Chapter 11
The way people talk is dull, and the content of their speech is nothing but subtle insults.
Aaron Ng is this pale skinny guy with the dyed front bangs and squinty eyes, who tries his best to look like a Korean pop star, and he comes at me as I sit all alone in the cafeteria.
Most of the girls in this generation love this kind of guys because deep down they want to experiment with their own sexes. Hollow as they break, the roads were built on the cracks of the births of trees, worse than orange Crocs.
Guys like Aaron Ng will die with forks stabbed into their eyes. No matter how good looking you are with your hair and skin, you will die just like everyone else. We are no different than the flies we splat with our palms, and the chicken we call our food.
“I heard you pissed off Miss Fatimah, that is badass man,” he says to me, and behind him are his over waxed and hair gelled friends.
We are the walking dead, huffed puffs by the fissures. Hash tag YOLO.
I stay silent and again he pests me, “Hey, I heard you are with Sybilla. How is she? She’s fit isn’t she? I bump her just last month man, you need to hit that. I’m telling you, she gives out just like that.”
And she probably does, but we haven’t done it before, and considering the abuse she went through with her dad, I don’t think it will be right.
“Yo, say something man.” He continues. Oh my God. This is why I hang out back at the basketball court, to avoid people like him. “Sybilla is a proper whore.” And with that word alone it hit me like a tempest.
That is by far the most straight edge insult he could say about a Goddess like Sybilla. What gives him the freaking right to say stuff like that, to label her something she is not? Are you flicking freckling kidding me right now you ironic son of a crippled goat. Glory praise of hallelujah, I will end you. You monster hypocritical weak willed, based idiot. Bless Malaysia, and the Sultans, and the Prophets and to all who will witness this, you have the skies to thank.
At the table, with Aaron about to go away giving up on trying to get any reaction from me, he shows me his back, I pick up a plate filled with leftovers and then I throw it at him, claps and awes from the crowds as it hits his back head.
I might hate myself, but I hate people more.
Especially Aaron Ng and people who are just like him.
He turns to me with angry eyes, and dirty hair. It looks like I mess that pretty hair of his and it seems he his angry about it. He comes walking back, stomping as he did, while I stay calm like sloth cool mule tranquilized with the dosage to sleep a rhino. “What the hell man!” he shouts, the air silence as all the students stop what they were doing and stare at us.
“She isn’t a whore,” I say timidly and he catches it.
“Is that it? That’s why you did that? Damn it man, she is a major whore. Deal with it. She has done it with half of the school already, including the teachers perhaps.” And that might be true, but that doesn’t make my Sybilla a whore.
He comes to the table close, and he whispers to me insults which I am not affected. And then I, calm like a Buddhist monk, quick like a bee pull his tie down, almost choking him. And I say to him very straight-faced, “You don’t get to talk about her like that. I will break your neck and piss on your empty eye holes after I pluck those balls out if you talk about her like that again. Now, every time the topic of Sybilla comes up, the only thing you’re going to say is how God damn beautiful she is.”
Guess what kids, in real life, there is algebra. The problem with the whole thing is, there is a stick stuck inside our anus so deep we don’t think it will help us. Oh, be cynical now. But you’re going to need it when you’re in the supermarket buying a loaf of bread.
Richard Ramirez. The Night Stalker.
Change the gears. A deadly swastika. Cinnamon, swallow. Sin of men.
Guys like Aaron don’t fight their own fights. One of his friends by the name of Zul pulls Aaron away and then pushes my shoulder, but I am unfazed. “Back off, freak,” he says. They can’t afford a fight with a person like me, because they know I’m damaged and damaged people are the most dangerous kinds of people.
Maybe I am freak, because that’s all I can afford to be.
Does anyone ever think about that?
School bell rings and rings, and then I go out of the school with digits eyeballing my movements. I walk through the valley filled with gumshoe of fools, and as I was once dreading of this place, I am now the fear that frightens this valley. Nothing comforts me as I do not comfort anything. I have been anointed by my peers as nothing but a trash.
Who was it that brings brightness to the morning sun, and night when the moon allows itself up in the sky? And who was it that built Heaven and extends the creation of Earth? Who has shaped our souls? Prosperity to the brothers and wash away your sins, for you are accepted when you kneel and beg.
As I pace my way out, I see Zul with his faux Mohawk hair, and deadly eyes and I holler at him. I tell him we need to fight. He agreed. Unlike Aaron Ng, Zul is the type of person who would fight because he has a reputation. I know this because I know people.
I want to fight because it seems it is necessary for us to fight.
We go to the park few blocks from the school; he brings all his friends including Aaron to witness this duel of fists. I say, we fight. We didn’t set out the rules, we just agreed.
When the fight starts, he punches me first. It felt nothing. He looks angry, but he isn’t. And then I throw another strike.
This goes on for a bit, people cheering and recording us with their smart phones.
We exchanges punch to punch, until our nose bleeds. And then just like that, the fight stops. Nobody died, nobody got killed, we just got bruised, we didn’t say sorry or anything afterwards. We look into each other’s eyes, and right there and then we are the best of friends, even though he thought lesser of me, and I am jealous of the life he is living.
Is this bad? Is this evil? You can’t really tell if you like somebody without being into a fight with them first.
It’s only then you know like the back of your hand, because you touched their skin unlike any other. The more pain you cause, the better you get to understand them. That is why it is rare for fighters in the ring to get pissed at each other when the fight is over. After all that rounds of punches, they knew one another and created a unique bond. That is the Gift of God.
Violence is a constant. It will always be there.
In a way we are all violent, but the question is, are we all evil?
Bloodied after the fight, when everyone had already left the park, I take a sit on a bench.
And then come dragging her body is Namira, she tries to fake a smile at me. What does she want? She looks like she is not happy at all, what is wrong, I wonder, did she got raped too? Maybe, girls are having trouble just to walk out their homes now.
She looked at me like she thought I am dead.
We greet, and then without any permission she sits next to me. She asks me about Sybilla, and I reply that she is fine. I am not sure of my answer though, she didn’t come to school today, and a lot can happen in one day.
“You know don’t you?” she asks. Know what? That her dad is a savage, and likes to destroy his own daughter, I think I do. I nod. “Then you know she probably needs you more than anyone else.” I nod as she says this. Namira is a good friend; she is the kind of friend that wants her friend to be ugly.
We smoke a cigarette together; I didn’t know she was a smoker. Maybe that was her first, but she just breeze it through like a regular one. And then we pretend we are alive when in truth we are all dead creatures.
We have a little numbed conversation, talking about how life is hard, and it will be harder when it is easy. Happiness and of the sorts is nothing but temporary. And so is pain, but pain lingers even when it is thrown out. What do we really deserve?
We are the Millennial Generation. People of the future will remember our generation as the pioneers who perfected the art of self-absorption. This generation is raised by women, because the men couldn’t do it themselves. This is the generation where all it matters is the way we look. This is the first generation to ever end privacy, posting everything including when they take a dump, taking pictures of their food, and recording their sex lives for the entire world to see. This is our generation, my generation. I could blame it all on this generation for my detachment to the whole world, but really, that’s just because I am Millennial.
She says my name, and I see the line coming around. This is as strange as it gets, for she burst out laughing in the scene. I think Namira is my friend now. She continues to laugh and then looks at me, and I laugh as I well. This is a brightening act, but it’s actually darker than it seem.
It’s rad that we laugh to cover our sad.
We laugh till we embrace each other, her arms clasp around me, and mine to her. Nothing feels better than having someone special to hold, a friend. Maybe we are actually immortals, but the air we breathe in is slowly killing us? If so maybe there’s room for two on the casket straight to hell. I shouldn’t have known better that other people are suffering, I can’t ask for more.
Namira looks to me, her eyes are stunning and mesmerizing. It is like those kaleidoscope kind of way. Her lips are wet and ready, ready for what? Go ahead, I won’t mind if you don’t.
She presses her lips onto mine, and says that she is afraid. This is embarrassing as hell. Come on Namira, you’re turning me on. You are the taste of honey tangled in the spider web. She digs into deep and chains herself in my mouth. She can taste rock and roll living in there. Come on, I’m turning her on.
This means nothing, just two friends sharing a kiss. A quick fix perhaps.
“Yes,” she says. Yes, she wants this not because she loves me or even the slightest have interest in me romantically. We are parasites, freckle bites, break the rules. If you come this far you know the rules don’t apply. She feels alive with our lips touching each other. Her skin is glowing, her eyes closed.
After a while, we let ourselves go. “Thanks,” she says, the park is empty and my nose is still pouring out blood, and it got some on her skin. I clean it off her using my thumbs. Five years. I have known this girl for five years, and never have I talked to her before. And now I have kissed her. Something tells me God plans to kill me.
She takes my hand, holding them. “Love her properly, and love her true” she says it like an opening to a prayer. I have butterflies birthing immensely inside my stomach, wanting so bad to go out and vomit it at her face. This is the most anime feeling I have ever feel. Bless my soul. I whisper, “I will,” as if I accepted her wedding vows. This is how I made my first friend.
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