Collin Court // District Six {Finished}
May 11, 2018 3:41:51 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on May 11, 2018 3:41:51 GMT -5
C.C.
There's no choice. There's no process. There's no consideration.
From the first filling of our lunges, we are the children of those who have brought us into existence. Even if in some foreign future we find ourselves adopted or abandoned, we are biologically the children of those who brought us into existence. I've always prayed that one day that is all Regina and Wynn Court would be to me. That I could be given such brilliant a blessing as the full freedom from the sweltering storm of their upbringing. That I could find sanctuary in the lifting love of true parents with hearts in their chests instead of stones. I've tried to bring attention to the abominations' abuse, but clever are my cruel captors. No traces of the terrible tortures which they inflict do they leave. With money made from the riches of medicine they've used their bounty to bury any signs of their truest natures. To those who I've called on in my attempts to expose them, I am nothing but a boy who cries wolf.
I'm going to tell you my story, overflowing with the damned dreams of a once soft soul. It starts with my birth. Collin Court: eight pounds seven ounces, male, the fourth child of Regina and Wynn Court. That's me, or at least how I started. For the fourth time in a span of ten years the entire hospital was rushing to witness something special. They came cluttering around endlessly while mildly muttering congratulations to my parents, but their eyes were on me. I was Collin Court, emphasis on the Court. They all came crowding into the same space as my infant self because of the biological blood brewing beneath my skin. They all came to witness the beginning brilliance of the fourth prodigal child.
Regina and Wynn Court were, and are, two of the best doctors in the District. Six is not stunning aside from the money making of medicine. However, even then most are simply just getting by. Not my parents. Alone before their cosmic connection they became masterful at procedures, at surgeries. Most of the masses will never be able to afford the price tags of true surgeries, but the very rich always have more than enough. Both Regina and Wynn came from within the pressurized pinnacle of monetary success and obsession. Both sides of the tree which I am a branch upon run deep with money stemming from "well picked" choices during the war. As members of such a shining society they gained access to more knowledge, more information which they used to become some of the best surgeons for the rich. Through the exploitation of their advantages they became like a God and Goddess within their wealthy hospital, their Olympus. Thus, as their children we were expected, no, demanded to be Gods and Goddesses as well.
Apparently young Gods and Goddesses do not go to normal schools. In childhood, we knew only the house, the hospital, and the church. Home was no haven but a brutal blistering Hell. While one parent worked the other taught. We were not coddled or cuddled. We could not answer incorrectly. We were punished for anything which they did not deem above excellent. But they didn't beat us or use medicine to torture us physically. Emotions were their weapons of mass destruction and superior submission. Each of us was always given an animal to raise, to nurture, to care for. But we had an even bigger objective. We had to protect them with our excellence, with our lack of failure. If we answered incorrectly then in the words of our parents "You make a mistake the patient dies." They would kill our pets before our eyes, the only living things aside from each other we could latch onto emotionally. One would think we would learn to stop caring. And you do, which is what they want, but never fully. They always made us love those fucking animals. A cat I nursed back to heath and watched deliver kittens. A mouse I saved from being eaten by a kitten by sewing a scratch wound on its back up. I always found someway for them to find a place in my bleeding heart, and each time they would tear another piece away with their deaths. However, we learned very swiftly strategies to maximize the minimizing of our mistakes. We learned strategies to become the perfected surgical robots our parents were programming us to be.
Regina and Wynn never showed or spoke love to me or my siblings. Sadly, some of my siblings too became frozen from the feelings of life due to the abuses of their upbringings. Both my eldest siblings, Natalie and Winston, are the perfect pictures forged by our parents. They preform precisely and enclose their emotions internally. Thalia, the sister born just a year before me, is like me. Beneath the ruined rubble of her heart she still cares and shows me signs of sweetness. She's the only one who even says the words I love you. I always return them because like her I'm broken and bruised, but still have a heart beat.
I'm sixteen years old now. When I'm not assisting at the hospital I am confined to the halls of Hell, of home. I'm actually a brilliant doctor, its natural and easy for me to understand and perform. But I am not a statue of stone. I see a homeless kid with a bleeding arm and I steal supplies from the hospital to help them. I get punished still for feeling, but no longer with pets instead now by medicine which gives me the worst dreams and hallucinations imaginable. I've tried to show the needle marks as proof of my mistreatment, but through falsified records at their own hospital my parents have hidden it as though I need instant medicine delivered by syringe to calm me down from "episodes." I am trapped. The only time I am even granted interaction with anyone socially is at church, and that's where I've become even more suffocated by the life of a Court.
His name is Evan. I remember the first time I saw him, as cheesy as that sounds. Alone he stood by the alter, a seven year old silent with mystified eyes. While the other children read and played at the communal children's service, he chose seclusion instead. His light hair was hard to see in the lush light of the stained glass, but his green eyes' illumination was impossible to ignore. Call it curiosity which pulled me from my usual introverted silence to his side. Wondering my words asked him what he was doing and in a voice beyond the maturity of a seven year old he answered. "I am thinking about why God makes the world so hard." I remember my response just as well. "Good question."
Evan became my only friend. Through all the years of torture, illness, and isolation he was an island I could escape to twice every week. Its amazing what bonds can form between two lonely boys beneath the glass gleam of a church's windows. Every problem, every insecurity we shared. My severe social anxiety was soothed only in his presence. I never realized though how close we had become until we were both thirteen and I ran for once away from my house of hell. I didn't think, I just ran. And I kept running until I found his house, a place he'd only ever told me about. A place so close to my own but so foreign.
I remember the blisters that stained my soft skinned hands from climbing the tree outside his house. Through the window he caught sight of me and ran down quickly to the door to let me in. Like my parents, his are doctors as well, so alone in his house we sat on the couch while I cried and he held me. I told him of the dreams my Mother had given me for the first time the night before. I told him of the horrible hallucinations she delivered into my mind with a plunge of a syringe. I broke down and he held me together. We were two barely teenage boys alone in his house while he helped me fight off a hurricane. And in that moment, he made the storm stop.
He kissed me.
I knew after that moment that I loved the boy from church and that he loved me. I know that still he loves me today from the way he kisses me to the way his words wrap around me. His talk of my breath taking blue eyes and wonderfully white hair like a halo on my head. His compliments of my freckled pale skin and his love of my abnormally small eyes, ears, and nose. His love of my small smile and stupid snorting laugh. I know people always say this, but he saved my life by giving me something to love. But still with this love comes cruelty.
Rarely do we ever get a moment alone to share in our secret seduction of one another. Twice a week in the pews of church our hands hold hidden from the highly disapproving stares of our parents. Several times a week do we share shifts at the hospital and share special moments behind on call room doors. Not being able to kiss the person you love whenever you want to is perhaps the cruelest torture of all. Yet when you're a Court you must always meet the set expectations.
From the first filling of our lunges, we are the children of those who have brought us into existence. Even if in some foreign future we find ourselves adopted or abandoned, we are biologically the children of those who brought us into existence. I've always prayed that one day that is all Regina and Wynn Court would be to me. That I could be given such brilliant a blessing as the full freedom from the sweltering storm of their upbringing. That I could find sanctuary in the lifting love of true parents with hearts in their chests instead of stones. I've tried to bring attention to the abominations' abuse, but clever are my cruel captors. No traces of the terrible tortures which they inflict do they leave. With money made from the riches of medicine they've used their bounty to bury any signs of their truest natures. To those who I've called on in my attempts to expose them, I am nothing but a boy who cries wolf.
I'm going to tell you my story, overflowing with the damned dreams of a once soft soul. It starts with my birth. Collin Court: eight pounds seven ounces, male, the fourth child of Regina and Wynn Court. That's me, or at least how I started. For the fourth time in a span of ten years the entire hospital was rushing to witness something special. They came cluttering around endlessly while mildly muttering congratulations to my parents, but their eyes were on me. I was Collin Court, emphasis on the Court. They all came crowding into the same space as my infant self because of the biological blood brewing beneath my skin. They all came to witness the beginning brilliance of the fourth prodigal child.
Regina and Wynn Court were, and are, two of the best doctors in the District. Six is not stunning aside from the money making of medicine. However, even then most are simply just getting by. Not my parents. Alone before their cosmic connection they became masterful at procedures, at surgeries. Most of the masses will never be able to afford the price tags of true surgeries, but the very rich always have more than enough. Both Regina and Wynn came from within the pressurized pinnacle of monetary success and obsession. Both sides of the tree which I am a branch upon run deep with money stemming from "well picked" choices during the war. As members of such a shining society they gained access to more knowledge, more information which they used to become some of the best surgeons for the rich. Through the exploitation of their advantages they became like a God and Goddess within their wealthy hospital, their Olympus. Thus, as their children we were expected, no, demanded to be Gods and Goddesses as well.
Apparently young Gods and Goddesses do not go to normal schools. In childhood, we knew only the house, the hospital, and the church. Home was no haven but a brutal blistering Hell. While one parent worked the other taught. We were not coddled or cuddled. We could not answer incorrectly. We were punished for anything which they did not deem above excellent. But they didn't beat us or use medicine to torture us physically. Emotions were their weapons of mass destruction and superior submission. Each of us was always given an animal to raise, to nurture, to care for. But we had an even bigger objective. We had to protect them with our excellence, with our lack of failure. If we answered incorrectly then in the words of our parents "You make a mistake the patient dies." They would kill our pets before our eyes, the only living things aside from each other we could latch onto emotionally. One would think we would learn to stop caring. And you do, which is what they want, but never fully. They always made us love those fucking animals. A cat I nursed back to heath and watched deliver kittens. A mouse I saved from being eaten by a kitten by sewing a scratch wound on its back up. I always found someway for them to find a place in my bleeding heart, and each time they would tear another piece away with their deaths. However, we learned very swiftly strategies to maximize the minimizing of our mistakes. We learned strategies to become the perfected surgical robots our parents were programming us to be.
Regina and Wynn never showed or spoke love to me or my siblings. Sadly, some of my siblings too became frozen from the feelings of life due to the abuses of their upbringings. Both my eldest siblings, Natalie and Winston, are the perfect pictures forged by our parents. They preform precisely and enclose their emotions internally. Thalia, the sister born just a year before me, is like me. Beneath the ruined rubble of her heart she still cares and shows me signs of sweetness. She's the only one who even says the words I love you. I always return them because like her I'm broken and bruised, but still have a heart beat.
I'm sixteen years old now. When I'm not assisting at the hospital I am confined to the halls of Hell, of home. I'm actually a brilliant doctor, its natural and easy for me to understand and perform. But I am not a statue of stone. I see a homeless kid with a bleeding arm and I steal supplies from the hospital to help them. I get punished still for feeling, but no longer with pets instead now by medicine which gives me the worst dreams and hallucinations imaginable. I've tried to show the needle marks as proof of my mistreatment, but through falsified records at their own hospital my parents have hidden it as though I need instant medicine delivered by syringe to calm me down from "episodes." I am trapped. The only time I am even granted interaction with anyone socially is at church, and that's where I've become even more suffocated by the life of a Court.
His name is Evan. I remember the first time I saw him, as cheesy as that sounds. Alone he stood by the alter, a seven year old silent with mystified eyes. While the other children read and played at the communal children's service, he chose seclusion instead. His light hair was hard to see in the lush light of the stained glass, but his green eyes' illumination was impossible to ignore. Call it curiosity which pulled me from my usual introverted silence to his side. Wondering my words asked him what he was doing and in a voice beyond the maturity of a seven year old he answered. "I am thinking about why God makes the world so hard." I remember my response just as well. "Good question."
Evan became my only friend. Through all the years of torture, illness, and isolation he was an island I could escape to twice every week. Its amazing what bonds can form between two lonely boys beneath the glass gleam of a church's windows. Every problem, every insecurity we shared. My severe social anxiety was soothed only in his presence. I never realized though how close we had become until we were both thirteen and I ran for once away from my house of hell. I didn't think, I just ran. And I kept running until I found his house, a place he'd only ever told me about. A place so close to my own but so foreign.
I remember the blisters that stained my soft skinned hands from climbing the tree outside his house. Through the window he caught sight of me and ran down quickly to the door to let me in. Like my parents, his are doctors as well, so alone in his house we sat on the couch while I cried and he held me. I told him of the dreams my Mother had given me for the first time the night before. I told him of the horrible hallucinations she delivered into my mind with a plunge of a syringe. I broke down and he held me together. We were two barely teenage boys alone in his house while he helped me fight off a hurricane. And in that moment, he made the storm stop.
He kissed me.
I knew after that moment that I loved the boy from church and that he loved me. I know that still he loves me today from the way he kisses me to the way his words wrap around me. His talk of my breath taking blue eyes and wonderfully white hair like a halo on my head. His compliments of my freckled pale skin and his love of my abnormally small eyes, ears, and nose. His love of my small smile and stupid snorting laugh. I know people always say this, but he saved my life by giving me something to love. But still with this love comes cruelty.
Rarely do we ever get a moment alone to share in our secret seduction of one another. Twice a week in the pews of church our hands hold hidden from the highly disapproving stares of our parents. Several times a week do we share shifts at the hospital and share special moments behind on call room doors. Not being able to kiss the person you love whenever you want to is perhaps the cruelest torture of all. Yet when you're a Court you must always meet the set expectations.
