The Anathema

Chapter 1: Are You Psychotic?

"Are you okay?" A classmate leans over, seat creaking, and puts his hand on my shoulder. Other classmates glance over, peeking from behind their books. Some make eye contact before quickly looking away. They've never shown such interest in me before. Never.

"Why shouldn't I be?" I ask, bitterness coating my tongue. Now they act like they care. Before all of this I was invisible to them. My classmates slowly turn their bodies to face mine, this time not bothering to break eye contact.

"Your brother...passed...away..." His voice becomes softer and softer with each word, as if each word would cause the entire classroom to crumble.

"And...your point is?" I say, casually flipping through the pages of my book, one of which is the story I'm not even following. School forces us to read a book every morning. They claim it's good for our 'education'. I think they just didn't know what to do with the empty slot in the morning. They can't possibly fill up the time with more lessons because not everyone is here yet. And they want us to shut up. So they force us to read books.

I pretend to glide my fingers across the page, graceful as a swan. 'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.' I raise an eyebrow, confused. Death isn't alive. This is why I just don't get storybooks.

His hand slips off my shoulder, bringing me back to the classroom I'm in. I forgot that he's still here. What did he ask me again?

"Are you...psychotic?" He whispers, his voice barely audible. I'm amazed to have caught the last word. The chairs moan, my other classmates are now on the edge of their seats. I shrug.

"Maybe," I reply, not wanting to give him any satisfaction from an answer. Who in the right mind would answer that anyway? I lick my thumb and flip to the next page, for the fun of it.

At my words, all eyes seem to shrink in horror, and my classmates hurriedly duck their heads behind their books, scooting their chairs as close to their tables as possible, giving them the illusion of security. I can easily pull their tables away from them, it doesn't protect them one bit. You'd think, from their reactions, that I just announced I have a contagious disease.

"I'm just tired," The words roll off my tongue with ease, because it's true. I'm tired of all of this. What the hell do they expect me to say? What do they want me to feel? Sad? Angry? Happy? I feel nothing. I don't feel. I don't feel anything at all. It's hard to feel something. It's hard to feel anything, when I haven't felt in a long time. Perhaps someone came along and stole my heart in my sleep, like Traffy. Because the spot where my heart is supposed to be rings hollow. It's empty. Sometimes I'm shocked when I feel my heart beating in my veins. Sometimes I'm surprised I'm here and still breathing. An empty void. That's all I am. I'm not even alive.

"Okay, if you say so," he says, nose scrunching so tight that the wrinkles are as clear as the lines on a piece of paper. His eyes spew a mixture of fear and judgement. Although my classmates have their backs on me, I can still feel the same fear radiating off them, bouncing off the walls. It feels like I'm sitting alone in this classroom, my table isolated, and all eyes in the air above, watching me. Watching my every move.

Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe it's not true that they're all avoiding me, stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with me. But I don't know. I can't care less.

The reddish, purplish spots crawling up my neck and arms start to prickle and burn, protesting at the unfair judgement of my classmates, demanding for justice. I unconsciously pick at the skin, popping a few blisters. The wounds are raw and redder than ever.

It's so unfair. A tiny voice says. Why does everyone want you to love someone you so desperately hate?

"They don't know," I mutter back. " They couldn't possibly understand, ever."

Which is true. They don't. And they never will. 

Because all they see is that someone supposed to be close to me died. He was my relative in their eyes. He was my sibling. All they ever seem to do is assume. Assume, assume, assume. Disgusting. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of it all. The looks of pity in the halls. The constant questions coming my way. As if I am glass, fragile, about to break at any given moment. As if I loved him. 

So I glare at the walls closing in on me, as if my piercing gaze can push them back, miles away, far out of reach. If only I could tear these walls apart. Rip this living hell to shreds.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I do feel mad. Feel mad at the world that I'm in. I don't care which being put me here, God, science, whatever. I hate being here. If hell is real I don't know why they bother creating it. Just leave the people behind here. That's hell enough.

I stand up, and all eyes are on me again. I can punch all of them. I can turn all the tables. I can burn the school down.

Instead, I tug at the ends of my jacket, pull my hoodie over my head, and walk out of class. Hiding the secrets that I've always hidden.

...

"I...I'm sorry..." she coughs blood between words, choking. Sorry? The tiny voice says. Sorry? How dare she. She thinks she can compensate for everything she has done with just a sorry? The flames in the pit of my stomach build up higher and higher. Why am I so angry? Her glassy, grey eyes that are always black holes search to find mine. What once was so lacking in any emotion is now brimming with fear. Good. The voice growls. She deserves it. Does she really? Does she really deserve it?

"Please..." she whimpers, rubbing her palms together. I scan her torn clothes, ragged hair and the mess around us. Tables overturned, papers scattered, cigarette buds smashed into the floor. Then I look back at her. Her hands are still rubbing vigorously like she's trying to say a silent prayer. Hoping that prayer will save her. Even though she has never been religious her entire life. Maybe people turn to being they aren't even sure exist, only when a crisis occurs. A crisis that only a higher being could stop, with a miracle. Then her eyes raise the same time mine do. The grey in the blue. Her pupils dilate. Still full of fear, but another unidentifiable emotion is fronting. My fingers loosen, the knife dangling dangerously by my side. She breathes in, and seems to have gained some resolve.

"********" I see her mouth move. But strangely, my ears temporarily blocked out the noise. The ringing in my ears overtook, and I can't make out a single thing she said. My mind did not take in anything. I know what she said, but I don't. They are too foreign for me to comprehend. I stumble back a few steps, not sure what to believe anymore. My heart screams it's true, my mind hollers it's not. It's a lie. My mind thinks. It's the truth. My heart claims. What should I believe?

It's a lie. The voice decides for me. Like an angel sitting on my right shoulder, guiding me to the light. It's all a lie. Foolish tears stain my cheek. How did I even stop for a second to consider what she had said was true? How ludicrous is that? I stare at her smiling face. Gentle, kind, and warm. With the slight fear still written in her eyes.

My hand trembles, my heart wavering. My determination wavering. It's not true. The voice said so. My mind says so. So it must not be true. Remember it. Remember it all. She's a liar. The voice hissed into my ear, and I can feel the air tickling my eardrum. It's all a lie. She doesn't love me. My face hardens. My hand re-clamps around the plastic handle. Her eyes widen in fear, swivelling from the knife to my face. She knows she has lost. She knows there is no more hope for her. Her lower lip quivers and she presses herself against the wall. She's a liar! She dares! How dare she!

In my mind's eye, memories flash clearly before me. The burnt, hard rice before us. The empty plates in the morning. Her cigarettes pressed deep into my skin. Her fist raised above me.  

"Liar!" I bellow, voice reverberating throughout the room, eyes spilling tears. How could she? How could she make me believe her? Let me take over. Let me kill her.

Let me get revenge for all that she has done.

"I believed you," I say, sorrow embedded in the lines of my face.

My eyes flash red.