UNNATURAL INFATUATION AND OTHER STORIES

UNNATURAL INFATUATION

 I had known the future; would I have still taken the plunge?

Probably no . . . and a little bit of yes?

My eyes, or should I say 'eye'—when opened because of a sharp stinging pain—did not see the usual classroom. There was a stinging sensation around my right eye as my fingers traced over the cover preventing me from using that eye's vision. The soft yet woolly feel of cotton bandage felt surreal. I blinked as my fingers traced my whole face—the wounds covered in bandages hurt like a fresh batch of cookies on the ground.

Where was I?

The pastel green walls mixed with a tinge of white were replaced by a complete white room, everything was white, not to my liking—I'd say. There were machines—I occasionally saw in television dramas—were surrounding me, instead of petrified students. The loud, annoying screams of terrors seemed like a distant dream now.

I might be a kid with 'weak memory'—as my teachers would tell Mrs. Jenkins during monthly parents-teachers meetings, but I was well aware of the fact that I had been standing in the middle of the classroom—anger rushing all over me as I stood there, eyeing everyone like a predator. But was I a predator?

Or was I hurt?

I needed someone to tell me what I was feeling at that moment, because I could not understand the waves of emotion hurting my head.

"You're awake, young man."

I waited with anticipation, yet the source of the voice did not materialise in front of me until a few minutes later. The white curtains covering me was swiftly moved away, revealing an old man—probably in the last quarter of his life—smiling at me, a clipboard in his hand. The folds on his face and the round pair of glasses resting atop his nose bridge gave him a rather intimidating look, despite smiling at me.

I nodded curtly, following him as he sat on the metal chair beside the bed—his face dangerously close to me. "Do you remember anything?" he asked; his finger touching the areas around the wounds on my face, then he resorted to scribble something onto the paper.

Did I remember anything?

I did.

But what's the point of telling him?

I was already disowned by our Gods, as Ms. Jenkins said, "humans like you will never achieve heaven."

I guessed; hell was better with people like me around.

"No . . . I don't."

"Alright." The man said getting up with a grunt—his old age showing. "Nurse Ju will come to check on you every other minute. Eat well and take ample amount of rest. The police might come later, so be ready with your share of the story." There was a sense of empathy in his last words. I nodded again. He gave me a curt smile as if he was used to seeing people like me around, before he disappeared behind the curtains.

"H-how is Illay?"

The man just smiled as if he wanted to keep Illay's condition a secret. He reassuringly tapped my shoulder, "you need to worry about yourself."

A few months ago, when the shelter had reopened after the summer break, I had seen the most beautiful face.

It was a scorching mid-July afternoon. The air shimmered with heat, broken only by sporadic breezes that provided brief respite from the sun's relentless blaze. Outside the window, the sky extended in an unbroken expanse of vivid blue, with lazy, fluffy white clouds drifting by like idle daydreams. The sunlight gleamed against the windowpanes, casting stark, intricate shadows over his bare face, highlighting the contrast between the bright light and the cool, dim interior of the room.