Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[03] Quixote - The Clear and Blurry Eyesight

Quixote was a boy with looks, handsome, born with a natural duende that had never once faded throughout the years, and he knew it, secretly on some days, in plain sight most days. He marveled at how facile it came to him to be able to grab a pretty girl's attention or how simple it was to have a girlfriend without the need for hundreds of bouquets and ten thousands of dates.

Whenever he ambled the sidewalks of the city, enjoying the fresh air, appreciating the sun and the welcoming warmth of its rays, a smile upon his face, passing high school girls would giggle, lips behind their hands, sending Quixote ambiguous glances as their cheeks showcased a red, shy tint. During days when Quixote would go and drop by his grandmother, young nurses and visiting teenage girls would turn their heads to stare, and the moment Quixote would scan the area, a diminutive feeling of being watched rising in him, they would look away, hastily returning to what they had been doing before Quixote walked through the front doors.

Even back when he had been but a mere child of a substantial neighborhood, Quixote was fairly known and loved. An old couple residing several doors away from his home would often bake cakes and cookies and Quixote would do nothing but run towards their porch, hands hugging a hardbound book of fairy tales, grin of excitement upon his face. The old couple would sit on their rocking chairs found on the porch, faint smiles displayed on their thin lips, listening as Quixote read aloud, sitting on the floor, legs spread wide, the open book in between. A jar of cookies stood by his side, lid popped open, laying beside, and after every paragraph, Quixote's little fingers would clasp the glass rim, before traveling down to grip another cookie. The couple's grandkids lived a few cities away, hence the seldom sojourns.

The kids in the neighborhood, who were at Quixote's age, incessantly knocked their knuckles against the wood of his house's front door, the sound echoing across the halls, until Quixote would pull open the door, slide his feet into his shoes, and call out a goodbye to his mother, who then warned him to be home before six. For endless of enraptured hours, Quixote and his beaucoup friends would play several games, tag and hide-and-seek in the outskirts of the woods being the constant pick, before they'd run towards the playground not far from their homes. When they imagined themselves as prince and princess, claiming parts of the playground as their kingdom, the girls frequently bickered, all wanting to be paired with Quixote, all wanting to be his bride and princess.

The friends of Quixote's Mom, who all lived in the same neighborhood and regularly visited for tea, gossip, and chatter, would bow down to Quixote's level, fingers pinching his cheeks, gushing at how handsome he will be once he enters highschool. Growing up, Quixote received attention, positive comments, beams, winks, and laughter. He was desired by countless of girls as their boyfriend, befriended by the populars, the jocks, and the rich once he stepped into high school, and Quixote flirted endlessly through the days of each school year, showing up at wild, fun parties, kissing girls, winging exams and homework, knowing that nothing held as much significance as now. Quixote couldn't care less of the future.

Until his parents got a divorce.

Quixote's life of exultance crumbled to bits of dismal days. Quixote's Mom and Dad threw their responsibility of being parents towards the direction of his grandmother before she was transferred to a nursing home. Their old lives were instantly in the dark, in the shadows of their new ones that included brand-new spouses and children, new lives that excluded their first ever son. The support, love, and attention of Quixote's parents were no longer pinned on him. Words of encouragement were now heard by their new children's ears instead of Quixote's. Quixote often asked himself what was the point of being loved by many, being wanted by multiple, when his own parents did not even love and want him? What's the point of being the handsome son when the remnants of his life were spent with the ugly absences of his parents, the two individuals who were supposed to be his number one supporters, his home, his strength?

Quixote attempted to remain the same; the buoyant boy who partied too much, flirted too much, smiled too much, but everyone at school, the populars, the jocks, the rich, they knew that something had changed within Quixote. He tried his best to keep the sadness at bay, but, gradually, it seeped through him, through his blank, dark blue eyes, through his tired frame, through the marks of his exams and the essays of his homework. Eventually, Quixote lost his friends, his status at school, his popularity, and all of these became inconsequential the moment Quixote's grandmother moved into a nursing home, unable to support him any longer.

Finding and working jobs became crucial for Quixote, missing school no longer a primary concern. The money Quixote's mother sent for the house bills of Quixote's grandmother barely sufficed. And pretending to be happy, to be well and high-spirited, could only keep Quixote afloat for so long. Eventually, he would drown in a lake of tears, depression, responsibilities, and the longing for a mother and father.

But it would not be today when he will sink.

"Quixote!" Someone shrieked, a dull voice that seemed too distant to ever be heard clearly, yet the worry was unmistakable. Quixote forced his arms and legs to swim, the cold water of the lake slowing his movements, and he gasped for air, oxygen instantaneously filling his lungs, as his head broke through the surface, splashing water all around him. Ripples formed, disturbing the state of the lake's water, and it traveled farther and farther from a panting Quixote. Eyes stinging, he whirled his head towards the direction of the voice's owner, slender fingers running through his drenched, red curls, and Quixote only smiled at the fuming girl with olive skin, standing by the banks of the lake. A pink towel was draped upon one of her thin arms, wavy, golden brown hair cascading down her chest, and she stuck out her tongue, causing Quixote to smirk, shaking his head.

The sun was up in the sky, radiating blinding, golden light, and there were barely gossamer clouds to be seen as Quixote raised his eyes, specks of white found upon the wide expanse of cheery, light blue. A slight breeze blew through the area, ruffling the torn leaves on the ground, the ankle-length, green grass surrounding the lake swishing along with the wind. The top of the boulders beside the broken pier were damp with water and moss was running across the sides, harmless, the rest submerged in the lake. Quixote began to swim towards the girl, eager to be out of the water, arms and legs moving swiftly, until he finally reached the banks and stood beside the girl.

Quixote grinned. "Hey."

"Don't f*****g 'hey' me!" Stacey huffed, bending low, fingers clutching the green towel on the ground, before she shoved it roughly against Quixote's bare chest. She was barefooted and was only wearing a mint green two-piece. "What were you thinking, Quixote?"

"I usually don't."

Stacey's eyes became menacing, sharp, and Quixote sniggered as she threw her hands up in exasperation. "Don't you know how worried I was when you didn't resurface?!"

"Stacey," Quixote began, dropping his towel atop his head, obscuring his ears and eyebrows, "I'd be feeding a random mosquito my own blood and you'd still get worried."

"Mosquitoes have dengue," patronized Stacey, stepping right in front of Quixote, reaching up to rub the towel against his hair to dry it, "and why would you feed a mosquito your blood? Are you insane?"

"If you call generous insane, then possibly." Quixote's gaze glanced downwards at her chest. "Nice view."

Realizing what he meant and where his eyes settled for a second, Stacey's face was immediately consumed by a harsh, red color, and she pushed Quixote away, who laughed as he took a few steps back. "You're─You're such a p*****t!"

"Perverts usually are handsome."

"Travis Myers isn't a pervert."

"Who says he's handsome?"

"I do."

"I don't trust blurry eyes."

Stacey's furious eyes narrowed to slits. "You little─

"I'm only kidding, Stacey. Travis is so handsome." Quixote drawled, walking past Stacey to reach his pile of clothes as he dried himself with his towel. "In fact, I wouldn't mind dating him for fun."

"Date him and I'll sacrifice you to a sun goddess."

"Joking." Quixote chuckled, releasing his towel as it flopped upon the ground, before he pushed his legs into his jeans one by one, not caring if his boxers were damp. "I don't date assholes."

"And I don't befriend twits, yet here we are." Stacey shot back, putting her sundress on, the straps of her two-piece visible as it ran up past her collar and were tied against her nape, forming a V. "Hey, there's a party this evening at Zaccheus' house. You should come."

"But it's Saturday." Once Quixote's white t-shirt was in place, he donned his jean jacket and lowered himself on the ground, extending his arm to reach his pair of Converse shoes. "Aren't people too hungover from last night to go to Zaccheus' party?"

"Maybe not. You were like that back then, you know." Stacey reminded Quixote, earning a sigh from him as he dried his feet with his towel. "You went where the party took you, hungover or not. Usually, the real party doesn't start without you."

A bitter feeling blossomed in his chest, but Quixote did not allow it to surface in his voice, hands occupied with the task of putting on socks on both feet. "What can I say? Party animal is my middle name."

"I see. So you're Quixote Party Animal Nandrin."

"As yours is Stacey I'm-in-love-with-Travis Sallina." Quixote countered, slipping his feet into his red, high-tops Converse shoes, the refreshing zephyr blowing through his damp, tousled curls. Corners of her full lips twitching once, a ghost of a smile appearing, Stacey gathered all of her golden brown hair, the illumination of the sun allowing it to sheen as she stood, before tying it into ponytail with an elastic band. Once the stained, white laces of both of Quixote's shoes were tied into a knot, he stood up, gripped his towel, and glanced at Stacey through the corners of his eyes, her lips in a pout, before the two friends began walking away from the shimmering lake, heading towards a thin forest not far. The only indication that Quixote and Stacey had remained here, swimming in the waters, jumping from atop of the boulders, was the damp soil where they had dried themselves off with their towels.

A narrow path was found in between the trees of the forest, a subtle guide that led countless of teenagers from the neighborhood to the lake, and, overhead, branches reached out towards one another, looking like hands eager for the other's touch, forming a roof of brown. Sunlight stretched into the pathway through tiny gaps between the curled, leafless branches, creating dancing patterns of pale yellow upon Stacey's bare arms and the sleeves of Quixote's jacket. Beneath Stacey's flip flops and Quixote's shoes, dead leaves crunched, a satisfying sound that reached Quixote's ears, mingling with the soft hum of the breeze.

Quixote had never planned to visit the lake for a swim today and didn't seem to consider the idea, choosing to stay behind the walls of his grandmother's house, the will to do something, anything, absent within him, leaving a disturbing, empty feeling in his chest, heavy and unappeased.

For the past couple of days, when there were no gazes from the public pinned on him and there were no expectations of seeing the redheaded boy blithe and jolly, Quixote found himself to be cradled in the arms of numbness, his body immobile, his thoughts too dark, too sad, to be expressed. But earlier this morning, with the sun ablaze, with the chirping of passing birds, with the hints and indications laid out everywhere, suggesting that today was going to be a beautiful day, Stacey had run up to the porch of Quixote's home, knocked on the door, and dragged him out to join her walk to a lake that was nearby. Although Quixote's weekends were usually filled with part-time jobs and hanging around the house, he was grateful that Stacey forced him out of the expected and brought him to a place where his thoughts were temporarily diminutive compared to the scenery.

Quixote was in aversion towards what he was now, hated how the days felt as if they were nothing but obstacles to get through, hated how the hues of everything around him stripped away into shades of black and gray, hated how there was stirring abhorrence within him, corrupting his perspective, tainting his beliefs, draining the glow that encompassed his once-illuminating soul of felicity. What once had been a world of curious, astonishment, was now just a place for misery through Quixote's eyes. His rose-colored glasses had slowly cracked the moment his parents divorced, a fissure of gloom running across the glass like a web of a spider, until, finally, the rose-colored glasses shattered along with the boy Quixote had once been.

It wasn't just Quixote that changed. The continuously running thoughts in his head that had been whispering voices, akin to the hum of a wind, gentle, calm, never too loud, were now shrill screams of incomprehensible words jumbled together, often forming deadly, toxic sentences. Sometimes, the voices were too earsplitting, demanding the arms and care of his parents, shrieking for the relief that death would offer, and the voice constantly influenced Quixote, not just with the words he utters, but also his actions, his choices, what he should do to end the pain, what he shouldn't do to evade the pain. There were moments when his incoherent thoughts quieted down, forming intelligible sentences, but albeit they are more hushed, it doesn't lessen the pestilence of the message they carry.

Death. Dead. Die. Quxiote, die. Take off your jacket and run the blade of a knife across your skin. Watch the crimson flow out of you, watch your life escape you, watch as you let it escape you.

"Quixote, are you alright?" Stacey's voice asked, worry evident and unmistakable, and Quixote pushed down his thoughts, forcing it to wither. The two emerged from the narrow path of the thin forest and into their neighborhood, the roof of brown branches overhead ending, and, once again, the two friends were directly beneath the sunlight, the warmth comforting after the chillness of the lake's water. Involuntarily, Quixote stretched one of his jacket's sleeves further, willing the fabric to exceed his fingertips, but, much to his dismay, it remained as it had always been.

"I never knew you cared about me." Silencing his mind, the phony, buoyant boy inside him grasping the controls, Quixote grinned at Stacey, who rolled her eyes.

They passed almost-tranquil houses, houses Quixote and Stacey had grown quite familiar of, and there were only a few residents lounging on their porch, some watering the plants in the front lawn, others who had only woken up and were grabbing the newspaper lying on their doorsteps, no doubt more interested in the crossword puzzles at the back of the printed piece.

Back when Quixote had just moved into his grandmother's house, her neighbors seemed to be instantly fond of him, greeting whenever he came home from school, sending one of their children to carry homemade dishes, mostly casseroles, to the front door, and the kids even felt close to him. Quixote didn't remember the names of his grandmother's neighbors, didn't bother to try, and there was nagging guilt that stuck in his chest, unable to be removed. His grandmother's neighbors had been kind to him, welcoming him, and Quixote can't even recall their names. The only individual that Quixote seemed to genuinely like in the neighborhood was Stacey, because they had been friends since the start of high school, before Quixote's subtle change, before his parents had a divorce, and now, they were living a few doors away from one another.

"Of course I care, Quixote. Everybody cares about you." Stacey said with a frown, staring straight ahead, expression solemn, and despite not affording the luxury of believing Stacey's last sentence, Quixote smiled and shook his head.

"Not everybody."

"What?" Stacey turned to face Quixote, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, anger palpable upon her features. "Do you need everybody to care for you, Quixote, before you start believing that someone genuinely does care about you?"

"I'd much rather have no one care than be bathed in artificial solicitude." Quixote's smile was gone, his face impassive, unaware that his fingers had jerked the sleeve of his jacket once, but Stacey's eyes immediately darted towards it and a thought crossed her mind.

"Have you been... have you been cutting?" She breathed out in horror, disquieted eyes demanding for an answer, and Quixote looked away, avoiding eye contact.

"No, I haven't."

Stacey instantaneously reached out to clasp Quixote's hand and he quickly stepped back, pulling away his arm. She glared at him. "Give me your arm."

"I'm telling you," Quixote persuaded, "I haven't been cutting."

"Then why won't you show me your wrist?"

"Because my watch is fake gold."

"You don't have a watch." She pointed out curtly. "Quixote, for once, be honest to me."

"Honesty leads to support groups and an hour session with strangers."

"Why didn't I notice your arms earlier at the lake?" Stacey threw her arms up in exasperation, groaning.

"Because your eyes are basically in 144p quality." Before Stacey could even open her mouth to express a remark, Quixote immediately slid in another sentence. "Stacey, let's just go home. We're tired from all the swimming and you don't have to worry about me. I'm not a ten years old kid playing with rat poison."

"You might as well be." With a sigh, Stacey nodded, relief flooding through Quixote when she decided to drop the topic, and, together, they resumed their walking. It was evident that Stacey still had remarks inside her mind to express, but she held it back, remaining silent, their footsteps faint yet audible. "If you need me, Quixote, I'll always be here, okay? I'll ditch an awesome party and a boy who I've been flirting with to get to your house."

Quixote's smirked at her, shoving his fingers into his pockets. "Continue doing that and you'll end up being single for an entire year."

She rolled her eyes. "You say as if I can't handle being single. I'm a strong, empowered, and independent woman, you know."

"Sure." Quixote drawled, the outline of his house coming into view, but because his eyesight was more clear and sharp than Stacey's, he saw what laid ahead and Quixote's breath hitched in his throat, heart hammering against his chest.

"Just because I manage to find a boyfriend every month or two, doesn't mean─Hey!" Stacey was hastily pulled down towards a shrub by the side, Quixote's fingers gripping her wrist, and they crouched behind it, hiding from something Stacey did not know of. "What's wrong?"

Quixote's eyes were filled with anxiety, brows furrowed in nervousness, and when he turned to Stacey, her eyes widened as he said in a low voice, "There are police cars in front of my house, Stacey."