Euthanasia (Kellic)

1: The Bathroom

It’s More Like My Home Than Anything, Yet I Hate It So

I'm a page torn from a book, torn and fraying at the seams. I want to let go, but there's that stupid little voice that screaming at me to do otherwise. This voice isn't real, it's no one, a nobody, nothing to me and therefore its stupid whines shouldn't affect me in anyway whatsoever. Yet they do all so much.

I don't know if it's naive, oblivious or just plain stupid; even a blind man could see that this world didn't want me. It was an upset stomach trying its best to hurl me out and that stupid little voice was trying its best to make me hold on, grip to those slimy tendrils because it was still optimistic and hopeful, whereas I had a realistic view of the world. No one cared about useless, stupid Kellin Quinn.

Everything was all educated, egotistical, money hungry, power greedy, sociopaths, building themselves up a golden pedestal on empires made out of the less fortunate’s remains. They build houses out of their bones, clambered over their tombstones, only to later chisel them into a new crown because their old one gain a scratch from the colossal weight of their ego weighing down on them. It's a tragedy really.

People wonder why we're all fucked up these days, but after hours of pondering the answer stands out rather clearly; we evolved from apes, creatures swinging from tree branches in jungle and roaming as they wished, now we're forced into this dystopian society that has rather black and white standards of what is and isn't acceptable. We were designed to be free and not office slaves to the wealthiest prick that takes enough fake pity and spare change to hire you for as long as it amuses them.

If you're at the top of the chain, however, that's a different matter entirely. You would guess that they have everything perfect, bathing in gold and sex, calling for whatever they wanted to be brought by some hired slave on a solid gold platter and then after a few days, it's perfectly fine to refuse that thing and ask for another one, sack the butler in the process, why don't they? No one's going to take pity on someone as lower class as him. He can't pay for hit men to hunt you down, so go ahead and ruin someone else's life, I mean what else is there really for entertainment these days.

I think that those at the top of the world have it the worst even, they're quite obviously mad, psychotic and practically delirious. Then there's the fact that the majority of them are sociopaths and the remaining few psychopaths. I bet they have body cupboards full of all the people that disagreed with them, yet they'll have plenty of space for me.

My head's spinning- no, the whole room is spinning. A grotty old school bathroom seems rather inappropriate, yet unconventionally fitting, because let's face it, what other place is represents how messed up the world is than the only place in high schools that they don't have security cameras. If only they knew, if only they knew what shit goes down in this hellhole.

Monday, the drug addicts migrate in from the sleet pelting off the bike sheds, because no matter how high they are, they're not too keen on the cold. Their eyes are bloodshot, but they smile at me, it seems weird how the people you expect to be the most unforgiving and antisocial can be the nicest people you've ever met, or maybe it's just the ecstasy that they just took. They always offer me to join them, but I always politely decline and they shuffle into the corner and continue to ramble deliriously as they snort and smoke substances that grew too vastly in variety for me to even comprehend learning by name. They smile and let me shuffle back into my cubicle and put my headphones in and even in their pissed state still retain the ability to lie to the bullies if they ever wander in here and ask for tips on how to snap my neck. I guess that's the closest to friendship I really get.

Tuesday, Maia Newton walks in, dragging some poor guy by his hand. Her grip is tighter than a handcuff's and believe me I'd know. The first few times, she wasn't that keen that on the fact that I practically lived in this place, but now she just accepts it and gives me a nod as she locks the cubicle behind her and the aforementioned boy. At this point, I turn my headphone up onto full blast, as it's both disrespectful and disgusting to overhear exactly what goes down just across the room, but I can make rather plausible assumptions. It somewhat concerns my how it's a new guy every week and I begin to worry if this is affecting Maia, or just her health. I don't really know why I care that much, but somehow this bloody bathroom makes all us regulars bind into some sort of weird family, I guess.

Wednesday, Davey Richards and his laptop come in. I think he loves that thing more than his girlfriend. He makes small talk, but our conversation aren't too meaningful, which is most likely due to the fact that he can't hold a conversation for longer than a minute before he incidentally ends up insulting your intelligence and lifestyle as a whole. He has a short temper and a high I.Q. which aren't really the best match, but I would consider us acquaintances and for someone who hides in a toilet for the majority of their school life, that's an achievement. I don't know why he comes in here, he says that he can hack into the Wi-Fi from some weird, dangerous spot which involves him balancing a top two urinals. He's rather eccentric and would never for the life of him, tell me what he's using this Wi-Fi for. It's probably porn.

Thursday, dorky little Timothy Asterick that year seven kid with the wonky glasses and wonkier smile trots in and perches himself on the sinks next to me, he smiles and shares his sandwich. He doesn't talk so things are very quiet, but neither of us really seem to mind the comfortable silence of sharing bread and cheese with a weird kid that's six years apart from you. I don't know if he simply prefers not to speak or he psychically can't, regardless, everyone else teases him endlessly for it. I don't know where he goes for the rest of the week, but on a Thursday this bathroom seems to be as much of his home as mine. I sometimes wonder if he considers me his friend or if I'm just this messed up seventeen year old that tolerates him as much as he tolerates me.

Fridays are empty. Fridays I'm all alone, which make Friday the perfect day. The perfect day to look at a blade and smile. It's rather sadistic, but Fridays themselves aren't they? The last day before you're free and they seem to be the most messed up. The week really likes to take the piss, doesn't it?

Sunlight streams in through the windows and I wonder if I'll really do it this time, will this be the last sunlight I'll ever see, or will I be in this same position the very next day, because in all honesty, Fridays aren't empty, Fridays, I meet with my blade.