Don't Fear the Reaper

Don't Fear the Reaper: Chapter Five

Chapter Five

He sat at his table, at the back of the class. Paper planes were thrown all around him, classic rock music was blaring through the speakers of a walkman belonging to the popular kid in class. A few girls were huddled up near the window, passing comments about everything they saw, gossiping away to their heart’s content.

“Hi, Eric,” a familiar voice called him.

He looked up from the paper he was scribbling on. Clarisse was looking over his shoulder with interest, arms crossed at her back, and a lovely smile fixed on her face, showing off dimples.

“Hey,” he responded.

Clarisse would grow up to a successful actress, he knew. She’d marry the man of her dreams and live the fairy tale life most would die for.

As long as she wasn’t dying anytime soon, she was the least of his bother.

“There’s the annual dance this week,” she informed. After a split second’s of hesitation, she spoke up once more. “Would you like to be my partner?”

“I won’t show up,” he told her.

Her face fell. “Why not?”

“I don’t dance,” he said simply.

                Regardless of always confining himself to the back of the class, he could tell that his classmates loved him. It was something he could never reciprocate, let alone care to reciprocate. He almost felt sorry for them.

If only they knew. Their reactions would’ve been priceless.

Sighing, Clarisse went and joined the girls near the window.

He still had about five more minutes till he was off to work. Taking a pen, he absently began drawing something at the back of his palm.

Once he was done, it had become a sketch of a six-pointed pentagram, which looked like it was engraved on his skin.

It was time.

                Taking the satchel over his shoulder, he made a beeline for the door.

“Tell Mr. Greene I’m in the sick room,” he called out to Loren, the one with the walkman.

“Eric!” Loren called out, but he’d already exited.

He made his way through the dusty field of the school, and stopped once he reached the basketball court. A few jocks were practicing, with mock one-on-one games.

He scanned the adjacent building of the middle school section: the one that was the high school section. Adjusting his vision, he focused on the fourth storey.

There he was, standing on the railing of the balcony. A boy of seventeen, arms slumped, expression depressed, looking down at the view from his height. He was tired, tired of life without a purpose.

Humans are so petty, he thought. If the boy was patient enough to wait a little longer, he would find purpose.

But he was no one to stop the suicide. He was here to clean up after it was done.

“Hey, Eric,” one of the jocks called out to him, “What’re you looking at?”

                That was when the boy let himself fall.

A series of shouts erupted from the basketball players.

They ran forward, and one asked the other, “Eric was watching the whole time! Where is he?”