Bitter.
Is what I think to myself, asking myself how someone could be so bitter.
So bitter to look me in the eyes, in a room full of people.
And tell me how useless I am.
"Craig, you just couldn't do it, huh" his voice echoes in my ear and the fatass grabs onto my shoulder. He grips it hard, and I swallow in my breath. I know punching him won't do anything, but something in the way those lines slide off his cocky lips makes me want to.
He stands there, for a minute or two. Smiles and then walks off, I stand there in the middle of the room, clenching hard down on my fist.
I turn around for a second, watch him walk a little closer to the entrance, I bite down on my lip and lift up my hand slowly.
But then I stop, and lower it instead.
I stop because I know no matter how many times I punch the shit out of him. It will all come rolling back down onto me.
Craig Tucker, a troublemaker.
A no goody, exorcist.
Pathetic.
All eyes are on me, everyone's watching me. Watching me hesitantly choke on my words, trying to grab a hold of myself. I'm in a room full of exorcists, yet my eyes look down at my feet.
Ashamed of myself.
And Cartman takes advantage of that, taunting me everyday until I lose my cool. Until they kick me out, ban me from ever coming back.
"Little shit" I muffle underneath my breath, my eyes darting back at Cartmans, who flashes me a geeky smile.
Because I know that everyday ends the same. He humiliates me infront of the one thing that I've worked so hard to achieve. Trying to get me to break.
But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of losing my temper. I got in this program for one reason, that alone being for my father. One way or another, I was going to become an exorcist.
I take a deep breath in and turn around, I'm back to back with Cartman. I hear the entrance open and he walks out.
The door clicks and Mr Mackey looks down at me.
relax Craig.
You just.
You just need to breathe.
I softly smile, despite the heartbreak in my chest.
Because I know the big fat turds right.
I'm in a room full of people who have a bigger shot than me, those who have managed to summon demons, those who have managed to exorcise them.
And me?
For fucksake what have I been doing!?
Toying around with my own book, treating it like a loose sheet of paper. Stretching the spells on the pages and playing the syllables with my tongue.
I've spent months grabbing the pages of my book. Playing the spells over and over for nothing to happen. exorcizing small sized pieces of shits not even the size of a demon.
How? I don't get it.
How do I expect myself to be the greatest, if I can't even get myself to exorcise demons who actually play a threat to my life. I feel like I'm waving a drumstick in the air in hopes that some lion will feel pity for me and bite down onto it.
And I admit that I might as well go insane before I'm even capable of doing something right in my life.
Nonetheless put up with Cartman's pathetic bullshit.
Once again, defeat rains down on me like a curse, pulling against the only strand of hope I have tied towards my father. I feel useless, and nothing more screams that than the faces on my teachers faces. Discontent, disappointment.
My seventh time.
It's been the seventh time I've tried.
The seventh time I've tried to fucking summon something, to take the words out of my mouth and onto the floor. Get it to raise in front of me so that I could get the words to exorcise it.
And yet, after everything. After every time I held down onto that book.
Nothing changes.
Soft chuckles around the room die down and Mr Mackey has to wave his hand in the air. Treating the crowd like a bunch of 5th grade children.
"Mkay" Mr Mackey, gently walked closer to me. He holds down onto my book and pulls it back from my hands. Something inside me wants to grab it again, pull it back and tell him to give me another chance. But my hands let go of the book, he looks down at my hands for a second and then back at my eyes.
"Keep trying, okay Craig? One day, you'll get it." He smiles, closing his wrinkly eyes. The type an elderly man would try to give you after you fell down and tripped over a twig.
And I hate this.
I hate this false sense of hope, that smile on his face that hides the fact that it's going to hurt. Hurt me badly.
One day, is what he tells me.
Repeating these words like somehow a miracles gonna come raining down on me.
he walks away from me and I nod, because noddings the only fucking thing I can do in this situation. He welcomes me to stay and wait for the others to take a grab at summoning demons, but I feel bitter having to watch others do something I can't.
I make up a bulshited excuse and walk out of the room, closing the door on my way out. On the verge of tears. I've walked inside this room for a few months, yet everytime I walk out, I become more lost than motivated.
Great Craig.
I walk over to my locker, and you'd be a bit surprised to find out that this church is half a school. Well it used to be an elementary school before they turned it into a church.
Just what a pity, that's all.
"Fuck this" I bring my knuckles up and throw them against the locker, I feel all of my bones crack at the impact. The rush of blood pumping the adrenaline in my wounds. All of it till the last knock gets my knuckles bloody.
I retract my knuckles and look down at my hands.
But at the end of the day, I know this.
I know I'm surrounded by a campus full of people just like me.
It's something so easy to learn, yet so fucking difficult.
A dream, since I was 8. Silly right? just a childhood delusion brought upon my mind.
Watching in between the cracks of my fathers door, gazing at the spells he would intertwine around his finger. So easy for him, easy for him to say the words. Play around with the spells and make something so faint and delicate burst into small wispy screams.
Then months passed and he was awarded with his first award. Rank A, a rank for those who could work alongside the higher ranking exorcists. Working a full time job, barely at home.
But when he was home, he'd head over to my room and sit down on the floor with me. Tracing his finger around the delicate fonts imprinted on the book. Mesmerized I would say every spell leaving his lips.
He taught me that day.
That one day I'd want to be like him.
Then he retired, and handed me his book. That's when a spark lit inside me, I took every chance, every night and day to learn.
Silently hiding underneath the covers of my bedsheets, memorizing the spells word by words.
Just for the next day, to fail miserably.
Making candles lightly change to blue and then vanish in the blink of dawn.
I know that I was dissatisfied with this, so I pushed myself. I pushed myself harder everyday. Flipping through the only spells that I knew that I could do.
I'm 21 years old now.
and no matter how many times I've memorized these spells, nothing ever happens.
I'm sent to 0, all over again.
Ending up absolutely,
Nowhere.
.
.
.
"Cartman, I'll beat the fuck out of you" I groan underneath my breath and notice the awfully taped note above my locker, where my knuckles leave faint dent marks.
Great, atleast stick it properly fat fuck.
I snatch the awfully taped note and look at it, I make sure to examine his little chicken scratch writing. But I don't bother, I crumble it in my hands and throw it into the nearest garbage can.
I know damn fucking well what it says, because all of his notes say the same.
"Tuck, you good?" A familiar voice tunes in from behind, and I let go of my fist. I turn around and look at one of the only faces I've known for my whole life.
Tolkien comes in closer to me with both of his hands in his pockets, while Clyde wears that same geeky expression written all over his face.
As usual, Tolkien's dressed in his softly ironed shirt and well fitted pants. His sweet classic daddy's money fit, and Clyde on the other hand, wears the same old tawny varsity jacket that he's always worn since high school.
I'm surprised he's not tired of wearing the same damn old thing.
"Let me guess," I snicker, carefully pressing my shoulders gently down against the lockers. I bring my arms up to my chest and lay my gaze down at the two.
Clyde grows nervous, he looks away for a second and fidgets with his fingers. He looks at the outdated walls, windows and water fountains, yet he doesn't look at me. I crack a low disappointment breath and move my finger up to my nose bridge.
"Cartman, he's gone off again, right?" The bitter words leave my mouth and Clyde finally looks up at me to nod.
Once again, the little prick goes on around campus spreading rumors about my horrible attempt.
"Ha-well it can't be helped" the brunette roughly punches me in the shoulder and I grin. Taken back from this, I give him a small punch back. I don't need his pity, but he gives me that same fake smile everybody gives me.
It's obvious, and it's ruining my mood.
Noticing the awkward atmosphere between the three, Tolkien sighs and brings a soft smile to his lips. He leans in, puts his arms around our shoulders and pulls us back.
"C'mon, loosen up, OK? Drinks on me" Tolkien brings out his golden ticket to the bank. A sweet golden plated card.
Shit that's sweet!
"Rich, brilliant little shit!" Clyde muffles a laugh and Tolkien grins at this. He drags us out of this place, and for a second, that makes me really glad.
Yeah, I needed this.
This, this is what I needed.
Just a moment to get shit off my mind.
To breathe.
.
.
.