Confused Violinist

Confused Violinist- Elliot Park (Crescent Elementary School 5th Grade)

It was a long rainy night. The tracks underneath the ground buried my frightened

emotions. The ‘clicks’ and ‘clacks’ that aligned with my beating heart made me feel comfortable.

I had left my home, but home was scarier, if you could imagine.

My family loves me, but with love comes pain. With love from a family, the pain

amplifies until it’s forced out. Like me and my weared down bag, we were forced out. All my

troubles would no longer be there. My opinions would be left meaningless. Or at least, with less

meaning than any ordinary person would give me.

My bag has even less meaning than I. I let it have none.

I was forced to leave it at my temple. Now I’m on a train to a new world. A place without

the order. I’m going beyond the border.

If you could imagine… The warnings were scarier than leaving. I heard about these tall

pillars. Smoke flew from them like my neighbor’s chimney. “Work sets you free” they told me. I

don’t know what that means, really. Until now, I let my work free me.

I’m an artist. I love the feeling of wearing a mask as dangerous paint goes from below my

finger and strikes onto the wall. It’s like the smoke that puts an impression on the old man’s

lungs. Smoking is an old man’s game. I don’t like smoking. Never tried it though. But, I tried

painting without my mask the first time. I felt my lungs reverberating after it felt something other

than what it was used to. It felt toxic. It felt good. It felt… warm.

So I started using a mask. I’ve never felt that again, nor will I ever. I have self-respect

even though others don’t respect myself. Well… that’s not entirely true. I have two friends.

They’re also empty. Empty like my first set of new paints. Almost as empty as the art that came

from it. I wish I felt empty now.

Other people tell me not to feel empty. They tell me to be scared. They tell me to

embrace my last moments; for the descent to hell is a lot more painful than the climb to heaven. I

picture the smoke from the pillars flying down.

Maybe everyone else’s pillar will have smoke that flies up. Am I weird for having my

smoke go down? Well, yes. But am I weird for wishing mine would go up? I can’t change my

fate. Why am I speculating when I haven’t even seen these pillars.

Then something peculiar happened. People started asking about me.

“What the hell” I mumbled out loud as my thoughts were too full to have such an

undetailed reaction. Then I recognized the question.

“What’s your name?” a young boy asked. His eyes beamed with hope as if he was lied to.

I’ve never had hope. I’ve hoped a long time ago, but I never really had any. His eyes say too

much, I don’t like it. It’s strange to me how he can be so patient with my response, yet still as

eager as when he asked.

“Khaos.” I yelled trying to put the track's noise on pause for the conversation.

“That’s an interesting name.” He remarked

“I was empty from the start.” I said and let out a little chuckle.

“How?” He asked

“How?” I spoke with confusion to his bravery

“Yeah, how?”

“Well, when you’re born for a purpose for someone else; once that someone has left,

there isn’t much more for you to do.” I explained to both him and myself while watching his

eyes of curiosity narrow into thoughtful confusion.

“Who was your purpose for?”

“My father.”

I took a long sigh realizing that that answer was not good enough for him.

“He left when I was less than a year old. My purpose was for him to get his life together.”

I knew this because that’s what my mother had told me every night wishing that that lost

soul would find peace in his life because of me. She cared for him. She knew that she couldn’t

care for me. She also knew that he wouldn’t care for her when she was taking care of me.

“He’s dead now,” I continued. “Long gone and always here.” I said while pointing to my

head. The kid stopped and looked through me as though I was a pillar of light.

“I-” The kid uttered before we came to a sudden stop.

The train had reached its final destination, just like us. The little joy I had gathered from

the clacking of the tracks and the kid’s curiosity had come to a halt. Now, there are soldiers

yelling. It’s hard to see them with all these weary heads in front of me.

The only part I could differentiate from the lighter green jumpsuit was the inherently

hateful signs on their arms. Those arms could carry the world in them in a matter of seconds.

Afterall, everyone lets them carry my world. My whole world got carried away from the last 27

hours of my life.

Suddenly the car grew empty in front of me, and I followed the motions. It was daytime

now and the day was clear. I could tell just by the smell. I wasn’t able to see out of the windows

at night, but the rain gave me such an impression that I knew it was there. Now that it’s morning

I smelled the beautiful flowers that grew compassionately out of the soil.

As I neared the door the smell grew stronger and stronger. My ears suddenly came into

play with hearing birds, nice chatter, and the wind blowing through caringly. These were the

things I chose to photograph in my head. This is how I’d remember the Holocaust.

Eventually I made it to the door.

Outside it was blue, but not how I smelled it and not like I heard it. The flowers became

roses without their petals, birds became crows without their knowledge, the chatter became

orders barked at innocent souls, the lovely breeze became smoke.

The smoke turned what once would be a light blue into a darker shade. Now I’m on the

other side of this nameless boat, and beside where the river is very well known. Styx at least

seems like a pleasant sight. Now I’m on the other side and

I’m seeing blueberry.

…

Everything around me was molding. The things that I loved so dearly were molding.

Time heals all wounds, they say. I say time ruined my life.

I like expressing an idea in my artwork about freezing time. Time is physical in a way. In

some ways time is my greatest fear. To put it more simply; impermanence is what keeps me

awake at night.

I used to walk around the neighborhood and see skeletons painted onto the walls. The art

made me think of what dying would be like. At first I was scared, but eventually I got over it.

Then I thought of others dying, my family dying, my friends dying, my dog dying. Even more

material things, such as my gas mask breaking, my shoes wearing out, my lungs turning on me.

Then I was scared.

Abruptly, a soldier stood in front of me and four other guys.

“This way!” He yelled in a thick German accent.

Apparently when you’re yelled at, everything around you stops molding. I could see

clearly now. So I followed the demon. The four people beside me looked wearier than I. They’ve

seen many hardships in their time. I see it in their eyes.

Eye color means a lot more than one thinks. When I see someone with hazel eyes, safety

comes to mind. After all, my mother has hazel eyes. But I’ve learned recently that safety comes

and goes without hesitation. Blue eyes frighten me. When I see someone with blue eyes, I can

tell that they have such a full head. Surely they had trauma during their youth, or regrets that they

beat themselves over day and night until they forget the routine. The weirdest of all eye colors, in

my opinion, would be the classic brown eyes. People with brown eyes are like a box of

chocolates. One day they can be the warmest person you’ve ever met, the next day being the

coldest. I have brown eyes.

Our short trip had ended now and people were starting to wake up and perk up. I wasn’t

the only one molding. We were now in a base filled with what seemed to be ghosts.

“Pick up a pickaxe and work!” The soldier said, looking at us as if we were dogs.

I watched as everyone around me hurried towards the pile of pickaxes. I was feeling tired

again and feeling everything molding once more. I sat down instead of following the instruction.

“Get up!” The soldier barked.

I stayed silent. Dead silent.

“1-” The soldier started counting impatiently.

“2-” I was starting to get worried, but how could he make my life any more worse at the

moment? I knew I was never going to leave this place.

“3!” The soldier took out his gun, and quickly I heard a shot ringing in my ear.

The strings this puppeteer put on me ever since I left the car were too strong. I felt the

bullet bounce off of my strings.

I laughed with complete and utter shock. What had happened? Then suddenly I saw the

blueberry sky and its molding background brighten. Everything turned pale. Now I see that

everything turned white. A neon white.

Then I stood, realizing the floor was no longer the soil in which dead flowers had risen.

And suddenly I couldn’t remember why I was thinking of soil in the first place. What flowers?

Wha- what’s my name? My mind’s like a clean slate. I don’t know anything but words. Words

fill up my head, but all of them are meaningless.

There was one thing I knew though. The one thing I somehow remembered was my

anatomy. I knew about myself on a physical level. Physically I felt very healthy. Physically

wasn’t the problem. Every other ‘-ly’ was experiencing tremendous confusion and disbelief.

Disbelief would turn back to paying attention to my surroundings as the neon white

turned to a light blue.

The sky was colored in a sort of gray. Clouds. Clouds filled the air and marble houses

lined up underneath them. They aligned as if forming a staircase to heaven. Is my future going

up?

Once I recognized what I was observing as a sign, the bright blue turned black. It was

night now. The lights that shined upon my head were no longer there. Will they shine again

tomorrow? Wait- where’s the staircase?

Now I was climbing a large tower. My feet couldn’t stop moving. Walking upwards was

almost automatic for me. I looked down at a stranger behind me who was also climbing. He said

“Lovely view up here tower, eh? Babylon is the prettiest city during nightfall ya’know.”