An Assassin's Death Wish

Another Hellish Day

How many days till I die? How much torture till mercy arrives? Why is my life a horrible tale of never-ending pain and suffering? How much longer till the curtains are closed or "The End" is written? Why can't I just open the vein or swallow the pills? What's holding me back me?

Those are just a few questions that roll though my head on a daily basis. Sure, they're a bit dark to any normal and sane person, but to me they're the only sane part left. Those thoughts and many similar to them whip through my head constantly, and they lead to violent daydreams that all end with my death. Even violent and painfully slow deaths are merciful from the agony of daily life.

Why do I hate life so much? Good question. I'll give you the brief explanation: I have no more shits to give, I hate my overly preppy family, and I absolutely, 100 percent, loathe my basic, uneventful life. I want some excitement! Adventure! living vicariously through fictional characters is no longer enough. I want to experience it first hand. I just don't have the guts to actually go do something. Plus there are no monsters in this world, so venturing out into the woods is pointless.

But do you know what's even more pointless than that? School. Without the motivation to do well and work for a future or some other dumb bullshit reason (parents threats? Fear of truancy?), there is no real reason to do well... or even attend. I'm not gonna attend college so I don't give a shit! Parents nor laws can make me go! 

After twenty minutes of moping, I manage to convince myself to roll out of the warmth of the covers. Glancing up, I see the numbers 9:17. Welp... It's almost the end of first period, so I might as well take my time getting ready. Hopefully Varian made some excuse to Ms. Sharcofsky, he usually does or at least I think he does since she's never bothered me about being late and I'm usually marked as present. 

Not bothering with the struggle of makeup, I pull my dark green sweatshirt on. As the material shifts to cover my ripped black denim shorts, I gather my school junk in one bag and skate equipment for after school in a duffel. I meander down the stairs, listening to see if my parents are still home. A little smile escapes onto my lips when I realize they'd already left for their oh so entertaing jobs that consist of nothing but paperwork.

Moving the slightest bit faster, I blend a smoothie while yanking on my black converse high tops that I had drawn a pentagram on the sides of. After dumping the purplish liquid into a lidded black cup, I start to sip my breakfast as I walk out of the door with my bags. I pull the keys to my glimmering red 1959 Ford Thunderbird out of my shallow pockets. I unlocked the car with no difficulty and instinctively put my skate bag in the back seat and my backpack in the front seat. Instead of hearing the sweet sound of the  engine roaring to life, I hear a clattering sound as the engine runs. I sigh as I speed towards the Brickfield High.

 I push the speed limit not because I'm excited to reach school (because I can think of a billion other things I'd rather do than that), but because I love the adrenaline rush that comes with doing double the allowed speed. I like to believe that speed limits are just a suggestion, mostly because there is now better feeling than sticking my arms or head out the window while zipping down the deserted roads. I speed past Mr. Abascal waving gleefully as I see him nod back at me. 

Aspen Abascal's dad is the County Chief at the station so, being best friends with the chief's daughter and practically part of their family, I get some... special privileges. All the cops know not to interfere with any shenanigans Aspen, Varian or I pull or else Mr. Abascal will make them regret every single life decision they have ever made. He's a very kind man until you cross him. 

I soon arrive at the small school and sharply turn into my spot in the autoshop parking lot. Most people think you can't park quickly and in the lines, but I can and always do. Some energetic freshmen surround my car, but I quickly get them to leave with threats. I allow few people to even touch the damn thing so what makes these dumb pests think I would dare to let them fix it?

As I enter the garage I wave to Mr. Marley, while shouting, "Hey, Marley-man!" 

The mid-twenties man turns and replies back, "I told you to quit it with that name, Morana!" Seeing me scowl after the use of my full name, he tries to cheer me up by continuing with, "I already marked you present even though your fifteen minutes late. Just get in your jumpsuit and I'll give you an A if you fix that damn rattling sound coming from your car."

He high-fives me as I pass, "I'll have it fixed in a jiffy, Marley. Thanks for keeping the underclassmen out of my spot while I had a sleep emergency."

"I didn't tell them shit. They already know that if they so much as touch your spot or car without permission, ever state policeman will surround them with guns."

I strip off the hodie and zip up my dark navy suit over my grey tank top, while confirming that very accurate statement. Then, while jogging back to my Thunderbird, I pull out my tools. After propping the red hood I immediately see the problem. Someone had buried flowers taped to what looked like a small metal capsule in my car. The flowers were now smoking from being slightly burnt and all of it was slippery since it was covered in oil. After lifting the once white flowers out of the Ford, I carried them over to Mr. Marley, while pocketing the capsule. 

"You can't bribe me with flowers to get an A, and especially not with those limpy ones."

I rolled my eyes dramatically before responding, "I know that, and just for the record if I was going to bribe you I'd do it with those chocolate nuts you're always snacking on. Anyways this was in my car with this." I pulled out the metal thing and showed him.

"Good job!" He sounded happy but it was no surprise to him that I had solved the case of the rattling noise. "Congrats, you yet again have an A in this class."

"The only class I have an A in..." I muttered.

He continued on, not hearing my almost silent remark. "Since you've finished early you get three prizes. One: you get to throw those flowers and whatever that metal is away. Two: ten minutes of peace to finish whatever breakfast you brought today. And lastly, three: you get the pleasure of bringing in and distributing the jumpsuits to the newbies. The boxes are stacked by my desk for when you're ready."

Three was not a prize. It's a punishment. Mr. Marley knew how I get about this task too since I had groaned quite loud when he assigned it. 

He clapped me on the shoulder, "Sorry, Mora, but it's gotta be done and you're not busy." I pouted at him as he walked toward a sophomore in need of help. "If it makes you feel any better you can take a soda from the fridge while you're opening the boxes."

The thought of soda made me feel slightly better about this task. While walking back to the car I let my thoughts wander. Who the hell puts flowers in a persons car? What kinda flower is it anyway?  

When I got to the car, I put the car saboteurs in a pocket of my black school bag, and start to dread the rest of the day. I looked at my cup and muttered, "I seriously wish I had blended some vodka into you."