Painted Cards

Chapter 1 - Life's Puzzles

Once again, the season of winter had brought a bittersweet sprinkle of emotion to the part of the world it encompassed. The changing of the season had always been greatly endearing to the wide eyes of society. This was not so for Oliver. Every morning his eyes gaped out the window, aspiring everything but admiration. The Voice would advise him to go on about his day, even though Oliver knew it would betray him yet again. He followed anyways. He found himself on the bus, almost instantaneously. As if he had blinked and reopened his eyes to a different scenario. Quickly, he checked his bag. Reaching in, he grabbed his notebook and overlooked all the items he should have on him on an average day, as he thought today was. The Voice often hinted that it was no average day, but Oliver tried again not to listen.

Sitting in the front of his English class, Oliver gathered his belongings and grudgingly plopped them on his desk. He anticipated nothing. His teacher, Ms. Russell, had moved him in hopes he would pay attention, otherwise he would never sit there. He had, for a long duration of time, contemplated giving up pushing his mind beyond its capacities. DAILY WARM-UP the board had proudly displayed. Oliver placed a sheet of notebook paper in front of him, wrote his name, and waited. There was something he was supposed to do now. "You know this, you bloody idiot. Show a sign of stupidity, they'll filter you out of this world like the dead and dying”. The Voice was relentless as always. Oliver’s thoughts started to drift away from the words on the board. They did not retract into the depths of his mind, but rather jumped around the room in a festival of endless suspicion. The very building Oliver sits in now was built with the sole purpose of destroying him. They knew he could not work as hard as the others. The “doctor’s notes” and “diagnosis forms” meant nothing to them, otherwise he wouldn’t be given the chance to fail. So what were they planning?

Every day of his life he scavenged his surroundings, looking for just one more piece of the puzzle. These “puzzle pieces” resided inside one handwritten book, simply titled The Puzzle. Oliver liked all aspects of his life to be labeled. Never specifically. If he were to apply character to any one feature, it could develop its own characteristics and emotions. That would only lead to his own demise. The strongest example of this was the Voice, a sadistic broadcast in the chambers of Oliver’s head. Some call it conscious. Others call it moral. Most simply call it “the voice in the back of my head”. So he left it at that, nothing more. Aside from his hopeless foraging for fragments of his own life, Oliver preferred to keep track of his daily life in another book, also simply titled. This book was Life. He always hated that name, but he couldn’t change it. It’s name misled Oliver to think that his entire life lay inside, only to disappoint. It almost strictly contained lists. Lists of his actions, important details of events that would be read and used for practical purposes, and his own attributes. He felt a growing dissatisfaction with the book, however. He opened to the first page, peering his sight to the top-right corner. 5/24/09 it read. That was 3 years ago. The list was short, and not in any way defining of the rest of the book. It read:

-Oliver Keys
-Blonde hair
-Mother: Ruby Frost
-Father is missing
-Live in Colorado

That was it. An entire page dedicated to that. It gave Oliver ticks, so he always made sure to avoid it whenever he opened the book. About two-thirds of the book had been filled out. Interestingly enough, most of the entries were dated to be in 2009 and 2010. There was a gradual decline in lists. Oliver just didn’t crave closure like he used to. He didn’t even crave to live in the moment. All of his ambitions were dictated to him through the Voice.

“Oliver!”

Not again.

“What? Huh?” The soggy words fell out of his mouth, along with an almost sincere groan of acknowledgment. “Your opinions on the matter?” Ms. Russell asked with a stern tone, that would have perfectly been accompanied by a hiss. Alright, let’s see. The board is full of words, but the larger ones stood out: The Odyssey. That’s another book he didn’t read. So, instead of an answer, he substituted a close second. “What do you expect me to say?” The class chuckled quietly, with a harsh silence following, a result of Ms. Russell’s eyes. Oliver thought everyone had their own Voice. It could come in many forms. Talents, diseases, birth defects, and other various personality features qualified as a Voice in other people. Ms. Russell had her eyes. “I can’t make you talk, but I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear you’ll be doing an hour of cleaning after school today. Since the rest of you don’t know how to keep this room clean, Mr. Keys will learn for you each and every day after school this week.”

Just what Oliver needed. More time alone to think.

The day continued to happen, following the same pattern it does all too frequently. The day once again fell into a blur, one memory stirred into another, creating a reaction that only led to all products to be destroyed. One event fortunately survived the daily massacre of thought-loss. Oliver wandered the ever-winding hallways of the school, which seemed to be built as a tribute to the Winchester Mystery House. Oliver made a point not to stand out. Jeans, black sneakers, a green t-shirt, and a black cotton jacket blended him into the crowd. The world paid no heed to that. Instead, the curse of social interaction made its return. Oliver, mindlessly stepping down the two flights of stairs, had turned just at the moment a brown-haired, heavily made up girl turned to go up the stairs. Her carried textbooks had arranged themselves artistically on the floor. Her surprised gasp harmonized with the rattling of pencils making their way down the stairs.

“Let me help you with, uh-” His mind went blank. “Oh, it’s no bother.” She bent down to start collecting her things, and the only thing Oliver felt within his reach was to chase her pencils and hand them back to her, only afterwards turning his head toward her. She had a light smile, when one corner of her lip jumped up towards her cheek. Oliver still had the flustered, how-could-I-be-this-stupid look, although it was toned down, much like many of his expressions. He turned and walked onto his second period class, the Voice mocking him with each step he took.

Chapter 2 - The Kindling of Thoughts

Oliver’s mind had jumped ahead once again from that incident to the end of the school day. The cheery, sociable people of Riverbed High School flooded into the parking lots, out to their cars where they can talk some more. It intrigued Oliver how a person was able to talk so much. His most likely explanation was this: Talking was a mask, hiding their interior designs, their plots and schemes, and their crime-inspiring opinions. Oliver never really quite knew what they were talking about, nor did he care. His thoughts and the Voice always spoke louder than them. It was the rest of the world that interrupted his mind. Oliver was quickly reminded of this about half an hour into his labor. Just a knock sent his closely knitted thoughts into a frenzy. Expecting Ms. Russell, or even a janitor, Oliver couldn't help but give an unwelcoming glare at the surprise visitor. Half of a young, black haired boy was exposed through the doorway. The intense glare was exchanged both ways now. Oliver knew that it would be the visitor to make the first words. So he waited. Some form of introduction seemed necessary, or at least any kind of verbal acknowledgement. Not from himself, of course. Neither of them were the first to speak.

“Quick. Look for a weapon. Is he holding one? What’s he hiding? That look. That look is whispering death. There is a target on your head”. The Voice had given Oliver his warnings, and the advice was taken. Oliver prepared to run. Any sane person could conclude that there was only one doorway. His destination was the very location he had tried to avoid. So, he bolted for it, stopped about 2 feet in front of the doorway, peered at the surprised expression on the boy’s face, and gracefully stumbled over backwards. Another battle lost. The boy started to approach the now-trembling grounded mess.

The next few seconds had expanded into what the average person recognizes as around 5 minutes. Fear had sprouted its roots into the soil of Oliver’s mind. He knew what was about to happen, as if having just watched the forecast of a massive storm. A panic attack was ensuing. Written in the Life book, a panic attack was described as the feeling of being contained, drowned, and launched all at once. Oliver wished he could just pass out. Every alerting thought, every fear, every possible way to phrase "GET OUT" was tumbling in his senses.

The brown-haired boy stopped in his tracks, as if he was alerted to keep a distance. "That's right. Just-" and Oliver's words had been derailed again. Silence had reentered the room. The boy had raised his eyebrow in a sarcastic manner. He then reached inside plaid overcoat and and extended his hand. Laying on his tender fingers was a playing card. The Joker. Oliver asked "What do you want me to do with that? Is this some sort of game?" The Voice was even more disapproving. It had a way of triggering an alarm, blaring a siren of death. It struck Oliver to the very cores of his shaking bones. The boy's hand and eyebrow jumped, a silent form of offering the card to Oliver. "Say something, or I-" It wasn't easy for Oliver to speak. He preferred not to. The boy curled his lips inwards, and shook his head, which then nodded towards Oliver again. He had no choice. Oliver's trembling hand rose, his fingers extending and retracting, and he grabbed the card. The face of the Joker stared at him, averting his attention. He looked back up, and the boy’s intimidating presence had been replaced by thin air, much like the air desperately trying to fill Oliver's lungs.

For an odd reason, Oliver clutched the card increasingly tighter. He had regained some of his cognizance, allowing him to realize and reflect on what had just happened. He erected himself from the floor, and turned the card over, revealing it's red-patterned backside, only to be struck by surprise yet again. The red pattern's delicacy had been defaced with a black marker, revealing a cryptic message. "When words are silent, action ensues" the card whispered. The Voice attempted to respond. "It's not what it seems. Nothing is".

The Voice then illustrated the room with symbols of red and black. The Spade, the Club, the Heart, and the Diamond had appeared in sloppily painted forms on all of the walls in the room. The paint dripped down onto the floor. It crept like ants towards Oliver's feet. He stood still, like a statue. His breaths became short and stuttered. His vision became blurry. And the paint from the symbols encompassed him from the floor.

The Voice had said it's last words before Oliver's consciousness slipped away, but they came in a scrambled mixture. All Oliver remembered of the Voice's warning was the mention of a pallet.