Fever Dream

Chapter 4: Workethica

The Episode In The Rain soon faded away into the recesses of my memory as I became preoccupied with a more personal problem. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but after that episode, things in my life started to take a turn for the weird. Not necessarily for the worse, but definitely more ironic.

I continued walking through the school, entering random classrooms. I passed by an familiar alcove. It was in a way, a refuge, for I had spent countless hours huddled there, studying, fighting to prove myself.

The shining star I had drawn on the wall was still there.

In Situation Normal, hate would be a destructive force, ruining lives, toxifying the intangible things that bring good. But it seemed as if hate had an inverse effect on my life, placing it painfully on a better path.

***

Past memorise: June 2016

"You can't even get one thing right."

"Come on, you're already eleven but your learning skill is that of a seven year old!"

"People say that your parents are smart, but look at you."

***

"You know, I'm pissed," I said to Ben as we were walking towards the bus stop.

"Yeah, I get it," he said. "I have no idea why our math teacher's trying to target you. A lot of other people have messed up worse, but you're getting more attacks from her than nearly everyone else. This crap has been going on since the beginning of the year, and I think what she's saying about you is also beginning to influence other people in our school."

"You know what? If she's trying to tell me that I'm retarded, I've got news for her. I'm not."

"Well, how are you going to prove that to her? I mean, your math skills aren't necessarily that good," said Ben.

"Exactly. Maybe we're going to fix that, later this year," I said.

The pent-up frustration was making my wrists shake. I came across a Coke can, its red faded and shiny exterior scratched.

"Well, fuck all of this!" I shouted. I stamped on the Coke can and kicked it into the drain.

"What?"

It took a lot to make me swear.

"I don't care anymore. I'm going to sacrifice everything I have to get better at math - and prove to her that I'm not a fucking retard!"

"So what's your plan?" asked Ben.

"I'll figure something out," I said.

***

That was one memory among many. Putting up with my math teacher's constant tirade was fine at first, but after a while something began to get to me. After a while, it began to sow the seeds of doubt. What if what she was saying was actually true? How was I going to live with that fact?

I had never thought really highly about myself at that point, especially in academics. I knew that I could do well, but inconsistently. Sometimes I felt as if I was watching my grades move up and down like a stock market index, knowing full well I didn't have much control over it.

But did I really not have control? The fact that I was now running on a pretty definite routine (although the routine started by freak chance) proved that I could at least exert some control over what went on everyday. I could predict. I could optimise.

Control was the keyword. Control forged my love affair with work ethic, with a new way of living. Ironically, it was through hate that I learnt to live better.

***

I looked at my polished wooden table, with the paraphernalia that would build my new life lying on it. Pens and pencils, books creased from hours of overuse, a hastily carved message on the wooden top that read "work hard, fight harder".

Memorise, read, practice. It was all my life had been about for the better part of the month. I saw myself as a factory, processing math questions, cranking out answers, feeding data from that back in, processing more. A mundane cycle, yet comforting in its familiarity. Along the way I realised that I could also apply this process to other subjects, if I could replace processing math questions with memorising.

All that incessant studying was as revitalising as it was draining. For once I felt as if I could actually muster enough effort to prove myself. I was being burnt out physically, my eyes and my mind tired out from hours of the grind. But with every joule of energy that I drained, a sliver of confidence was gained. I found meaning. I took a soulless grind that was the scourge of many and fed it to myself in a way that brought me closer to my calling.

I placed the books in my backpack and walked down the staircase to get to the car.

It was time to fight; everyday I got to school with the mantra that I was there to fight, with every bit of energy I expended I would make things better for myself.

Game on.

***

I stared at the grey curtains in front of me. It was a strange feeling, as if I had fallen asleep and dreamt a long, vivid dream, yet I had been awake the whole time. Perhaps being back in the building that I had spent much of my childhood in had made my nostalgic memory flashbacks more vivid. I hadn't even realised I had walked into another room while I was busy reliving my memories.

I decided that it was time to leave. I couldn't explain why I felt that way - maybe my subconscious was telling me that I had already retrieved all of the memories I could.

I walked down the staircase and went to the road outside. An ambulance swung right in front of me, a loud, wailing, nervous hunk of metal. The red lights grew brighter and brighter and the shrill wail of the siren somehow seemed to make the blood in my ears pulsate.

Past memories: The Event

I gripped the conical flask and emptied its contents into beaker. I then hurriedly immersed the beaker into an ice bath, waiting for a white mass to form. The white mass was then spooned out, left to dry and packed into a plastic zip-loc. I turned around and knocked over a lamp, which crashed into a box.

Suddenly there was an explosion that knocked the breath out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for air. I heard the sound of glass shattering and a hiss as a gas canister decompressed. I fought to stay awake and tried taking in deep breaths. Every breath was like a knife scraping along my lungs. My vision constricted and my arms felt heavier and heavier.

I woke up about an hour later. As I struggled to get up, I realised that my right arm was pinned below someone's body. Her flesh felt abnormally cold.

I heard the repetitive wail of an ambulance taper off as the machine halted in front of the house. I felt the pressure on my right arm easing. It was only then that I became aware of the fact that my neck was throbbing. A hollow sound filled my ears and my sight darkened. I did not know what happened next.