~Original Short Stories written by Austere Moonrain~
The village of Hakoda suffered rain showers for almost everyday. The rain never was violent nor frail, yet it was enough to create depressing floods on the village.
Enigmatically, a man named "Bl...
Once, an ample elementary teacher charged me of an enchantingly endless courage. In each school day, she reminded me of how pride goes bastardization due to the dearth of presence. Obviously, I was not able to ensnare such exotic tutelage with the small world I had. Words was just another word, and thoughts were just another minute of life. Recklessly, I trusted her bane straightway the plumps of my memories. For she asked me to do so, I was not able to contradict the fate. “Look, it's just my elementary teacher!” I believed. With the sharp blade of immaturity conceived by the waves of youth, I had detonated the bewildering curiosity and purged the path of atrociousness till the last drop. Everything for the sake of recognition, I agitated fears and converted it as bravery. My teacher praised the heaven and earth even her sarcastic gods; I was the miracle she probably had been waiting. I was naïve. The elementary teacher continued handing heralds of life. Her compelling narratives, and even the magical formulas of numbers, were her bridge to lift us abaft the firmament. A time drifted where she instructed us to invent robots capable of smiling, robots capable of living. But, what are we? Honestly, a bunch of elementary kids can't be Einstein. I grumbled, hoping that my elementary teacher will be a good teacher next time. In the middle of the cold night, I had a pellucid dream of my future self. I saw myself draped with a shredded laboratory coat, and my face signified anxiousness. Alas! My future self invented a smiling robot. But an incurable virus victimized the smiling robot. “I want to die,” The robot delivered a speech. It spoke of nothing, but the three pathetic words. Alarming, so it is, for a robot to desire a contradicting wish. I woke up from that dream, perilously gasping. I probably can't recall the whole scenario, but my shivering legs were enough to describe the shameful dream. I told my same teacher about it. She cautiously laughed, and asked me to think about the bizarre dream. “If you ever have the chance to dream the same dream, kindly ask the robot why does it wants to die.” She said. I admired the way my teacher spoke and joked. She was truly exceptional, the one who could sew the boring topic as the greatest topic ever. Even after I graduated as an elementary pupil, she was truly honored. The continuing journey, conversations lapsed with the new characters unknown to my life. They all had twitchy eyes. They uttered enthralling words I couldn't bear to underestimate. That is why, I wanted a dearly chaos. I wanted an heroic commotion. I wanted to prove what my great teacher had taught me. So, I dashed the line and darted the fields. The bravery overflowed within me and flourished around my will. Though, it didn't last long. My knees weakened, my breathe shortened. My hopes faded. They all had left me, together with solitude. In the coldest of all nights, who could had thought, I would dream of the same old dream again? The same exact scenario occurred.
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The robot spoke annoying words. It wasn't capable of living, instead, it was lazy. The robot was abandoning its purpose.“Why do you want to die?” I said. “The equivalent of life is death,” The robot answered. “That doesn't give you the right to end yourself!” Displeased with the robot's automated reply, I almost forgot I was basically having an argument with a robot. My elementary teacher once engraved the heartwarming lesson to cherish lives in any kinds of form, and I wanted to proclaim the same teaching. “That does not give you the right to create me as well.” The robot retorted. “My thoughts are your thoughts. You are my creator, and that makes you an ignoramus of the century.” I wanted to tell the robot how unfair that was, but before I could, it exploded. I woke up with a choking fire surrounding my whole bedroom. The fire was reality. The fact that I remained alive, was a joke. Terrifying scars. . . Gushing blood. . . The sore memories killed me each day. I loathed my parents who couldn't pay the bills in the hospital. I loathed my friends who did not care. I loathed my siblings who were dying as well. My determination to live dissipated joylessly. Together with my shaking feet, I tried to walk and face the vast world. How ironic of me not to realize I had lost my two feet! All that remained was my beating heart. The one that ached, a lot of times before. Wheelchair. Wheelchair kid, some youngsters insulted me. Honestly, I did not get offended. But what I didn't understood was, why am I crying? Conceal everything with passion, bury them with arrogance. Luckily, I was able to continue living. I felt like I owned the earth. Who could have thought earthquakes weren't my own possessions to begin with? My first sibling committed suicide. Back from those times where he lived, my sibling guided me in the midst of inanity. He was an instrument of light. That is why, I actually had rejoiced when he died. I can give him tons of roses on his deathbed. I would get the attention I wanted. But I didn't. I thirsted for appreciation in my whole life. It seemed like God never gave me what I should had got. Not even the requirements this human race was looking for.
Wednesday, I called my mom a dimwit. My father clobbered me away from our house. I absconded like a kamikaze without any second thought. Then the world shifted into its deepest dark color. How foolish of me to wake up having my own blood as my bed sheet? My elementary teacher. . . surprisingly sat beside me. “Why are you here?” I asked her. Bloody tears melted out of her eyes. “You died out of a car accident.” She admitted. “I died?” “Yes.” I witnessed the blinding moon above me. I witnessed how it started to grow pale. “Where's Mom, Dad. . . my brothers. . .” I mumbled. “They all had committed suicide.” My teacher said. “But. . . why?” I replied. “You asked them to do it.” She said as my blood continued to drip out of my body. “The day you graduated as my student, was the day of your death.” She started grimacing, as she held tight of my hand. “I had died as well, on the same day.”
I was a dead soul after all? That's why. That's why. “Come with me, and we shall cross the afterlife.” My teacher curved her lips downwards. “I. . . obeyed your last rule, teacher. I am not your murderer.”
Who would have thought. . . That the greatest ending I was hoping for, would end up on this way?. . .
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