Project Nebula

To Live When I Ended

The hallways were empty. Quiet. Or that's how I imagined. I hardly remember. I sat in the teachers' lounge, coffee mug in my hand, and about hundreds of student journalists surrounding me. How did I end up here?

An exhausting Wednesday afternoon, I walked into my Literature class, eyes locked on the tiles below my feet. I felt isolated from my surroundings. Where was I going? Opening the door, another student shoved me out the way. Hands in his pockets, hair perfectly groomed and out of his face. A smirk crossed his face.

"He popped him!" he exclaimed, "He looked like a goddamn rat!"

"Woah, what?" one of his minions gasped. Soon, everyone crowded his desk to hear this true story. But I didn't believe him. Not an over sensationalized situation only he saw. He propped his feet up on the desk, leaning back in his chair while students caressed his gorgeous hair and hovering over his $800 phone.

And there I was, hunched over, hair in my face, pupils getting smaller every time a student asked who is that? What's their last name? I knew it wasn't real. And Helix knew it, too. The bell rung, and I was the first to leave the room. Speeding down the mathematics hallway, I slowed down once I crossed the mens' restroom. Curious, I opened the door. Nothing but the flickering of the cheap lights. Tangled in my head was the question did that actually happen? Fights happen on the regular at my school. Right as I touched the door handle to exit, I heard muffled gargling from the biggest stall, with a sink and toilet. I quietly stalked pass the mirrors and the other stalls. White and black sneakers peaked from under the door. I knocked on the door. Nothing but a moan. I crawled under the door, holding my breath just in case he was actually just tying his shoes or something.

His oily black hair and pale skin sent a shock to my gut. His shirt pulled over his face make my heart burst. Thick, dark blood drenched everything. That killed me.

"No. . . this isn't real. . ." I pried his eyelid open with my fingers, "Can you hear me?"

"Why didn't you stop him?" the boy labored. His eyes closed and skin felt cold. Like an hand stitched ragdoll, he fell over, head colliding with the tiles. Blood stained my hands. Suddenly, my eyes opened. I was awake. Still in the same spot next to the boy. Still a mess. Somehow, the colors and lights around me, I noticed. My own body, I could move. I felt it was mine. These hands are mine, I thought.

Routy football players stormed into the bathroom like a herd of giant buffalo. I washed my hands in the sink already in the stall,and slipped through them like an ant traveling through grass. The question and my brain marry. The question was a perfect description of everything prior: why didn't I stop—anything?

That same night, I laid on my couch, scrolling through articles and excerpts. Anything with the word "murder" in the title. Nothing about a teenager or a high school. I heard a light knock at the door. Blood drained from my face. A knock at my door who isn't a relative or delivery guy? I opened it. It was Xander. Assistant student body president. His eyes pierced my own. He held a poster rolled up and tied with several bands.

"Peirson, the staff—"

"Peirson? I'm Castor!" I corrected him.

"You look nothing like Castor," Xander reubuttled, "Castor doesn't talk."

He invited himself inside and plopped on the couch. He unraveled the poster, which was an advertisement for the election of student body president. Peirson's name was on it. Peirson Ralston. I sat next to Xander, hunched and hands in fists. Legs crossed and licking my lips, constantly. Like a little girl meeting the lead of a boy band.

Wanting to stroke my ego, I asked, "What do you think about Castor?"

"Never saw his face; it was kind of a hazy childhood memory," he joked, "But I liked him okay."