The Garden

Okay so this is the work-in-progress epilogue from my novel The Garden. I'm reworking it from how it originally was (didn't fit right with the the way the actual story turned out) and this is the new version.

My main concern is the first few opening paragraphs. I mainly want to know how easy is to understand, and how well you think it flows. I appreciate your reviews!

NOTE: The forum really messed up the formatting. Hope it still flows good.

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Sometimes, January is a gorgeous young girl with pale skin and jet-black hair. And those piercing crystal-clear blue eyes that only a select few people possess. Like two orbs of ice. Frosty. Vague. Beautiful.

But not most of the time.

No, most of the time January is a vast and monstrous storm, cold and merciless, who doesn't know the difference between good and evil or dark and light or up and down. Most of the time, January is like the universe viewed through the eyes of a nihilist. Maybe it's because I was born in January, but none of the other months have that same kind of duality. They're all pretty straightforward and for the most part sensible. At least, as sensible as attributing unique personalities to the various months of the year can be. I do that, and I don't know why.

It's not just months, though. It's letters too. And numbers. And sounds and colors and smells and feelings and all those other little things in between. For most people, these are all very different notions, with strictly set parameters and boundaries between which is which and what is what. But not for me. For me, one sense is linked to another sense, which is linked to another sense which is linked to a letter or a number and then that letter or number has it's own unique shape and color and personality. Some numbers are beautiful, like thirteen or twenty-two or seven. Seven is soft and bright and colorless like the sun shining through clouds on an overcast day. Some numbers are ugly, though. Five is ugly. Fifty-five is even uglier. It sounds stupid and crazy, I know. But its true.

My brain, it connects various sensory-inputs with other, altogether unrelated concepts or, in some cases, other senses altogether. Like how I can feel the notes of a guitar subtly tapping one-by-one against my spine or how the color green when I see it tastes like if you run your tongue along a formica counter top. Of all things. And the funniest part is that, for most of my childhood, I actually thought everybody was like this. I thought everybody knew that Thursday was a grumpy-old man who didn't like strangers and that the letter P was distinctively unpleasant to look at. I never really said anything about it because...why should I? It was the just the way things were.

Of course, kids made fun of me in school, they called me loco, Loony. Crazy. Up until fourth-grade, everyone thought I was retarded. Not actually retarded, but the way little kids mean it when they're making fun of other little kids. Really, though, it's not like I can blame.

I mean, kindergarten was probably one of the hardest times of my life. All those colors and letters and shapes and numbers. They might as well have been teaching me calculus. That's how confusing it was.

Even the teachers thought I might have a learning disability. They suggested I attend some special classes, outside of school, at a placed called Wilkinson's Academy for the Novel-Minded Child. My parents, however, would have nothing of it.. They thought I was just being lazy or inattentive.

At this point, I hadn't yet told anyone about the different personalities I perceived from letters or dates. I still hadn't even realized it myself. But then, as I got older, people began to notice things...little fragments of strangeness. Maybe I described a song as sounding orangey-purple, or perhaps I mentioned my particular affection for the letter "Q". The exact circumstances are irrelevant, but the point is that it had become apparent to the outside world (and, thus, myself) that I was not an ordinary boy.

I first started getting diagnosed with mental conditions when I was nine-years-old. Initially, the doctors thought I might be schizophrenic. Rare for such a young kid, but not completely unheard of. I remember my mother being so distraught, thinking her nine year old son was an off-the-wall sociopath, bound to switch at any moment and start torturing animals or crucifying barbie dolls. The doctors, they suggested that I be admitted to an asylum, short-term, just to be safe. Lucky for me, my mother sought out a second opinion. And a third. And a seventh.

A frightening amount of cat scans later and the doctors had come up with a diverse assortment of possible diagnoses. They postulated that I may potentially have one or more of the following:

Hyperactivity

Manic-depressive

Chronic fatigue

Obsessive compulsive disorder

Multiple personality

Attention-deficit

Schizophrenia

Emotional instability

Really, none of them had a fucking clue.

We went to so many different doctors that my case actually started getting attention from the media. There were journalists calling our house, knocking on our front door, sending us letters. Newspapers wanted to do an interview with me. There were was even an offer for a magazine article. But my parents, they weren't into it. For them, it was already enough that I was besieged by some strange, unknown mental anomaly. They didn't want their troubles to be publicized. And this was good, because I had no interest in being part of it either. I mean, before this point in my life I didn't even realize I was different from everyone else. My parents tried to shield from the media onslaught to the best of their ability, but it was hard for them. Before long they withdrew me from our local public education system and resorted to home-school. It was mostly on the computer, but my mom taught me when she could.

Throughout all of this, we were still going to doctors. Neurologists, psychologists, psychiatrists. The months dragged on. After a while the whole issue just kinda subsided. It's not like it ever interfered with my life at all. Oh, and I almost forgot.

I also remember things. Everything.