To The Place I Belong

ETHAN

“What?” I asked out aloud shocked. “How?”

I couldn’t grasp it well. No this can’t be true.
The corridor was buzzing with the news. People had bundled up in groups and no single person was found standing alone. The bell rang and the students refused to move into their classes.
“Man, what is happening?” said Isabel in a low tone. “No, but what issues could he have with someone?”

A notice had been hung up on the soft board :
Prayer service tomorrow at 11 am.
Students are to assemble without delay and preferably wear black.
Our deepest condolences for Michael Stallion’s family.

“They had it on paper today, after all he was the son of that rich bastard industrialist.” Said Isabel with little respect towards Mr. Stallion. George and Ben stared at Isabel in disbelief.
“What?” she said. “Sorry for the language but believe me I don’t have any respect for the Stallions. Mr Stallion was always involved in some scandals and so was his son. Dude, am sorry for Michael but-”
“Alright shut up” snapped Ben.
Ben passed me today’s newspaper, the headline of which read:
Suicide or Murder?
They had put it so well, I’ll tell you what these reporters no exactly what sort of a spice people want.
“Clearly it was a murder” Ben said echoing my thoughts. “I heard a group say that he had been stabbed repeatedly all over the body.”
“All over the body?” I flinched, “Damn that’s a brutal murder.”
“Yes, or maybe he was stabbed by a gang of different people at different places when he tried to resist.” Said George.
“Oh you guys, then why is it headlined suicide or murder?” asked Isabel disinterested and playing with her nails.
“Honestly? Do you even read the newspaper Isabel?” said George irritated.
“No, well then enlighten me.” Said Isabel folding her arms.
“They said that maybe few minutes before the murder, Michael had taken pills-sleeping pills, more than needed. They found out from the post mortem report. That’s why they are trying to guess that he must have tried to commit  suicide, for someone must have been threatening him. But he seems to have been murdered even before the pills could give him a painless death.”
“Oh” said Isabel frowning now, “that is terrible.”
“Oh well, we have been speaking gibberish then” said Ben.
“Shut up!”
All classes had been suspended today and the next day, so we all went home, thriving on theories of murder. It was the most ghastly news I had heard in months.
I wondered where Sylvia and Myra had been and just then I saw Myra. She came by and kissed Ben. Finally those two had made up then and now are together. I felt bad for Eric, though the reason why, wasn’t that clear to  me.
“Where’s Sylvia?” I asked Myra.
“She had a migraine pain.”
“Oh” I mouthed.
“Bye guys, you all coming to the prayer service right?” she asked waving at us.
“Yes, for sure” we answered in unison.
Funerals and prayer service are the last place I want to be at. They made me sick.
I don’t know if it were only me, but I get a sickening smell at funerals that makes me want to puke. When Uncle Tom died while I was thirteen, I had to attend his funeral but that made me skip meals for two days in a row.

While driving back home, in Ben’s car, I suddenly wanted to see Sylvia. Badly. I don’t know what made me feel this way, but I really did want to see her. So when I returned, I decided to visit Sylvia. I didn’t wait for our usual 3:30p.m schedule. It was around 10 a.m.

The look on her face drove me crazy.
“Are you alright? At all? Don’t say yes. It doesn’t seem like that” I blurted out impatiently. Jane wasn’t at home. Her governess job kept her outside almost all throughout the day.
“Actually, it’s these death news, all around. Nothing much. I had a migraine attack.” She said while shoving me inside. Her words seemed so sparse and in disjunction. Some how I felt she was putting up great effort to speak in complete sentences.
“Dude, you really need to get yourself some healthy food and sleep”
“Oh yes, I will…” she lingered on the last part for a while. “I will.”
“Tell me something did you take your breakfast?” I asked seeing the immaculate table and kitchen.
“No, I don’t feel like having anything.”
“Oh my god, you don’t seem to be in good health. Why are you skipping food?”
“I don’t feel like” she repeated with disinterest. Her eyes seemed so lost, so lost that it might never return. She talked vaguely, in bits, and pieces, gathering short words like food particles on a left over plate and then pushing them in my way.
“What is the matter with you?”
“I-I am fine, just a bit tired.”
“Listen I think you should visit your therapist once.”
She was silent.
She turned away her face and never spoke another word until we left the house, and that too, on being provoked.