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Kid Against The World: Six

Chapter Six
It is a Tuesday morning, I sit on the ground cemented floor right by the drain with the over edge. It is recess.
After recess I’m going to have history, which is by far one of my favorite subjects because honestly you can’t actually prove if any of it is right. I love it when you can’t prove anything is real.
When I am upset, I say to God that I don’t exist, and that he is a joke. He laughs because it’s funny, because he has great sense of humor.
I lit a smoke as I sit alone here in the basketball court; there are other kids hanging around here, the punks, the trash, and the grunge kids. You know alternative rock listening, heavy bass drum kind of people who have nothing better to do than head bang their way to death. I love the music they play here. It’s raw and real. I’m not saying other music isn’t, but the music here suits my life.
I stare down my frayed, once white school shoes and I think about how life damages us all. Nobody evades the torment. I stare at this shoe, and I can sense, most of the kids here in the basketball court are staring at me. And then one of them approaches me, and his name is Shuib.
“Hey,” he says like a curious investigator. “Is it true, that you and Sybilla are hanging out together? Are you guys a couple?” He has short hair, and like the rest of the people here, including me, we have dirty clothes. His school pants are a bit too short for him, showing his ankles. I can’t judge him; my pants are ripped across the knee region.
We are the kids people love to hate, and hate to love. Hooray to that.
I stay silent and take a drag of my cigarette, why is he talking to me? After all this time, why start now. He only wants to know if I am with Sybilla. Savage.
“Come on man; is it a yes or no?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
“Yeah. Well I heard from Tommy and the rest that they saw you hanging out with Sybilla alone after school yesterday.”
It is true. Sybilla and I were hanging out after school on Monday to have our lunch. Ever since that Saturday night, we have been hanging out ever since like we are an item or something, but it’s hard to tell. And it’s hard to believe in my part.
A swimming dog doesn’t make it a fish, so is hanging out doesn’t make us an item as much as I want it to be. Kill me now. Who am I, I’m not in league with such a Goddess. Who am I, but the garbage people don’t dare lay their fingers on. Who am I, but the representation of the young and restless, a blessing just to take a glimpse of a second hand cheap butt Lexus. Who hates the sexists, and the racists, nah, forget about the feminists, they one with the same league with the butt-hurt people who can’t accept the fact. All of them one the same, all want money and the sex. When they can’t get some, they turn to monsters killing people with axes, and when shown their faultiness, they discuss and babble on, in hopes to cover their tracks. And I am with them, the ugly people. I hate what I am.
I’m not saying I’m a racist, a sexist or feminist, but I think they are all the same. They are the people so angry at how life turned out, just like me.
Maybe I’m not sad, or anything depressing. Maybe I’m angry that’s why I feel so empty.
You little piece of muck with the long dark greasy hair, everybody knows who I am, everybody knows. And what I am is the utterly ugly within and the heavily unclean to the skin.
“What if I am, what is it to you?” I ask Shuib, looking up, I am still sitting down. “Why do you want to know so much?”
“So it’s true then, you are with her,” he is pleased with my defiance of not giving a simple yes or no answer. “Have you seen her naked before? Do you have dirty pictures of her in your phone, Kid? Come on show us.” Shuib’s friends slowly start to cower behind him, waiting for me to show them something, something that I clearly don’t have. Savages they all are.
“Don’t have it,” I say and I hope that would be the end of it.
“Come on now Kid,” Tommy says, he is standing behind Shuib. Tommy is a very class lad, he is this short little kid who likes to snoops people’s business, because that is his business, being into somebody else’s business. “Let us have a look at her dirty pictures. I know you have it.”
“Look I don’t,” I say, and again I want this to be the end of it, but they seem persistent. “Back off okay.” They should know their limits, last year I broke Nizam’s nose because he took a cigarette from me without asking. I can hurt them, and they can hurt me. But I am always hurting, so the addition of the pain they can cause is nothing compare to what I have already in me.
I know they have their own pain and struggle in them, why’d you think they listen to these kinds of music; Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Rancid, Green Day, all of the sorts, you get it. Don’t you? All those anti-yuppy music. It is because life is terrible and it’s great to listen to somebody who can relate. These kids, who are being called freaks, including me listen to these music, instead of those poppy flashy, club oriented beats because we can’t relate and we can’t afford.
It is as much as how Sybilla can’t afford in believing God, and kids like us can’t afford listening to poppy music. And I know what she means now. I really do.
Do trees have souls? Does the soil beneath our feet have souls? Do animals have souls? Do we, humans have souls? Probably. Yes. Probably. No.
And then she comes in with her friends, I can see her friends don’t want to step closer to the freak zone. But she is leading them, she is looking at me, and I look at her, all the other people mean nothing. No gist. No hiss. Just waiting for that kiss.
The freaks slowly back away from me in silence as Sybilla walk alone towards me with smiles. “Hey,” she says with that smirk of hers, such a killer, it’s contagious. My heart goes out crying, “Haaa Heee, you are dead,” this little red pulsating fist size bubble says. She turns behind, the freaks back away, continue with their own business. It is like she infected a disease in their heads, as I said, a killer, contagious. “What are you doing later after school?” she asks me.
“Nothing,” I say as I look at her, her face has cleared up from her injuries since Saturday. I throw my smoke, into the drain. I’ve got to kick this bad habit. I’m biting my tongue while the people are talking behind us, they talk. I can’t stop them bruising this conversation between us. I can’t stop looking at them, I want her friends to shut up, stop judging her, and I turn to the freaks, so making fun of us. Don’t.
She sits next to me, and like that. I say, just like that it’s all hush. I can only hear her.
“If you’re not doing anything, can you stay over after school today?”
“I don’t normally stay in school after school is finish.”
“Well, just today stay for me. Okay? I have sprinting practice and I want you to be here with me, and then we can go home together? Is that okay?”
Of course it’s okay. I would do anything for her. She is a Christian Dior, Balenciaga, a master in her arts, a graceful Naga. And me, I am a skinny skeleton wearing cheap stockings, there is no crown waiting even when I reach position of a king, even when I’m lounging and sitting with this Queen. They spot us, got us, they love to discuss the ugliness. A strategy the teens use because our short lives are meaningless.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll wait here behind the school, at this basketball court when the last school bell rings.”
“Good,” she says this very pleased and knowing the conversation is obviously to its close. She doesn’t get up to her feet and join with her friends though; she just continues to sit next to me, looking very confident as she does so. And then she takes my hand and holds them, she can feel the sweat of my palms; again this does not bother her at all.
Three packs of smokes and dozen bumps of cocaine straight to the nostrils can’t defeat the sensation of holding hands with the one you love. None I say.
Don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, and don’t drink. Instead fall in love.
I don’t know why but I keep thinking it just doesn’t work because we are very opposite. Opposites don’t really work do they? That’s just what amateur psychologists and people in bad relationship say to justify their horrible positions. So, I look the similarities between the two of us, we are poor and damage.
That might work for us.
She holds my hand very confidently, not giving the slightest damn about the rest of the world.
*Aggressive pop punk folk-indie, probably American based band, playing through the phase awkwardly till the last school bell rings.*
What? I really like obscure music, it makes me feel special. Ha. Let’s laugh at that. *Laughs awkwardly because for God unknown reasons, probably because the way we all live our lives is totally based on temper tantrum.*
“You two are dating aren’t you?” a voice said behind me as I gawp at Sybilla, with her shorts and tank top, sprinting the muddy tracks of the field. If you want salvation, you want a ghost. Don’t forgive. “She’s very pretty isn’t she? She has always been pretty. I just wish sometimes she is ugly.” This voice belongs to a girl. This girl’s name is Namira. Namira is best friends with Sybilla.
Namira is pretty too, she has golden brown skin and short hair, if you look at her you will be reminded that how beautiful that there are twenty six letters in the alphabet, and that there is about an infinite amount of combination of words and sentences that can be arranged with these handful of letters.
I don’t get why she wishes her best friend to be ugly. She doesn’t say it like she was envious or anything menial. She said it like it would be a blessing if Sybilla was ugly.
“She keeps talking about you, do you know that?”
I turn to her, and shake my head. That’s pleasant to hear. A ballad that could end poverty. But it is hard to take it in. To imagine that her mouth spoke of a bacteria like me. I hope she washes her mouth after saying things about me, even as pleasant as it may be.
Saya takut cara saya jalani hidup saya, saya takut cara saya tidak. Saya takut apa yang saya hendak buat tapi tidak berani. Saya takut Tuhan, saya takut untuk percaya, dan saya takut semua orang yang saya sayang yang telah saya tinggalkan. Saya takut anjing saya tidak saying saya lagi. Saya takut kemalasan sosial yang membolehkan Kitty Genovese bawa mautnya. Dan saya takut mentaliti rusuhan yang membuat orang sebaliknya biasa buta, saya takut cara dunia berputar. Dan saya takut kepada perkataan-perkataan dalam buka nota saya, saya takut bahawa anda semua tahu yang saya seorang penyeleweng. Tetapi burung besar berwarna merah yang hidup di bawah bandar tidak memberi sebarang sialan tentang saya, dan ia mati setiap malan dengan membakar dirinya sendiri hidup-hidup. Saya takut kanser Datuk saya, dan saya takut lengan mati Ibu saya. Saya takut bahawa saya entah bagaimana boleh menyebabkan kecederaan kepada keluarga saya, saya takut bahawa orang-orang yang saya sayang tidak akan mempunyai cukup. Ia lebih sukar untuk menjadi diri sendiri daripada menjadi orang lain. Saya harap saya sedikit berkurang seorang pengecut. Tetapi burung besar berwarna merah yang hidup di bawah bandar tidak memberi sialan tentang saya, dan ia mati setiap malam. Jadi saya beli pisau. Saya adalah sebilah pisau.
I’m a knife. And so it is, my life has finally filled with love and passion. I turn back, looking at Sybilla, she is panting from all that running. And I can’t take my eyes off her, I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off you. Life goes easy at this moment, the strums of violins instruments the theme of my life.
No denial. Our life has also been connected by thin lisle. I close my eyes, and pretend to be blind. But there she is, in my mind. I can’t even take my mind off of her. She is eternal and everlasting.
“Just don’t hurt her, please. I don’t know what she sees in you, but I hope what you see in her is nothing but pure kindness. So, treat her kindly because that’s what she deserves,” Namira warns me.
Never in my wildest dreams, would I hurt her. Never.
“I like her,” I say this very deadpan and emotionless, it feels fake while my face is away from her. “I care about her, I would never hurt her.”
The reticulated python also known as python reiculatus, or widely known in this country as ular sawa can grow up to seven meters, but some have outgrew this length. This species of snakes are large and probably the longest reptile known in this planet. But as heavy and scary looking as these monsters may be, it is nonvenomous and considered not to be that dangerous to humans. I will remember this creature till the day I die. I do not know why, but I will. I know I will.
“You better,” Namira says as Sybilla is coming closer to us. “She likes you very much.”
After the weird conversation with Namira, Sybilla all sweaty comes to us, she wipes her sweat off with a towel, and the sun is brimming today just like any other day, but it might rain suddenly. That’s the weather in Malaysia. You never know what you might get. The girls talk for a bit, and then there is a laughter. After a while, Namira turns and walk away, leaving me alone with the Goddess.
I help carry her bag as we make our way out of the school, she is still wearing those shorts, but she put on something less revealing than the tank top she was wearing while practice.
“What did you talk to Namira about?” she ask me as we are already out of school, thank God.
“You.”
“What about me?”
“That I shouldn’t hurt you.”
“Well, are you?”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Don’t think. Are you sure? I want you to be sure that you won’t hurt me. So. Are. You. Going. To. Hurt. Me?”
I think of the snakes now. “Never will I hurt you.”
“And what if somebody else hurt me, then what?”
“Then they die.”
I feel myself. Say my name. Say my name. Kid. Say baby that you love me. I love you. You love me, how do you do? Oh you don’t have to, because I already knew. Tell me to kill for you, tell me you need me. Don’t get me confuse. You’re my muse.

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