*preface*
It makes more sense when it is in the different fonts that it's in originally, but this is the gist.
Layne Jacobson. L-A-Y-N-E. Age 18. June 19, 1990. Destination? Denver. Or was it Dallas? I think it was Denver. African-American. Well… partially at least. Eye color: blue. ‘Choo ain’t no black kid! Ya’ got blue eyes, dumb ass! Address: none. Where were you born, dear? In what city? You at least have to know where you grew up! I grew up everywhere. I don’t know where I was born. Australia? Vietnam? Africa? I lived in New York for two years, but I wasn’t never anywhere permanent. Wasn’t never? Wasn’t ever. Parents or legal guardians? None. None? I’m 18, ain’t I? …I guess… Okay, you’re free to go.
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She walked past the ticket woman, whose eyes she could feel following her past the peeling gray walls, and down onto the walkway. Since when did they start asking all of these questions? Or was it just her? Ah well. Her ratty blue suitcase clunked along behind her, down several stairs, to the train stop. Layne looked at the ground, as if avoiding eye contact with anyone else who wanted to stare at the incongruity between her skin and her eyes. There were fading yellow paint lines on the cement that were supposed to show where you had to stand in order to not be turned into a pancake by passing trains, but people stood past them anyhow. She sighed, and flopped onto a nearby bench. Its hard surface provided a temporary resting place, and gave her somewhere to set up. Several brightly clad old women pushed past, chattering feverishly about so-and-so’s new quilt club. Layne rolled her eyes. She reached across her shoulder, and gently tugged off the strap of her violin case. Laying it across her lap, she unlatched it, and lovingly lifted her soul, her beloved instrument from the tattered and worn velvet of the case. Laying the case on the ground, she began to play, slowly at first, adjusting each string, and tuning its pitches, and when it was adjusted, she plucked out a few notes, and then started. Her bow pulled the sound from the strings; lighter, softer, darker, harder: the melody danced off the scratched wood of her fiddle. The phantom tune reflected its origin: “The Graveyard”, from The Phantom of the Opera. She played it well, with only slight self-added nuances that had formed with time. A young boy stopped, staring at her hands, and then was quickly pulled away by his mother. Two tall businessmen stopped for a bit, threw a few dollars into the case, and then walked on.
Finally, her train was there. Layne grabbed the bills and some loose change that a few others had thrown in, shoved it in her pocket, and carefully laid her violin back into its case. She stood, her knees popping as she did so. Slinging the case back across her back, she walked to the door of the train. She jammed the handle of the blue bag back into itself, and handed it up to the doorman.
“You want me ta’ take yo’ case, too?” he asked.
“Nah. I’ll keep it with me.”
“Whateva’ floats ya’ boat, lady,” he remarked, as he grabbed a large black suitcase.
Layne pulled herself up the stairs, onto the train. Her knees again cracked as if to remind her of her past, of everything she was trying to get away from.
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Laaaaayne! LAAAAAYYNE! C’mon, kiddo. We gotta go. Where’s we goin’? Yo’ daddy got hisself into some trouble. C’mon! We gotta go! What’d he do? Stop asking questions. Get yo’ ass into some clothes and let’s go! Mama was pulling me across the floor and into my room. Are we comin’ back? We aren’t coming back. I’ll never see this yellow room, these flowered sheets again. Swwweeeet caaarooliine… daddy’s drunk again, and he’s flopping all over the place. Why you have to get drunk? Why you have ta’ mess everything up? I have friends here. I ain’t never had friends anywhere else. We move too much. I was shouting now, so mad that he could be so selfish. Well, ain’t you just a little sassy thing today? You stupid little girl. What do you know about life? You don’t know nuthin’. I otta teach you sumthin’. Get ‘cha smart fo’ the real world. C’mere, stupid. Let me tell ya’ what the real world does to you. C’mere. Don’t be afraid. I inched toward him, afraid to be anywhere close to him, but terrified not to do what he asked. Yo’ a little weirdo anyway. Anyone with eyes like those, claimin’ to be a black kid s’gotta be an oddball. C’mere. When the world sees someone who don’t fit in, they takes em’ and kicks em’ in the knees. Don’t let em’ get anywhere. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. Daddy! Daddy stoppit!!! I screamed. Mama screamed. Joe! That’s enough. The floor is dusty and stained, and smells of spilt beer and mud. My face presses into it, soaking in the scum; I feel like a puddle on the floor, unable to move myself. The room turns, and the pain in my knees subsides as I land in a cold, dark abyss.
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The train jogged along, rattling the keys of a woman who had fallen asleep a few seats behind Layne. Biting her lip, Layne pushed her father to the back of her mind. The man was a drunkard and a coward. Why should she care what happens to him? Her mind told her to turn around; that he could barely tell her what city he was in let alone directions for her to get there. She had spoken to him on the phone earlier, and the words had fallen from his lips like slobber from the muzzle of a Great Dane. But he had no one else. There was no one else.
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Mama? Mama! Hello, this is 911 emergency. We just had a phone call from this location. Your name, please? …Mama! Sweetheart, we need your name. Where are you? 27 Elder Lane… I’m Layne. Layne, stay on the line. Our units will be there soon. What is the problem? My mama! I dunno what’s wrong! She’s… she’s on the floor. She’s not talkin’ or nuthin’. Is she breathing? I dunno! MAMA!!
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The soft velvet seats were worn with time, and their blue color had faded into a gray, with only a memory of blue left. Layne lay her violin case gently beneath the chairs, which rattled slightly on almost loose bolts. The floor was dusty, and the bases of the legs of the seats were caked with scum. Usually Layne would have cringed at laying her violin in such filth, but today her mind was elsewhere. A long white string lay, unraveled from someone’s clothing, on the grimy floor. Layne’s eyes followed it absently, their sapphire irises flashing.
Layne’s eyes had always caused her trouble. Her earliest memories were of threats, and snide comments about her eyes. Whether they were from her drunken father, who was constantly staggering about the house, bellowing rude comments to whomever stood in his way, or from her peers, who didn’t understand who this mismatched girl was, and why she was invading their already clear-cut cliques. Of course, the fact that her family was never in one house for longer than a few months was hard on her as well. She was a misfit. Eyes or not.
“Miss?” Layne jumped at the soft voice which had startled her out of her stupor. “Miss, I believe this is your stop,” said the young woman behind her, who had now maintained control of her rattling keys.
“Mine? Oh… yes. Thank you,” she muttered childishly. “I guess I should get off.”
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Sometimes the world will take us as we are. Sometimes, though, we aren’t what they expected, and they have trouble seeing past what they didn’t want into who we are. No one lives without problems. It isn’t as if some of us float by, never feeling any pain, never breaking. We all hurt. But there are different types of pain, and although they may be similar, none of us feel things the same way. Yet, it’s all the same. All the same feelings, all the same hurt. How can it be, that someone’s drunkard father can feel the same way as his abused daughter. Can he feel her cringe at the beer on his breath? Does he cry at night because of his wish to be held, to be loved? But maybe that is why he drinks. To numb the pain. To wash it all away. In a broken family, could it be that their only point of contact is through their pain?
