Classroom X

day four: anxiety

The reflection in the mirror was pale and gaunt. Ken gazed at his own grey eyes staring out at him, at the greyer shadows beneath them and the water rolling off his cheeks in cold drops. The faucet before him was open all the way, the water striking the sink with a rushing sound and disappearing through tiny petal-shaped holes. He cupped his hands below the outlet, catching some of the water and splashing his face blindly with it. He wanted to see if washing his face enough times would change its appearance. Wanted to know if he wiped his hand over the fog in the mirror he'd see a killer looking back at him.

He could clearly see that he had lost a few pounds during the past couple of days. He had never been a kid who had a lot of meat on him in the first place—even when he was a toddler who his mother loved to feed a lot—although he wasn't as thin as to have grandparents fuss over his dietary habits. But if he lifted up his shirt now, he would have no trouble in saying exactly where each of his ribs were just by looking.

It was obvious to him what his problem was—he had no appetite. Not since Emryse's death. He could try eating, but then he'd puke out whatever he'd let past his lips until there was nothing else left inside to throw up. The heavy, blue-black bags beneath his eyes were evidence of a newly acquired insomnia. He had restless nights, because he was scared of the nightmares that came when he let himself close his eyes. He'd stay awake when the others went to sleep. He was jealous of them. He'd admit not all of them got good sleeps, some of them moaned and whimpered in their dreams, some jerked awake from nightmares, but at least they could sleep.

He wondered if it was guilt keeping him awake.

He closed the tap and the water stopped coming, but he could still hear the  liquid gurgling down the pipe. He slicked his mud-brown hair out of his face with his wet fingers and scrutinized his expression. Did his eyes look like the eyes of a terrorist?

As each day passed, he couldn't shake the feeling that he might be the Angel of Death. He had reasons to think like that. First and foremost, he hadn't done anything to save Emryse even though he was his friend; he hadn't even tried to speak a word in his defense.

Other people might be able to brush it off. To him it looked like the others were doing just that. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't make up excuses for himself, couldn't tell himself he'd done nothing wrong. Because it wasn't only Emryse. He'd stood back and watched more of his classmates die.

And he had felt nothing.

No sadness, no indignation, no rage or grief. It was like their deaths didn't bother him at all. Like someone had carved out the part of him that would have cared. Which meant he wasn't a nice person. Which meant he might be the Angel of Death.

If Diego was still alive he could have asked him. About whether he thought Ken had changed. He needed to be told that he was not the Angel of Death, and he needed Diego to tell him because he trusted no one else.

He pressed his forehead against the mirror, the water on his face latching onto the glass. He was scared. Of what was happening to him and the others. Of who he might be.

He feared himself.

He was such a mess.

"Are you kissing yourself in the mirror, Jamieson?"

Startled, Ken wheeled around, detaching his face from the mirror. But the motion was too sudden for his worn body that he swayed and began to fall over. His hands grabbed for the sink, but they slipped. He just remembered seeing Naftali Lake rush towards him, arms reaching out to catch him before he blacked out.

When he drifted back to consciousness the first thing he registered was the smell of coffee. For a few agonising moments his beleaguered brain tried to place the scent—mother only made tea at home, never coffee. Where was he? He opened his eyes, and he still couldn't tell. He felt scared all of a sudden.