WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU, DISTRICT 6

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Graphics 5,831 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5 “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck	WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU, DISTRICT 6 Mar 16, 2014 5:21:54 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Mar 16, 2014 5:21:54 GMT -5 WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU EIGHTEEN MALE DISTRICT 6 QUANTUM PHYSICIST STRAIGHT FC: CHOI SEUNG HYUN SONG: OTHER CHARACTERS ODAIR
	Last Edit: Mar 23, 2014 4:57:26 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ compendium / avriel clown car / pietro 2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

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5,831 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU, DISTRICT 6 Mar 16, 2014 6:37:50 GMT -5

Quote

Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Mar 16, 2014 6:37:50 GMT -5

W O L F G A N G

{ It doesn't matter if
I'm chasing old ideas ;

When I was young, the only physics that I studied were the interactions of my fist with the victim of the minute's face. It was quite an entertaining thing to behold, the skin moving before the skull, the reaction of the body, being pushed away by the force of my own strength. I was a good puncher, after years of being bullied for being the stupid one in school, I turned into a bully myself. What's that saying again? You either die a hero, or you live long enough to become the bad guy. Well I don't care what they say, sitting there and taking punches isn't heroic, not in the slightest. Not hitting back may be seen as the good thing to do, but I never understood it myself, besides I was tired of them calling me a pussy.

It's true when they say that there is a powerful feeling involved in hitting others. Scientists, psychologists to be precise, have a number of theories on it. One of those theories pertains to the idea that bullies punch because someone else has spent a lifetime using them as a punching bag. This is a rather good thought, as it does apply to me, however, there are some flaws. I believe it pertains more to the personality of the puncher. Psychologically, I think it makes more sense that the puncher in question has a chemical imbalance. That's what most mental diseases are after all, an improper release of chemicals in the brain from one electrode or another, that stops a guy from working properly. There is the theory that a bully bullies because he can. I think I fell under that one. I punched people because their faces were easy targets and I was often angry.

Why was I angry?

Because the world was fucking blurry and no one told me that wasn't a regular experience, to not be able to see anything at all unless it was right in front of my nose. I spent my early life squinting at nearly everything, you'd think my parents would notice this and take me to an eye doctor, Ripred knows there are enough here in six. It's tough though, having a baby girl who's born so sick, I can understand them not noticing my own problems until I made them notice. You can't blame Paint for being born with diabetes. It's not really her fault, by all rights, I should have contracted it myself, being her twin and all. However, that would be science in action once again, ladies and gents. Just because it effects one egg, it does not mean that it will necessarily effect the other.

So I'm a puncher, or at least I was. I sort of stopped with that eventually, but if somebody wanted a throw down in the middle of the street right now, I'd happily drop my geeky science books in the mud and flip them on their backside then and there. I've always hated the stereotype involved in having brain cells. Not all geeks wear pocket protectors or eat paste. Hell, geeks are smart, you'd think they'd be smart enough to blend in. (Now me, I refuse to blend in, I may not grease my hair down or wear bottle cap glasses, but I don't wear t-shirts and jeans either.) I'm what you might call a stylish asshole who knows he looks good in a suit and flaunts it. Paint and I were never very much into fitting in when we were growing up. We had each other so no one else really mattered, what other companionship could we really ever ask for?

We were lucky to be born with a bonus best friend, we recognized this and spent most of our early life together. Where ever she went, I always did as well. Of course, I needed her. Most people thought that we were just adorable, the way we'd go everywhere hand in hand. It was more like it was necessary for my survival. Without her, I would have walked into everyone and everything. I honestly could not see, it was like trying to force someone to look through an opaque wall. I could make some things out, like shapes and muted colours, but mostly it was akin to being blind. My security was the tight grip of Paint's hand, her voice in my ear, whispering all the time.

She used to read me stories, about far off lands with valiant princes and damsels that always seemed to be in need of rescuing. She hated that, how the damsels were always girls and the princes always boys. We'd play pretend and sometimes I would be the prince, sometimes she would. Neither of us ever played the damsel. That was reserved for an old stuffed teddy or the blind old bat we had for a nanny. I call her that with the utmost affection of course, she was the one who raised Paint and I. Our parents were always busy, always working, they didn't have time for children and their silly games. Mother was a biologist who dealt with mutations, our father a chemist who dealt with them as well.

Paint and I were always expected to follow suit and choose a science to learn. Unfortunately, we were doomed to be disappointments. I knew that Paint was a genius, but she didn't care about science, all she ever really wanted to do was Paint, or dance, or run and laugh. She used to be so lively. As for me, I was a lost cause from the get go. My teachers thought me slow because I'd read so slowly, finger on the page, book nearly right in front of my eyes. In a district most known for it's intelligence, you'd think someone might have noticed the fact that I was basically blind, but that was a no go. I didn't know that I was because I was pretty naive back then. I was left with the other kids taunting me, calling me stupid.

Pale faced nerds with plaid shirts and a greasy part outnumbered me ten to one, and they weren't afraid to treat me like shit either. In a district where smarts are valued over brawn, I was the weakest link. So I'd get shoved, tripped up in the hallway. I was the easiest target for a foot stuck out because I could never see it coming. Paint was my protector at first, I was a small boy. She wasn't afraid to punch the lights out of any idiot who touched me in front of her.

My sight problems didn't ever really get better. I only learned how to deal with them. My hearing got a hell of a lot better, I could hear someone coming for me, turn off the lights and I could always come out on top. My sense of smell was fantastic too. I always could tell when someone was offering me lunch or their latest science experiment, in the hopes that I would mistake it for food and chow down. Eventually I figured out that if I squinted really hard, I could read but receive a headache in pretty much two minutes. Migraines would batter me down, filling my head full of pain and making me angry.

There's a theory that everything happens as a result of another thing happening, basically it's the domino effect and is used to pretty much explain evolution. Take sunflowers, they have adapted to take in the most sun throughout the day by following it's path across the sky. So a sunflower moves. Why? Because the sun does. There are other examples, like cockroaches, adapted to always survive by releasing their eggs whenever they get stepped on. Literally, squishing a cockroach only makes them mad, and come back in larger numbers. I'm like a cockroach in that sense. All that taunting, all that teasing only served to enrage me. Even with Paint and all her light that she always gave, I was the unhappiest kid in the District. So I started punching back.

At first I did it out of necessity. If a kid came up to me with a smarmy grin and words edged as sharp as knives, I met the speed of his words with an equally moving fast object, the bluntness of my fist breaking their nose. That first time I punched a kid, I actually felt sort of bad. After a while though, you sort of get numb to the pain you're causing others. All that really begins to matter is that you don't have to feel pain anymore, things seem to get better when you aren't plagued by the cruelty of words and not every school day is a hated struggle. Of course I got in heaps of trouble. We're a district intent on using our words, rather than fighting. Seeing as I was 'stupid' I was unarmed, that wasn't fair in the first place.

The first time I got a suspension, I was so scared. I was sure that my parents were going to ring my neck, that I'd be in for the biggest grounding of my life, that I could say goodbye to freedom and fun times because I would not be seeing the light of day for years. The walk home in the middle of the day, after the broken nose I'd caused during lunch made me feel like I was walking to the guillotine. I was shaking so much that the paper I held, marking me as a troublemaker, audibly trembled. Right then, I thought that it was the biggest thing in the world, that there couldn't be anything more important than my discrepancies. Sometimes I really am so stupid. Why I thought they'd even care in the first place, I don't know. My parents didn't even blink.

After that, I suppose I thought it didn't really matter how much trouble I got in. They couldn't expel me, not with parents like mine. My parents didn't care how many times I got suspended, it didn't matter how badly I behaved, they never seemed to care. So I became that classic bully, the one who holds kids upside down or hangs them on coat racks by their underpants, demanding their lunch money. At first I'd use their lunch money to buy lunch, but as I aged, I fell into a crowd that was probably not so good. They were good to me, hell I'm still buddies with a few of them, but in retrospect I bet my parents would have thought I could have done better. By the time I reached year eight, I was using their lunch money to buy cigarettes and alcohol.

Maybe I was acting out, or maybe I was just tired of the godawful, bone scraping headaches. I became that kid that you see roaming the streets, who looks about thirteen, give or take. You always look at them with a mixture of disgust and sadness. You wish there was something you could do. (Spoiler alert there is). It was never enough for me to have Paint. I craved a parental unit, someone to tell me what type of man I should be, to tell me how to be someone worth being. No one cared to try and teach me this. All I had was sister that adored me, that I adored. I hurt her every time I blew smoke in her face. I sort of liked that pain. I'd always been excellent at giving it out after all, if everyone around me wasn't hurting then what was the point.

I don't think what I did really was anything less than a desperate cry for help, masked behind the stubborn assness of my early teen years. I wanted help but I didn't, I wanted people to notice me but I still didn't. I was more likely to skip classes then go to them, more likely to be found out in an empty lot, smoking a cigarette or two and passing a beer around with my mates. I thought it was a dog eat dog world out there, all I had was my mates. I had Paint. I let her slip through my fingers.

By year nine, we weren't on speaking terms, her and I. She was fed up with me, every time she tried to say anything to me, to help me at all, I'd shut her out. There were nights that I'd walk into the house, drunk off my ass, turning on every light in the house, knowing that our parents weren't there to care, nor would they ever be. It didn't matter if I carved my name in huge letters into the wall of my room, nor did it matter if I decided to take a piss in the bathroom sink because there were no punishments. Our mother hadn't ever held my hand when I was sick, or read me stories at night, that was always Paint, my Noona. Two seconds older and she was always reminding me how she was older, not in words, but in how she was always trying to take care of me even when she was the one who was sick.

One night I guess I just got tired of it. I'd come home drunk, as I often did in those days and she'd been waiting for me. I didn't want her lectures. I hated how she thought it was her place to give them. I guess it was, someone had to. I didn't think so, not at the time. Nowadays however, I'm always trying to think of what she might have said in any and every situation. Sometimes I hear the firmness in her voice that she used to have and it puts me at ease. I don't know how anyone could ever have mistaken me for a tough guy, as anything but weak. She was always the strong one. She proved that as I yelled line after line of abuse at her, that night. Even so, as I went on and on, I could tell that my words were beginning to hurt, I could see the tremble in her lip but I didn't stop because that's what I am at heart, a bully.

I liked the pain that I saw building in her eyes. I thought it made me strong, like it was somehow an exchange. As she lost her resolve, I gained it, I was triumphant and even now I remember every single hurtful word that I said. It makes me shut my eyes up tight in regret, as if I could take it back even three years later. I made her cry that night, which was a wonder. I'd never seen her cry before, even if I couldn't see her tears, I could hear them and they made the night crackle and spit like a fire that has had water poured on it. She didn't speak to me after that. Not for nearly three years. When she did, she had forgotten my name.

At the beginning of year ten, there was a small miracle. A new teacher arrived at the school, you know the type, they're always in those feel good stories. They take classes full of delinquents and turn them into angels or something. He decided to make a special case out of me, maybe it was because I seemed to be the leader of the pack. Why do you hit people Wolfgang? (d'know.) Why do you smoke and drink Wolfgang? (d'know.) Wolfgang, why don't you ever open your eyes fully? (d'know.) Wolfgang, can you see how many fingers I'm holding up (d'know.) Wolfgang, can you see what's written on the board? (d'know.) Can you read this book? It's on your desk. (d'know....no.....why'd you give me a book written by ants?)

That afternoon, teach and I skipped class and he brought me to an eye doctor. After a bunch of tests where they literally showed me slides that were blurry as shit, they decided I has astigmatism, as well as eye strain. So they handed me these big ass nerd glasses. You know, the big square ones that have bottle thick lenses, that make people look like comic book characters? Yeah, those. I didn't even bother putting them on, I tossed them in their case into my bag, gave teach a salute, and was on my way. I walked off like a guy who doesn't care at all about what people think I need.

As soon as I rounded a corner, I broke into a run, as safely as I could. I'd gotten better at dodging and stuff since I was little, but I was still pretty blind. I didn't know what I was doing, I was shaking, everything was jittering because I was so scared. Half of me was hopeful, that these glasses would help me, the other half knew not to get my hopes up because it was used to disappointment. I'd never ran home so fast before. Making it inside, I remember slamming the door shut behind me. It was sometimes in the afternoon, school had ended an hour or so ago. I didn't know when Paint was getting home, or if she was already. Although I was always vaguely aware of her, we hadn't spoken for a year.

Fingers shaking, I found the case in the bottom of my bag, feeling around for it. I remember prying it open, the sharp click shocking me. The case fell to the floor with a clatter, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the pair of glasses in my hands. They were going to make me see. Almost reverently, I unfolded them. Feeling too childish for a child of fifteen, I shut my eyes tight as I placed them on, and then counted to three before opening them up.

The first thing that I saw was this painting that was hanging in the hallway. It was something that I was certain Paint had painted. I could recognize the shapes, and the colours sort of. With the glasses on, they were defined and in intense. I fell to the floor, right there, hands resting loosely in my lap. I was in awe I think. I knew that she loved painting, that she was practiced at it, I just never knew she was so talented. As far as I can understand, she drew trees. They aren't simply trees though, no my sister, genius that she is. The trees are buildings, houses, they are a city with lights that twinkle in the knotholes and people that walk along the roots, smoking pipes and carrying briefcases. The strokes are fine, expertly drawn, it is a satire, a parody of a city but it is so goddamned beautiful.

In the heart of the picture, there we are, her and I. Our backs are to the viewer but I know that it's us because I'm slightly shorter and she is holding my hand, I am clinging back. I remember how that was.

I drag myself up from that first photo and drag around myself a house that I know off by heart but have never really seen. I can see scratches in the hardwood, see the sweetness of our kitchen in comparison to the foreboding dining hall that rests adjacent. I pick up items that I have held my entire life without ever beholding them, I run my fingers along the familiarity of the wood that panels the hall, and I spend so many minutes taking in the sight of our home, that I know that I am putting off the things I really want to see.

It is with great nervousness that I made my way up to my sister's room. I knew that she didn't really want to see me but I really wanted to see her. So badly, I wanted to see what my twin sister looked like, I wanted to make sure she was real, that she existed. I wanted to confirm how lovely she was. That afternoon, I knocked on the door to her room, and I waited to hear her confirmation of my allowance to enter. There were moments of hesitations, where I knew I should just fuck off because I was an asshole and never apologized for it. However, all my life we shared every joy and this was one, this was the biggest one ever. I can't stop myself from studying the patterns in the wood of her door, because now I can.

When I swing it open, I'm looking at the room of a teenage girl but smack dab in the middle of it, there is an easel in the way and I know she's behind it. I know she knows it's me because our parents would never be home int he afternoon but then again, I'm barely home either. I'm so shy as I walk around the easel, blinking at everything in wonder, as odd as an owl.

When I make it to the other side, I stare for a good minute and a half before bursting into tears. Literally, it was an instant waterfall. I don't even really know why. Sure, my sister is stunning, utterly gorgeous, but it didn't mean I had to cry about it. Now that I think back about that moment, I think it was probably just an overload of sensation. It was too much, not only to be able to see, but to be able to see the one person I had cared about my entire life. I cried so hard that snot came out of my nose, and once the waterworks started, I guess I didn't really know how to turn them off. I can remember crouching down on the floor and wailing, and then Paint, her hand on my forehead, looking at me with concern. I wailed out my word for her then, "Noooooooona," I called out in a low wail, "You're soooooo prettyyyyy."

She wrapped her arms around me then and rocked me back and forth, whispering that it was alright, that everything was going to be fine. It only made me cry harder, she hadn't held me for a year, I hadn't held her either. I clung to her so tightly, pushing my head into her stomach, my fingers tangled up in the fabric of her shirt. I can remember her petting the back of my head, running her fingers through strands that were left too long. Then she put me to bed and I fell asleep there, exhausted.

I felt like I was ten years old again, wrapped so tightly up in a blanket like that by someone I love, who loves me. I felt safe there, sound.

When I woke up again, it was to blurriness. For a few moments I panicked, I was expecting the clarity I'd had before I slept but it was gone. I wondered for a few seconds of dense stupidity if I had dreamed it all, but then I realized that my sister had probably taken the spectacles off while I slept so that I would not break them. For the first time in what would turn out to be many, I reached out blindly for the bedside table and found first a half filled packet of cigarettes. I felt like the claw in the game as I dropped them back onto the table and felt around a glass of something or other for the glasses. Finding them at last, I fumbled them onto my nose, blinking wide to get the room back in focus.

It was later in the afternoon than before, but I felt refreshed, happy even. For once in my life, I was feeling good, like everything could be resolved simply because I could see. That was an odd thought to have, sometimes I think that my saying that cursed us, like it was Murphy's Law or something. It was only fourty minutes later that I was sitting in the emergency section of the hospital, a plastic cup clenched so tightly that I had squished it in my hand and forgotten about it. People moved around me but they might as well have been ghosts for all I cared. They didn't matter.

I'd gone to her room, to see her again, to find the words to say what I really knew I had to say. I needed to apologize to her for my pig-headedness, to beg her forgiveness for being such a scumbag. When I entered, she was on the floor, fallen from her chair, she looked like she was dead.

I stood there for a moment, drinking in the way her limbs had fallen, as if she was a marionette doll that had been made to dance and then forgotten in an instant. The light was dim, she hadn't turned on the light because she had been at her easel, she was dead. I couldn't see any blood, nor any sign of a forced entry. I stood stock still in the frame of the door, feeling like I was prime suspect number one, I probably was. I'd done something to her, I'd made this happen somehow, I don't know how but I did. This was my fault.

I went to her body as if I was in a dream. It was prone on the floor and it was only when I got so close to her that I could see the pores in her skin that I understood that she was still breathing. Her pulse was too slow. Panic overtook me then. I knew that the smart thing to do was find her blood sugar counter and find out if she was low, but I felt as if we were past that point. So I did the only thing that I could do. I scooped her up easily enough, her head rested against my chest, her legs draped over one arm. I cradled her there, as if I could keep her safe and with me by strength alone.

And then I ran.

The hospital was a few blocks away, but I knew that I had to get her there fast, I didn't know how much time had been wasted while I slept so peacefully. I didn't know how much time she had left. I did not stop to check and see if she even still drew breath, that would have wasted her precious time. I ran until my lungs were ragged and I couldn't breath either, then I ran some more.

I didn't go back to school for a good week. When things like that happen, there isn't much that you can do but worry and drink innumerable cups of crap coffee from the vending machine in the hospital lounge. My sister was in a coma brought on by her diabetes, brought on because she hadn't kept up with her levels because she was painting. What was she painting? A picture of course. Yes, but what? A picture of her and me. We were little. I know because our half finished hands were reaching towards the ghosts of each other.

Doctor why isn't she waking up?

"Only time can tell, Mr. Chu," he said and I hated the way he called me Mr. Chu when that was my father's name and my parents had not responded to the emergency notification sent to them three hours ago. She wasn't waking up and she was on a breathing machine, just in case, with a food tube and another for other bodily functions. Suddenly, she seemed so small, my sister who would punch out any guy or growl at any jerk, confident and strong. I knew, after sitting and watching her for three days straight what I had to do.

I got a hair cut, to start with.

Gone were the shaggy black locks of my childhood, I took something smarter, that would show people that I was gone. Short and slick backed, I opted for hair gels and a smart comb to the side. My father had once said something or other about people who dressed well being far more likely to do well in work than those who dressed sloppily. People who dressed well were more in control, more focused. I needed control, especially then. I couldn't turn to drinking, not anymore, not when my sister needed me. So I threw my emotions into how I looked. I became meticulous, unable to leave the house unless I looked perfect. I didn't want anyone to see me as anything less than perfect, in the hopes that they wouldn't be able to remember my past failures and I might be someone entirely new in their eyes.

I knew what I wanted to do. I threw myself into schoolwork, always focused particularly on the sciences. While I had always struggled along through my poor vision and achieved alright grades, it was now revealed that I had a genius for physics. I found the concepts altogether too easy, as if each equation was simply plain English, and perfectly understandable. The science that I wanted to do well at, chemistry, was unfortunately not my forte. I was alright, but never as smart as I was in physics. I quickly rose to the top of the class in that particular subject, finding myself gaining in leaps and bounds in English and literature as well. Most teachers thought that this was nothing more than a gimmick, that I was playing some kind of practical joke, showing up each and everyday looking flawless, working quietly in class, even participating. They waited for the shoe to drop, but after a few weeks, they seemed to relax.

They took her to a special hospital, one for long term coma patients and people getting over their effects. At first I was upset, I figured that they had given up on her. In fact, this place did seem better. They didn't really seem to mind if I accidentally fell asleep, long limbs held so still and proper that sometimes they thought that I was simply resting my eyes. I liked to watch her chest rise and fall and the constant blip of her heart rate monitor became the only music I ever needed to hear.

I graduated school early, finishing in December instead of June. I already had a job lined up at a lab that was interested in a paper that I wrote on the speed and velocity of an incoming fist in relation to the speed of the human body when reacting. I was happy for that, school had never been a happy place, it was even worse after I shaped up, it was empty without Paint. It had been a year and a half since she had fallen into a coma. Amazingly, only a few months after my graduation, she woke up. However, she was lost, confused, she didn't know me at first. Sometimes she still doesn't. She has reverted somehow. I became determined to solve her diabetes problem, to cure her so she would never have to go through what she has ever again.

My days are an endless pattern of work and the hospital, only making it home if I'm lucky. My most usual place of rest is the chair beside her bed, book in my lap, hand held tightly by her own. She's afraid to sleep now, trying to coax her to is extremely difficult. Sometimes I feel like a bully as I try and make her go to sleep, I have to remind myself that I'm doing it for her when she pleads with me, telling me that she can't go back into the darkness.

Sometimes, she doesn't recognize me. I suppose it makes sense. I've even gotten new glasses since she last saw me, I've grown heaps. I'm much taller now than before, I've lsot all my baby fat. I look more like a man, less a boy playing at grown up. My features have become all hard angles, curvature that was not there before. I have filled out, always having being strong, I am now also powerful. My vocabulary has grown, I have eaten up so many books sitting, sitting beside her bed. I have read her so many stories. My voice is deeper. I have aged, I have run ahead of her, waiting for her to catch up. Everyday, nerves hit my stomach as I wonder if today is a day that she will have lost my name.

I will rescue her from the darkness that claws at her, filling her up with so much light, so much love that she will forget that there ever was a night.

[presto]

[/presto]

Last Edit: Mar 23, 2014 4:56:55 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Graphics 5,831 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5 “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck	WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU, DISTRICT 6 Mar 23, 2014 4:58:38 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Mar 23, 2014 4:58:38 GMT -5 yeeeee buddy, you know he done.
	compendium / avriel clown car / pietro 2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

WOLFGANG CLAIRE CHU, DISTRICT 6 Mar 23, 2014 5:48:01 GMT -5

Quote

Post by cass on Mar 23, 2014 5:48:01 GMT -5

This is so beautiful omg like there is something in my eye i am not crying omfg. Just the family feels for this, I am so happy and delighted and literally ecstatic to know you're playing her brother because you are amazing <333

Accepted!