can be in. Can I line the pieces up? I hallucinate.

   Title is in the works. Ending is in the works. Editing is in the works. Life's in the works. Yippee. Don't like it, __**don't**__ read it. Simple as that. Criticism, sure. Flaming, sure. Comments and compliments __**will**__ be politely rejected and __**burned**__ to ashes.

 Thank you,  R.

English (DeVirgilis) Roy Kim Period 02 November 7th, 2011

Terminus A short outburst of laughter was prolonged for me. I watched as each smile was slowly transfixed into a tilt of a frown and those lethargic eyes convert to wide, shocked eyes—those very tools of sight position themselves on me. It happened with such languid speeds; I viewed it all unfold before me like the neat, suspenseful pages of a novel. Their mouths—I could even see the lips of some children contracting into a comical “O”. Each movement—every sound was slowed for me. Focusing my attention on her, I could see that no exception was made for her, either. The veins on the sides of her head slowly enlarged to fearful sizes, and the blood vessels popped in a rhythm that clearly spelled out my death.

That happened not too long ago in my sea of memories. I am reminded every year, no doubt, for every scar of emotional pain I caused them. I am different now and am still changing at a noticeable rate. It is nerve-racking and aggravating to look back on the little brat I once was, thus, quite frustrating to think about it. It’s disgusting—a disgusting, regretful memory.

Nonetheless, it happened rather quickly at the time. I was younger than ten but no older than five. I was at the age of where I was extremely conceited and thought of myself capable of being absolutely independent. Because of that, I had no patience during the pressure of that moment which brought both of us to an argument, causing us to lose ourselves. That lack of patience—perhaps, with just the smallest amount, it would not have happened. That simple carelessness brought me a title of crude rudeness and regret.

Year after year, I simply began to dread. There was nothing I can do. Thus, I waited. I waited as a convict would before his day of judgment—with anxiety. Every year, not long after the school term closed, it always started off with the same, redundant routine—I was dragged up there every morning at 8AM. No matter how tightly I gripped the sheets of my bed or kept spitting out that nasty environment-friendly toothpaste, I would somehow end up in the backseat of our car and then thrown out into the freezing mornings up in the mountains. Winter camp. Winter. Hiking camp.

Oh, yes. Every damn morning, it was the same thing. My only remaining sanctuary left was the weekend. I was forcefully dragged back and forth against my will and have to cooperate with a bunch of other brats from ages five to ten that couldn’t handle a bit of dirt. Hahah, no. //I//, could handle the dirt. However, it pained me so to walk //POINTLESSLY// up that stupid mountain and back down //and// deal with those positively disgusting, enthusiastic kids. I realize now that perhaps I had been exaggerating with a case of hysteria. Regardless, I had a strong passion of hate for the camp.

I just didn’t see it. What was the point? Our pace was infuriatingly slow, and we only started on the trail when the heat began to break out. It was no doubt, ridiculous. Ludicrousness, I say! Every day at the same time with the same sights, we all walked up the hill with counselors behind us, urging us to be enthusiastic with their touchy methods.

“Come on, Roy Boy, leeeet’s go, go, //go//!” one counselor would say as they attempted to get me excited about the amazing activity of trailing up a rocky mountainside. He gave me an encouraging push and patted my head.

I could do nothing but laugh. Me? Excited? On this lump of rock? No, sir. At least //he// was getting paid.

Every day of the week, I would bear with my fellow “children” with that big ego of mine that made me feel special—different. I would hike up the four different courses just like everyone else to see the same scenery that they saw. I would view upon the city that lie in layers of the lethargic, dull senses of gray smog and the oddly dressed men on the DeBell Golf Course that stood dotted along the fields of grass. I would sight the little squirrels that scampered across the road to avoid cars and the hundreds of golf balls that were fired in union in the driving range. With the band of short, sweaty children, I, like every other poor child there, would climb up the mountain and desperately try to escape the unbearable heat. I would stand behind my peers as they stood and gave cutesy efforts to shout off the edges of small, teensy cliffs in desperate attempts to create an oh-so-miraculous echo. When a staff member would round everyone up to explain “rare” rock found by another daycare-hiker kid, I would be the only kid to groan. Oh, the solitude. It would be that rote pattern every day. It was far too much for my younger self to handle.

So, I worked my devious little toddler mind and came up with no doubt, an ingenious plan at the time. I declared myself outcast from the union. My intentions were pure, I assure you—completely selfish and disgusting. Oh, the little brat I was: I wanted to make the counselors suffer as I had.

Hysterical—simply put, I became absolutely hysterical. I made a big deal out of everything and gave the administrators a hard time. Why? Honestly, even now, I am not aware as to why I had developed such a stupid plan like that. The little six-year-old brat of me was simply irrationally eager to make everybody’s lives a living nightmare of hell, I suppose. Just as I had once slowly sunk into a puddle of aggravation and fury, I could sense that the counselor’s patience was also wearing thin with not only me, but the other children as well. With each coming day, their patience was pulled on like a wig, strand by strand. We were nearing the end of our December session, and everyone present was on a series of impatient mood swings like an adolescent delinquent.

One morning in particular was our last day or so together. The heat was intense, and many kids were late to the recreation building. I kept everyone on their toes and on the brink of insane agitation. The irritable staff had us lined up along the walls and the railings of the bridge. I sighed. I remember reminiscing about my deeds those past weeks. I felt somewhat accomplished for dealing out my revenge to these people. Still, it took large amounts of concentration and effort to always be a wet blanket. Thus, I sighed.

Kids pulled open the sliding doors of their cars and tumbled over to a counselor to check themselves in as they were dropped off. A certain staff member, the one with the least patience took the stage. With an unpleasant image of basic “slim”, “short”, and “typical”, she spoke in unpleasant tones that extended all of her “ay” syllables on a higher note than others. She took a final roll, “All right, kids. Call out ‘here’ when I say your name, okaaaayy?”

I felt an unnatural stirring in my bones whenever she spoke. She began, “Alan?”

“He’s not here,” a quiet voice rang out.

“Thanks, sweetie. Justin? Melissa?”

“Here!”

“Here…”

“Hurry, hurry. It’s not hard to give a simple reply, kids. Ed?”

“Hehe. Eheheh. Here.”

“Isabella?”

“Present.”

“Did I //not// just saaayy to just call out ‘here’? Is it that hard? How hard can it be. Jeez…Both of you, time-out chairs numbers three and two.” she snapped. Since no other counselors really cared, she ran an absolute autocracy. She was well known for her mercilessness when handing out time-outs and was overly concerned about her appearance and clothing. I never understood what she was doing up here in a hiking camp when she threw larger tantrums than a toddler whenever dirt got under her nails.

When she had finished checking the amount of kids present, I was quite sure that I could see blotches of red frustration across her face. I swore that I could see her hair fading to white in a matter of seconds. I felt lighter. Happier. I grinned.

She suddenly beamed at all of us, killing two other kittens somewhere out there. My joy immediately burst into smoldering cries of hate. I felt my eyes disintegrating from the retinas to the front. Oh, the pain. With sugarcoated words, she nearly sang, “Alrightie. We’re going half-waaayy up to the raaayydio (radio) tower, kids.”

This brought a chorus of groans and whines. I had finally lost my patience for this. This woman was absolutely ridiculous. Even now, my eyes twitch inward and outward when I recall how she acted. I really could see that she hated being here. So, I asked that question. I don’t know why. I had just snapped. I don’t remember intending to. Maybe it was because of the heat, or perhaps it was that this woman really was just messed up inside-out. There, sitting down along the railing with my head to my knees, I lifted my head and heard my voice ring clear that terrible question that simply burned out all the patience in an adult and replaced it with rage—“Why?”

She went on ushering people to get in a line. The people conversing voiced their ideals over my question. As she approached me to stick me in the line, I asked again.

“Why?”

She didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps she had just dealt with so much this morning that it wasn’t significant to her anymore. She glanced at me, and her voice, as sharp as ever, shot back, “Because I said so. Now, let’s go. Chop, chop, single file.”

I breathed in. With a firmer intent this time, I stated, “Why? There’s no point.”

The little whispers between the other children and staff became quiet. Conversations about their early breakfasts ceased. They noticed the tension between the counselor and me and began to take in the story. The female counselor seemed quite surprised that I had chosen to talk back. She paused and then spoke with a darker, stressed tone, “What do you mean? Of course there’s a point.”

Children stared back and forth, throwing glances at each other as they viewed me with veneration. I was proud. I would not stop—not then. I declared, “Well, I don’t see any points. Pointless!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter whether or not it has a point to it, so let’s get moving and stop holding everyone up with unnecessary questions, //okay//, sweetie?”

It was a forced, sweet tone. I knew that. Her squeaky tone and reduced down from its inhuman frequency. I triumphed. I shouted, “No! What’s the point of going up when we’re gonna come down?”

This riled up a couple of chuckles and streams of laughter from the other staff and children. All which began to die. It happened too quickly for my liking—yet too slow. It all happened in a short moment: a moment that seemed motionless to me. Despite that, I instantly felt, as if by instinct, that something was off. People’s gazes focused on me. I could feel what was about to happen. I felt everyone’s gazes release themselves on me and slowly center themselves on a new target. My eyes followed suit. Every child—every man and every woman—held an emotionless expression. They stood silently without movement, without gesture. But she, on the other hand, had completely snapped. It doesn’t seem necessary to state what she said exactly, for she had began to ramble on and on; however, I can honestly say that what I had immediately regretted it then when she began to yell. She screamed and pulled on her hair. She ranted and threw tantrums on me. I had a “punishing time-out” session in the corner of the recreation building until they came back from their hike.

I went home that day as a slightly demented, scarred person. Sure enough, I was proud and happy of managing to get out of the hike. Regardless, I could not help but feel a cliché, dark emptiness in my chest. A bittersweet triumph, I knew. At that point, I had altered my personality. I would accept what others had to do, and I would do what I had to do. I had made things difficult for her with my victory. I learned what every other child would learn some point in their life. I knew that I was not special in this society. I’m not quite sure how I derived that from my despair and guilt from my success, but I had hardened that resolve.

Even so, that incident is and was trivial to me. I forgot about it in a week’s time. Even so, I am reminded of it for every trip or errand up to the Nature Center. The senior staff members would always greet me with a reminder of the little monster I had been and the newest antics that I had brought to them. They saw me grow and change over the years. They saw as I had become a bit more considerate of what others were doing and much more patient. An incident that had been my final objective there had become a milestone for me here. An incident that is nothing more than a lost memory now. 