Salty Rants

Uhm, Can You Not? (Hi skool)

With a steady, unlabored breathing, I observe the flames dance in the fireplace as I lazily stroke Mr. Fluffles. It's comforting running my fingers through his silky coat, it soothes my aching joints and trickles warmth into the frosted crevices of my chest, where a beating heart used to reside. Now, in its place, there is only a frozen lump, incapable of feeling anything other than apathy. In my skull, there is nothing but a nugget of coal, as worthless as the ashes left behind by the fire.

I continue petting the cat. My hand traces and retraces the path up its spine almost obsessively; I'm afraid that if I stop for even a second, I may forget the action. Other than the sporadic crackling of the flames and the creature's purrs of contentment, the living-room is shrouded in a long-awaited silence, unburdened by the voices containing pointless facts and information. Goosebumps break out along my skin as my mind subsequently wanders to the torture of the past few weeks. I've had to complete nine exams: three for Economics, two for English, French, and Math.

At times, the end of high school felt like a mirage, hidden behind a haze of hasty revisions, insomnia, and manical laughter. Now that it's a reality, there is a void where my soul used to be, an emptiness which seems to expand with each passing day.

After finals came formal (prom) and after formal came graduation day. I've been accepted to the university of my dreams, so what is the purpose of my life now?

I lift my hand and pat Mr. Fluffles twice on the butt. After a tired miaowww he opens his eyes and stretches, digging his sharp claws into the flesh of my thigh. Before, I would've cursed and batted him away, but now, I feel nothing. Even the pain is a distant memory. He miaows again—probably disgruntled by the disturbance—and hops onto the moquette, sauntering away without so much of a glance.

I am abandoned to solitude, mummified in a sitting position and with a fire halfway through its mortal life, but not without a purpose. It didn't take long for me to find one more fulfilling than the last.

I lean forwards and reach underneath my armchair—with a grace which rivals Mr. Fluffles', I pull out my high school year book and cradle it in my hands.

The moment I open it, the fire goes out, plunging the room into darkness.

I begin turning the pages, disregarding the lack of visibility because I know exactly where each and every red 'X' is, over whose photo it belongs to. The crosses are intermittent for the best part of the yearbook, but when I get to the end, to the final grade, that's when things take a turn for the horrifying.

Twenty down. All random, scattered over the two pages like their body parts around the state.

With a smirk on my face, I stick my index finger in the air and twirl it in a circle. Who will my next victim be? I wonder.

I bring down my finger and when it lands on the page, the fireplace lights up again.

You.