Why am I Alive?

Chapter Three

"Isaac, the principal wants to see you in his office." My English teacher called out as he saw me in the cafeteria.

"Me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Okay." I said and walked towards the principal’s office, which was at the other end of the college.

I was pretty confused though; of the fact that he was asking to see  me. That never happened and as far as I recalled, there was nothing stupid I had done so far. I knocked on his door and peeked in.

"You're Isaac?" He asked

"Yes!"

"Come on in." he said "Sit down."

And I sat down, catching my breath. He put down the pages he had in his hands in front of me? and took off his glasses. I was mentally preparing myself for a lecture on my grades.

"Isaac. Why are you alive?"

I stared at him for a moment, he repeated the question.

"Umm... Well because I'm not dead  yet!" I answered.

"Why do you fantasize death?"

" I don't."

He gave me a concerned look. "Isaac, do you have any problems here, around the college? In your class?"

"No," I said straight away.

"Problem with any of the teachers?" He asked.

"No," I said.

"You can tell me, you know, nothing will ever leave?  this room!" He acted as if I was being investigated for running away from the scene of a crime.

"I would if I had something to say," I said, trying to persuade him that I was perfectly fine.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am." I said

"Anything back at home?"

"No."

He paused again, looking at me.  The way he stared at me, I knew he was trying  to read me.

"Then why do you think about death?"

"I..." I stuttered

"I read six of your articles, all of them handed in within a month, within four weeks time, and in each article it was the same nothing was different. at some point, somewhere. It was as if writing about death is your signature. And your recent article cleared all my doubts. If you recall we gave it to you 3 weeks ago and you turned it in  last week."

"I can write another..." I said

"No Isaac, there's nothing wrong with the article, the English faculty wants it to be published in the magazine, but tell me, why was it  again about dying, all I just wanted to know is : why are you alive?" he asked.

"Well, we can't escape death. like, We should remember  that one day,  we'll leave everything behind  and fly to another world."

He looked at me, as if he was not satisfied with my answer.

"Let me make it easier for you, why are you obsessed with killing yourself?"

"It’s simple, I want the guest? to come, not to surprise me."

"Isaac, did something happen? That you...."

"No nothing happened."

"I see you've been taking anti-depressants!"

"The doctor prescribed them to me."

"Well because something did go wrong, these are the pills doctors just don't prescribe."

I didn't say anything, instead just bowed my head down.

"You can tell me, what the problem is, and maybe I can help you solve your problem and..."

"Sometimes there is no problem, there never is..." I stopped him in the middle of the sentence.

"Then what makes you want to die?" he asked, clearly irritated.

"I don't know, nothing, maybe you're right, I’m just obsessed with death!"

"Isaac, you ...!" he started to say something, but stopped, after a while; he bent down to open his cabinet and pulled out a paper.

"This newspaper, they are publishing a magazine, a young magazine, two months from now, and I'm sending in your name as a daily contributor. The list of the topics are written down here, write on any one of them or on as many topics as you want to." He slid the paper towards me. "They just need to see, how you write. They're a lot of perks too, like they're offering you a monthly cheque and an intern certificate, which is a huge thing at this level. I've got to say that; please don't let me and yourself down with this! I mean, be punctual”  

"I... I won't." I said, honestly, I was pretty surprised by what just happened.

"Now one more thing!"

"Yes?" , looking up from the topics  I was already thinking about  working on.

He laid five blank sheets of paper in front of me. "I need you to ink up these papers. And you only have 60 days."

"What do I have to write about?" I asked. Blank.

"Why am I not dead?"

"What?" I asked as if someone had told me he had woken  from the dead.

"You can go now, Isaac."

I knew, I wouldn't get my answer, so I just picked up the papers and walked out.

Talk about miracles and I'm a loser...

Yeah, nothing ever makes sense,  and whatever just happened didn't make sense either.