Hello everyone,
Long time lurker, first time poster. Hoping to do something a little different with this fanfic series - sort of an anniversary gift to Katawa Shoujo, as well as a personal sendoff. So please, I hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is expected and appreciated. Later episodes to come.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Section I (Time): Found below
Section II (Impressionism)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION I: TIME
-----------------------------------------
Takumi unceremoniously hacks through the padlock dangling from the gothic-style iron gate, whistling some familiar tune from an old movie. The sun shines high and bright, driving us into any shade we can find.
Most of today’s crew is kids looking to scrape together some quick cash on their summer break, doubtlessly to fund their ill-advised ventures into “adulthood”. They’re not a bright bunch. One of them is swinging around a sledgehammer like a baton twirler as his friends prod him on. It’s like having front row tickets to a seminar on the benefits of selective breeding. Others are older men, forming enclaves of maturity within the clamor.
The sound of a lock giving way interrupts my train of thought, as Takumi beams proudly. “What’d I tell you Hiraku? All it takes is a little elbow grease,” he brags, flexing his biceps. I ignore his painfully embarrassing display, turning to address my merry band of misfits.
“Okay, listen up. Some of you guys know the drill, but I’m gonna go over it one more time because I honestly doubt half of you can tie your own shoes, let alone listen to a set of directions the first time.” Some snickers rise from the group, but for the most part, silence reigns. “We’ve got a fat ol’ contract today. Multiple buildings, a lot of them are big, and some’ve got long walks between them. Everybody works with a buddy - that clear? Safety first. No heavy machinery or controlled explosives, locals are part of the hippie crowd, it seems. Now saddle up, and let’s get going.”
Filing through the old gates reminds me of my childhood high school - for a brief moment, I am as young as the freelancers around me. Like so many others, high school had not been kind to me - I had been the slightly chubby kid who had a better chance of being the kickball than playing it. Afternoons were spent in my room, listening to the laughs of my classmates while I sat and read. People in my books were always better than the people I met outside - they didn’t judge me, tell me I was fat, or that I was a loser. Solace in ink. I snap back to attention just as faded signs begin welcoming us to “Yamaku High School” in an overly florid font - the kind that you’d expect a middle schooler to use for a slideshow on Shakespeare. For a while we follow a paved walkway overgrown with weeds and wild vegetation, lined by what appears to have once been well-kept trees and mulch beds. An occasional rusted lamppost juts from the invasive growth, lightbulbs still intact, despite nature’s best efforts. Takumi examines the decrepit scene around him, feeling compelled to break the silence. “Kinda spooky, isn’t it?”
“Not any more than our other jobs, I guess.”
“Bet you it’s haunted.”
“What kind of a bet are we talking? A bet, bet, or a figurative bet?”
“How about a 1000 yen kind of bet?”
“The best kind.”
The workers are all notably quieter than they had been before, their eyes scanning the desolation. I hear one of them, a kid from the sound of it, say to nobody in particular, “My parents made me do some research on this place before they let me get this job. Apparently it was some sort of school for cripples.”
“You did research?” an incredulous voice fires back, spawning a gaggle of laughter.
“It’s just like cripple college!” yells another. More laughing.
What had been the school’s main building looms overhead. Back in its golden years, it must’ve been the pride of the school - but now kudzu scales the base of its once elegant facade, creeping ever closer to the shattered first story windows. However, the top stories of the building have gone unmolested by time, and, though a little worse for wear, could easily pass as part of a functional facility.
We come to a rest in the shadow of the sleeping giant. Takumi produces a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and begins calling out assignments to the mercenaries, who clutch eagerly at their weapons of war. Four fifths of the group are assigned to begin demolition of the gym, leaving myself, Takumi, and three of our new friends to begin gutting the main building.
Takumi saws through another padlock on the main doors of the facility. Walking inside, we find a veritable treasure trove of abandoned goods. The classrooms have been left completely full: encyclopedias, coffee cups, hell - even chalk, all sit frozen in time. The scene is more reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic hell than a high school. A curiously distracting characteristic of the place is its unusually wide hallways - you could practically drive a bus through there. “Lesson for you newer guys,” Takumi starts, peering through windows as he goes. “Always take big buildings with small groups.”
“Any reason why?” Poses a fresh-faced youngster.
“Your pick of the good stuff, of course!” Takumi howls with laughter, only half-kidding. It wasn’t totally unusual for demolition guys like us to take little... souvenirs... from the places we knock down. Most of the time it’s little stuff, like some copper wiring. Maybe a piece of jewelry every once in a blue moon. This one’s my first school, though - can’t imagine what I would find here that I couldn’t find at your neighborhood big box store. Also, it’s important to understand that taking these things doesn’t make us bad guys - if anything, it’s the opposite. We breathe new life into death, make something from nothing, bring light to darkness. Takumi once found a diamond ring from some big office block job - thing couldn’t’ve been much more than a speck in the rubble, an insignificant sparkle of light in the hazy aftermath - and proposed to his girlfriend with it. And what went up where that big office had been? A daycare.
So, really, we don’t destroy things - we repurpose them. We kill the old phoenix to make room for the young one. God’s misguided recyclers.
One of the new guys jokingly leans against the “up” button of an elevator at the base of the stairwell.
“The longer you hold it, the faster it comes!” he cracks, releasing the button. Takumi chortles before pushing into the stairwell. We step over puddles, rubble, and loose wiring all the way up the staircase until we reach the top floor.
Deconstruction
-
TonyTwoFingers
- Posts: 28
- Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2012 3:14 am
Deconstruction
Last edited by TonyTwoFingers on Wed Jan 09, 2013 4:52 pm, edited 3 times in total.
-
TonyTwoFingers
- Posts: 28
- Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2012 3:14 am
Re: Deconstruction
SECTION II: IMPRESSIONISM
----------------------------------------------------
The top floor isn’t nearly as intact as it appeared to be from outside. Light filters down from pinhole cracks in the ceiling and the floor is marred by years of mildew. Something smells. Posters touting the various school clubs still dutifully hang from cork boards, directing students to some nonexistent class officer.
Our first stop is an art room packed to the gills with high quality easels, wide tables, and other assorted supplies the staff had left behind. One of the temps opens a cabinet, only to be greeted by a wave of half-finished clay pots that shatter on the floor. A slew of impressive abstract paintings litters the floor, and I sweep them into a corner with my boot. They’re all initialed by the same unknown artist. The new guy that broke all the pots leans against his sledgehammer, wistfully looking at the scene around him. “You know, I used to be real good at art. Sketching, painting, collages... the whole nine yards.”
“I didn’t know you were gay, Tarou!” one of his friends laughs. Tarou straightens from relaxation, letting his hammer fall to the floor with a tremendous thud that reverberates through the empty building, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“I’m being serious, man. I was real good. I used to spend whole afternoons in places like this! Set up one of those easels and grab me a chair, let me show...” Takumi interjects, silencing the two with a brisk jab of his index finger.
“Let it be, you two. We came here to tear the place down, not pansy it up,” he adds with a certain venom, shooting a dirty look at Tarou. He kneels over and picks up the sledgehammer before presenting it to Tarou with a bitingly sarcastic flourish. “This is your brush,” he asserts. “Go paint, sissy-boy.”
Tearing down the sheetrock doesn’t take long, though it feels like centuries pass. Tarou hasn’t spoken to either of his friends since the little outburst, and Takumi has been overly authoritative - barking every order like he’s a drill sergeant, and being especially nasty to Tarou. But for a while, the only sound in the room is that of diligent work. We disassemble plumbing and wiring as we come across it - the water and electricity to this place had been shut off years ago. Once the plumbing and wiring is out of the way, Tarou suddenly blows into the wooden studs with a ferocity that betrays his earlier delicacy. The sight is so impressive, the four of us simply stand and watch in silence. With each rapid strike Tarou lets loose a high-pitched wheeze, and grows increasingly unable to choke back tears. Nobody is brave enough to speak, so again, we work in silence. Before long, the art room is merely an extension of the hallway, and everyone is resting. Still, a tangible animosity electrifies the air.
In an effort to diffuse some of the tension, I set up an easel in the center of the floor. I pick up a scrap of paper and a charcoal pencil from a drawer we had emptied onto the ground, and hand them to Tarou, motioning to the easel.
“Draw me like one of your French girls?” I ask, smiling. Tarou smiles reluctantly, nodding. He sets up a small stool in front of the easel, and gestures me toward the patch of clear floor a few feet in front of him. I make my way over, striking the most ridiculous looking Mr. Universe pose I can muster. Takumi and the others crowd Tarou, laughing harder and harder the longer he draws. The infectious laughter is more than I can bear, and before long, we’re all in stitches. The sketch came out terrifically, and even Takumi supportively claps Tarou on the shoulder, pulling him close and laughing.
I make my way into the corner where the pile of paintings from before lays dusted with sheetrock. Shaking the particulate matter from them, I thumb through each work by the unknown artist. Now, I am not an art person. I couldn’t tell you the difference between art styles if my life depended on it, yet these paintings are arresting; as though some bizarre force draws me into their world of simplicity and serenity. I take my favorite from the pile - a painting of red-seeded dandelions swaying in a stiff wind - and fold it into my pocket. Tarou suddenly materializes from nothingness, and having seen me take the little souvenir, leaves the sketch of me in its stead. I look at him quizzically as he explains with a face-splitting grin.
“Whenever my dad took me camping, he’d always tell me, ‘leave only footprints, take nothing but memories.’ But this time, I’ll make an exception.”
Takumi stretches and lets out a long grunt before standing and sweeping the dust from his pants. “You guys ready to move out? We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover,” he announces to the room. As everyone gathers their tools and possessions, I gaze over the art room draped in sunlight, hearing the chatter of students and the delicate slicking of canvas with paint - only to be interrupted by one of Tarou’s friends.
“Did someone say this was a school for cripples?”
“Disabled, man, disabled. ‘Cripple’ ain’t p.c.,” Tarou replies as non-combatively as he can.
“You know what I mean. So this was a school for disabled people?” Nobody answers for a few too many moments, so I take the initiative.
“Yeah, I had read something like that too. Lots of them came here.” To this, the young man shakes his head disbelievingly.
“Can’t exactly imagine that kind of place raking in the dough.” We all take a moment to reflect on the comment, suddenly keenly aware of our surroundings. The cabinets with unusually low handles. The oddly wide hallway. The two emptied drawers labeled “hand brushes” and “foot brushes.” The broken clock with comically bold hands. The group shudders in unison. Takumi breaks the silence, tapping his hammer twice on the ground - delivering a toast as though at a fancy dinner party.
“To the art room.” He simply says melancholily, as we look back on the art room for the final time.
----------------------------------------------------
The top floor isn’t nearly as intact as it appeared to be from outside. Light filters down from pinhole cracks in the ceiling and the floor is marred by years of mildew. Something smells. Posters touting the various school clubs still dutifully hang from cork boards, directing students to some nonexistent class officer.
Our first stop is an art room packed to the gills with high quality easels, wide tables, and other assorted supplies the staff had left behind. One of the temps opens a cabinet, only to be greeted by a wave of half-finished clay pots that shatter on the floor. A slew of impressive abstract paintings litters the floor, and I sweep them into a corner with my boot. They’re all initialed by the same unknown artist. The new guy that broke all the pots leans against his sledgehammer, wistfully looking at the scene around him. “You know, I used to be real good at art. Sketching, painting, collages... the whole nine yards.”
“I didn’t know you were gay, Tarou!” one of his friends laughs. Tarou straightens from relaxation, letting his hammer fall to the floor with a tremendous thud that reverberates through the empty building, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“I’m being serious, man. I was real good. I used to spend whole afternoons in places like this! Set up one of those easels and grab me a chair, let me show...” Takumi interjects, silencing the two with a brisk jab of his index finger.
“Let it be, you two. We came here to tear the place down, not pansy it up,” he adds with a certain venom, shooting a dirty look at Tarou. He kneels over and picks up the sledgehammer before presenting it to Tarou with a bitingly sarcastic flourish. “This is your brush,” he asserts. “Go paint, sissy-boy.”
Tearing down the sheetrock doesn’t take long, though it feels like centuries pass. Tarou hasn’t spoken to either of his friends since the little outburst, and Takumi has been overly authoritative - barking every order like he’s a drill sergeant, and being especially nasty to Tarou. But for a while, the only sound in the room is that of diligent work. We disassemble plumbing and wiring as we come across it - the water and electricity to this place had been shut off years ago. Once the plumbing and wiring is out of the way, Tarou suddenly blows into the wooden studs with a ferocity that betrays his earlier delicacy. The sight is so impressive, the four of us simply stand and watch in silence. With each rapid strike Tarou lets loose a high-pitched wheeze, and grows increasingly unable to choke back tears. Nobody is brave enough to speak, so again, we work in silence. Before long, the art room is merely an extension of the hallway, and everyone is resting. Still, a tangible animosity electrifies the air.
In an effort to diffuse some of the tension, I set up an easel in the center of the floor. I pick up a scrap of paper and a charcoal pencil from a drawer we had emptied onto the ground, and hand them to Tarou, motioning to the easel.
“Draw me like one of your French girls?” I ask, smiling. Tarou smiles reluctantly, nodding. He sets up a small stool in front of the easel, and gestures me toward the patch of clear floor a few feet in front of him. I make my way over, striking the most ridiculous looking Mr. Universe pose I can muster. Takumi and the others crowd Tarou, laughing harder and harder the longer he draws. The infectious laughter is more than I can bear, and before long, we’re all in stitches. The sketch came out terrifically, and even Takumi supportively claps Tarou on the shoulder, pulling him close and laughing.
I make my way into the corner where the pile of paintings from before lays dusted with sheetrock. Shaking the particulate matter from them, I thumb through each work by the unknown artist. Now, I am not an art person. I couldn’t tell you the difference between art styles if my life depended on it, yet these paintings are arresting; as though some bizarre force draws me into their world of simplicity and serenity. I take my favorite from the pile - a painting of red-seeded dandelions swaying in a stiff wind - and fold it into my pocket. Tarou suddenly materializes from nothingness, and having seen me take the little souvenir, leaves the sketch of me in its stead. I look at him quizzically as he explains with a face-splitting grin.
“Whenever my dad took me camping, he’d always tell me, ‘leave only footprints, take nothing but memories.’ But this time, I’ll make an exception.”
Takumi stretches and lets out a long grunt before standing and sweeping the dust from his pants. “You guys ready to move out? We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover,” he announces to the room. As everyone gathers their tools and possessions, I gaze over the art room draped in sunlight, hearing the chatter of students and the delicate slicking of canvas with paint - only to be interrupted by one of Tarou’s friends.
“Did someone say this was a school for cripples?”
“Disabled, man, disabled. ‘Cripple’ ain’t p.c.,” Tarou replies as non-combatively as he can.
“You know what I mean. So this was a school for disabled people?” Nobody answers for a few too many moments, so I take the initiative.
“Yeah, I had read something like that too. Lots of them came here.” To this, the young man shakes his head disbelievingly.
“Can’t exactly imagine that kind of place raking in the dough.” We all take a moment to reflect on the comment, suddenly keenly aware of our surroundings. The cabinets with unusually low handles. The oddly wide hallway. The two emptied drawers labeled “hand brushes” and “foot brushes.” The broken clock with comically bold hands. The group shudders in unison. Takumi breaks the silence, tapping his hammer twice on the ground - delivering a toast as though at a fancy dinner party.
“To the art room.” He simply says melancholily, as we look back on the art room for the final time.
Re: Deconstruction
Well, that was different. Not sure what to make of this yet in all honesty.
Rin > Shizune > Emi > Hanako > Lilly
-
TonyTwoFingers
- Posts: 28
- Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2012 3:14 am
Re: Deconstruction
Hopefully I'll be able to win you over in the installments to come!nemz wrote:Well, that was different. Not sure what to make of this yet in all honesty.
Re: Deconstruction
Oh I didn't mean it in a bad way at all. It's well written, I'm just not sure where this could possibly be going. At the moment it's just sort of vaguelly bittersweet, I guess? I just don't know yet.
Rin > Shizune > Emi > Hanako > Lilly