Chapter Ten
Wednesday, morning, I am tired. Blah blah blah, I really like this and that. I am now a killer. Hooray, my neon lights shine above me labelling the crimes I have done.
This is tighter than a virgin nun. Hallowed be thy Name, the cracks of kingdom of heaven will smash unto earth, forgive no one, and torment everyone. Yaddy daddi da, hoopla, Amen.
My English teacher stands too close in front of my desk with her small little hands on her hips, trying to lift her belly because she is pregnant. Miss Fatimah gets pregnant every year, probably to get out of work early, or maybe she just really like the pain, kinky woman you are Fatimah.
Yesterday, I killed two men. Now I’m listening to this woman talking about how I am not paying attention in her class. When will I go to prison already?
I look up to this woman, and I think of Spiderman. I like the whole deal, the costume, the motif, the powers, and the morality of this superhero. There is a ghost in my closet, it crawls out of there once in a while in all fours and tell me everything is going to be fine. It cuddles me to sleep when I am alone.
It is always the same with these teachers, they make this dumb face, and then they do the common nonsensical poop about if I don’t listen I won’t have a great future or go to college. My future is already dead, woman, so shut up.
You tan your skin, and die. You fly way too high, so when you fall you’re going to feel it buddy.
Give me a break.
“When will you start to understand that the things you are doing now will affect your future?” Fatimah says way too loud, trying to humiliate me it seems.
Why must the whole world do this to me? I’m not dead yet, you are not supposed to bury me alive.
You don’t remember. It doesn’t matter that you’re weak or strong, everybody is dead wrong. We will choke on our mistakes. There is no bigger man than the God we all believe in, and who is God than our imaginary friend telling us everything is going alright when you bleed to death to your own wound. Oh yeah, we are the summer hound.
I got something to say to this woman, “Relax, will you? I don’t care. I just experimented with murder and I don’t mind doing it again. So shut up. Shut up. I don’t care. I won’t care. It won’t matter.” she takes note of the deadpan emotionless behind my voice. I choke her, and then I shot her ego down, bullets fall, while the gun still has smoke. Gun smoke.
Hail Mary full of grace, I got that sick mind, didn’t you know? Sometimes I dream of choking myself.
The class laugh in giggles, I stare down this woman call Fatimah. Her eyes move left to right, looking at the students giggling and me, and she doesn’t know what to do. That’s the thing with teachers, they are humans as well. And just like every humans, Sega Genesis, they are weak to the brim of their bones, they can damage after an attack. They have the illusion of authority.
Teachers are like politicians, they think they have authority. No! Nobody has authority, it is all false. You are the master of your world, don’t misunderstood, nothing is all good.
“Out!” she screams with no privacy like Christmas on Saturday.
Miss Fatimah, with her big belly, inside her is an unborn life is piss and should have every right to be. Because teachers are humans, and just like every humans they deserve respect damn it. She has her own life, and must have a vacation plan with her husband and kids, probably go to Indonesia and smoke to get high, until her head hit amnesia.
“Please, Kid, go out,” I am the raging savage that should have died. I am guilty and afraid. Please God. I am a savage.
Jedi, you will never say a proper goodbye, dip in the chocolate sky. Knock till the ovaries erupt.
I get up on my feet, and gait my way out of the classroom, just like that. No nothing, no emotion. What is wrong with me? What is the sign? Is there a devil right behind? “Right, if anybody wishes to join Kid, please go ahead.” Nobody laugh by then, they stay quiet and the lesson continues.
Sybilla didn’t come to school today, I am worried.
Being free as I am, I break this illusion to discover that my life is not glued, it is detached, scattered. Kill the entire belly. I get lost in the walls within the schools as I tread in the morning hour to find myself no longer another brick in the wall, class to class I pass by. They are feeding us kids information, mathematical formulas, names in history books, grammars, stories, what will we do about with this information after we get out? We would kill, and contribute to the violence, and we will consume endlessly till we die. They didn’t even have a chance to begin with.
I didn’t have a chance.
I walk up to the cafeteria, I take a seat all alone, and hear the buzzing bee and the sweeping of the cleaner, and I feel dead. This feels surreal. Mister Loh, the disciplinary teacher of this school, fifty years old or something, with slick black hair in a push back clean cut fashion comes to me with no posse, just himself, and all I can do right now is wait here silently. I used to be afraid him, I don’t know why, you just have to be afraid of your disciplinary teacher, that is the rule.
Mister Loh sitting next to me, not shouting or looking nefarious as he normally is asks me what is wrong. Miss Fatimah must have told him something. Believe or not teachers are just humans, and just like humans they do have feelings, they do care about their students. Believe that or die.
Mister Loh tells me that there is nothing to be worried about with his robot tone tenor of a voice, as I think of the people I killed by my hands. My hands are covered in blood. “Life is hard, I don’t know what is going on in your life now,” he says this to me very politely you might forget Bambi is an orphan. “But if you want to talk about it, I am here.”
Should I? I really want to tell somebody my sins. I think I know why people confess now, they want that release. I should.
I lose the numbers, and I forget the meanings. This moment is a moonrise, a heavy ride in the back of limousine. Red and black, Queen Gorgon, please. I can’t hold it in, don’t nod to the king of your heart. I seek comfort in his smile, it is sincere, no doss, no false. He actually cares, not because this is his job.
I unclamp my tongue and with the blessings of my conscious, I set free the words I have been wishing to let out, “I’m a savage. I am disgusting. I am disgusting. Please,” I cry in front of Mister Loh as the Frenchman wept during the Nazi occupation of France.
This is good; I don’t know why I am crumbling right now. But I am. I hate myself. I need to stop crying. But I can’t. Please stop.
My soul feel relieved with every tear coming out such as the wave of the sea, I don’t need no saving or saviors, I just needed to be free. Guys like me don’t cry a lot, maybe because we are too afraid. So when we cry, we cry till we’re the color of a frigging blastomussa or a flower pot coral, with the oozing gushing raging sentiments of an open brain coral.
Mister Loh doesn’t say stop like I want him to. Why? Maybe he likes children crying and breaking down in front of him. Why is he giving me this indication that people actually care what I am going through? Nobody cares, but he does.
He stays silent like a stoked and baked basenji dog.
I have come to this crying by my own accord, and I need to end it by own will as I should.
Buddha nailed me to the cross. Two minutes of crying, I remind myself of a cold pizza.
Three minutes of crying, I remind myself of engagement rings, bigger boys and taller women with the fancy wit.
I can’t smile.
I want Mister Loh listen to the song of my wailing. After the fifth minute he tells me what’s wrong, and I say death. He says whose, I reply my victims.
He says sorry to me for unknown reason.
He sends me a postcard telling me my mind is not insane, when it is. With my little white school shirt, and green trousers, I’m so far up. Fool, I’m insane, I hate me most of the time. I’m lost in place, it’s written on my face. It’s hard to look at me, with these dead eyes and one bed side crazy way, I’m such a fool.
The school bell rings and then the hum drum footsteps of students come marching to the cafeteria, I quickly shrug off my tears.
I think of reasons why did I cried, and all I can conclude from this raw showcase of emotion is that I have fallen deeply into love, and the victims here is me and to that who I love.
Forget the people who I killed, the real death here is us.
She leaves me goosebumps as she curved her lips, and it shines like the butt crack of heaven itself. She dug deep into my head, and every time I try to smile, I think of her first. It makes me feel like I’m drowning but not dying. The first time she touched my skin, it burns, I was struck aflame and all I do was feel the pain, but I could not die. It burns. My skin stings to this day, I am ashes.
This will be the death of us, while I think of anacondas.
Mister Loh smiles and tells me, that life is a struggle, but it doesn’t give me the right to tell off a teacher. That’s a shame. Teachers always do these things. They start off with a wicked wisdom of an advice and then connect it to something I could care less. Something the universe could expand without.
I tell Mister Loh as he got up, and the students all around, that life is only a struggle because we let it be. He laughs, thinking I was playing with the words, thinking that I have little knowledge of my own words that I spewed. And probably I don’t know what I’m talking, but I sounded smart. I wanted to seem clever to the tall middle age Mister Loh, with his reassuring lizard smile.
He gave me that relief, that smile I needed all along. He gave the quietness for me to express my raging emotions to another soul without being judged.
These are the moments you could not forget till you’re old when you’re in the shadowy fog, being consumed of your own turpitudes.
To regain consciousness of the current world, I remind myself of an old story. There’s a boy who lived with his mom and dad. Now they weren’t a perfect family, no family is. When the mom had a baby in her, the little boy was jealous that her parents would abandon him. To feel secure of his position as the love of their parents’ lives, the boy goes into her parents’ room while they are sleeping and stab deep her mother’s belly with a sharp kitchen knife. The bed was soaked with blood that it was like a Sunway Lagoon water park, the mother screams to her death, and then the dad woke up and took off his clothes, completely naked to bathe the blood of his wife.
The boy cries like a wussy that he was for his loving mother had just passed away right in front of him, but being young and obnoxious as he was, he did not acknowledge that it was caused by his actions. Finding the boy to be annoying, the dad pulls out a gun, loads it with bullets and then pulls one at the boy, killing the child. Then the father with the rush of adrenaline, put the gun into his mouth, and pulls the trigger, his brain splattered on his dead family. This is how the story ends. I take a bow at this point, and you clap for me.
You might think this mean something, but it actually means nothing. Not only is life a struggle, but it doesn’t make any amount of sense. There is no absolute answer to anything because there is no absolute question, so God bless. The bad and good things just simply happen, because they just simply can and it probably will. So boo tad dilly do da hoo to the hoot.
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