I walk into my bedroom. I hated living in this townhouse and this neighborhood, this entire city, actually, but this was still my room. This place, for all my 15 years of life, housed my memories, good and bad. This is where I grew up. My interests and thoughts changed just as my body did.
Even though my life was a series of unfortunate events, I still struggled against the hand that was given, and I did feel happiness.
This room had my books, toys, action figures, and computer.
I approached my makeshift desk. I sighed out in exasperation and nostalgic joy. My sketchbooks are filled with the impressions I've had of this world: anime, manga, and other art that I tried to emulate. Even before the fall of this world, I was an imitator.
(I can't take it with me.)
I don't have that much space in my backpack, even though it's quite large. I can't bring my old stuffed animals that I loved as a child, the Transformers action figures that I still think are cool, or the many books that influenced my thinking.
Is this what college feels like? Letting go of what you knew, everything from your possessions and your environment, shoving the belongings you have chosen into boxes, ready to depart and undergo a new life that will change you?
(No, this is more comparable to a sudden disaster that forces you to leave. Why did I think of college?)
Yet… this was a disaster that afforded me time, one of the rarer resources for humans. I looked at my room once again.
(Only one of each.)
One stuffed animal. One sketchbook. One novel.
I walked around, and dug through an old sack that I shoved in my closet; this is where I kept the plushies from my childhood. Back then, these were my friends. I'd have them on my bed whenever I was scared at night; they'd surround me as I tried to find comfort and ease myself into sleep.
I know, it's embarrassing for a 15-year-old to be fond of his old stuffed toys, but I think I needed this: to remind myself of that innocence, that certain element.
(Attachment.)
That's what it is. Loving something by giving it a story and affection. Who's seen Toy Story and thought their toys were secretly alive, moving in the background?
(Empathy and innocence. That's what my stuffed animals represent to me.)
By taking one with me, I would take a token of my youth that would remind me of the old values I had as a child. I dug around in the old sack, which was dark inside.
A sudden pang of guilt assailed me; if I was the old me who believed my toys were alive, wouldn't I be the monster for shoving them on top of each other in a dark space?
(I am not that child anymore.)
Yet I still remember those feelings. I reach in and bring some out: my old teddy bear, Christmas moose, and some others.
(I guess I should free them.)
I brought out the entire sack and dumped all of my stuffed animals on the bed. It's not like I'd sleep on it ever again.
(My mom got a lot for me.)
I was a spoiled child… in material possessions. My hands ran over them, putting some aside until I found him.
(Wicket.)
The little Ewok from Star Wars. It was a little stuffed plushie as big as my hand. When I was 11 or so, I made mini outfits for him with paper.
(I really loved this little guy.)
I loved Star Wars as a little kid. I used to dream of going to the galaxy far, far away. I wanted to be a Jedi, and then a Sith. I wanted to be taught by Yoda, I wanted to meet Luke Skywalker, I wanted to fight against the Empire.
I wanted to experience the connection and joy of the light side.
(And the burning embrace of the dark side.)
Return of the Jedi was my favorite movie because of the hope it carried. Luke won against the Emperor. Leia and Han professed their love for each other. Darth Vader became Anakin Skywalker once again. The Empire's downfall began with the destruction of the second Death Star.
The galaxy was on its way to being freed.
This little plushie of Wicket, the little Ewok, was a physical incarnation of all of those feelings. A reverse Horcrux, in a way. Instead of killing Harry Potter's parents to split my soul and place it in an item, I used my happiest memories and shared them with the things I loved. They carried a part of me.
(How cute and romantic...)
I grabbed shirts out of the closet, shoved underwear and socks into a plastic bag, and then bunched up all of my clothes in the backpack. I still had enough room for basic necessities like food and water, so I looked for two other items that would become my keepsakes.
(Two more. I'm allowed two more sentiments.)
I found a sketchbook filled with my latest impressions. Anime girls, anime guys, action heroes, and monsters - it was filled with my current interests: Chainsaw Man, Onmir the Oddity, Sword Art Online, Bendy and the Ink Machine, Little Nightmares.
I flicked to a random page and saw a sketch - it was crude. It was a stick figure of a man stabbing towards the sky, a simple tower in the distance. When did I draw that?
I ignored that quizzical feeling and stuffed the sketchbook into my backpack. Now it was time for a novel. I had a few, but I already knew which one I wanted.
[Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief]
My first introduction to the series was actually The Titan's Curse. I read it when I was thirteen. I already saw the movies (which are objectively bad compared to the books) but they gave me the general gist of things. The Titan's Curse was my initial foray into the world of Gods and Goddesses. Since then, I've been hooked on the mythological world merging with modern one.
It's no wonder I love TWSA, a hodgepodge of many genres.
(This book... it speaks to me.)
Percy, Annabeth, and Grover traveled across the U.S. all alone and that inspired me. They were down on their luck, living like runaways for their first quest, surviving off nothing but a hundred dollars worth of cash and their wits. They were nothing but a bunch of underage kids who were barely in their teens, yet they were trusted to survive and complete a mission.
(What kid wouldn't love that? Be inspired by that? Want to do that?)
I held Wicket in my hand as I looked at him. I directed my thoughts to him, but they were mainly meant for myself.
(You know, I almost ran away once.)
My little stuffed Ewok didn't offer any words, but it looked like he understood.
(I once got so fed up, I actually placed one of my jackets and a tube of toothpaste into my backpack. It felt like I had no place here. I cried while doing it.)
I still have that memory. That feeling of distress. I did it after my mother backhanded me and went to shower, leaving me alone to cry. I also remember a few years later; she asked me if I ever considered running away, and I answered honestly.
Her response? I don't remember exactly, but it was along the lines of, "Don't ever think about that again."
(Aargh.)
There it is again. That flicker of rage. Need to distract myself, need to distract myself...
(Oh yeah, guess I should pack my toothbrush and toothpaste.)
Can't forget about floss either. I don't think there are any dental appointments in the apocalypse.