domoarigato206

I arrive to class on time. My watch must be off. As I walk into the silent classroom, every head looks up as the door closes behind me. I freeze and glance around the room. All the boys, a little more than half the class, have close-cropped hair that shies away from their ears. They sport grey sweaters and black slacks, displaying the Red Sash on their right arms, above the elbow. The girls’ sweater-vests and skirts are much the same, the only exception being they donned the sash as a scarf around their prim little necks. There is a pencil in every hand. Light in every soulless eye. Damn.

Some dick-wad in the back snickers. Several others follow suit.

Mrs. Fork glares at me from behind dirty lenses. She is hunkered down behind a mahogany desk, extravagantly carved, fifteen feet in front of me. There are papers and pens muddled about on top of the desk, with her nameplate at the very center in big, bold letters: MRS. FORK. There is a window with bars in place of blinds behind her, the only one in the room. It’s cloudy outside.

She’s the word bulging personified. I imagine the redness and gouges that her skin must be afflicted with, since her military influenced uniform constricts her body, like rubber-bands wound around a balloon filled with sand. Several lumpy mounds protrude from the heftier areas of her figure. Easily three-hundred pounds.

She struggles and succeeds to uproot herself from her commodious ass-bed. The chair farts as she gets up, enjoying its relief. Her abused strawberry-blonde hair sticks out from behind her ears, as if trying to escape what’s in that ugly mug. It shimmers with unwashed grease. She fingers her glasses back onto her nose and cerebrally signals her right ham of a leg to start towards me. Damnit. Not again.

“Mr. Faga,” she squeals.

I hate my last name. The same dick-wads snicker.

“Do you know what time it is?”

I humbly hold my hands behind my back. I know better than to try and come up with an excuse.
“Yes ma’am.” I manage weakly. It’s 0910.

“Do you know what today is, Mr. Faga?” she over pronounces my name, moving ever closer. What today is? It’s Thursday, I think.

I look down at my boots. The soles are damaged on both of them and there is a hole forming on the right one. Neither of the laces is tied. “Yes ma’am.” I say, even weaker than before.

As she walks by the desk in the front of the classroom, she picks up the yard stick that is lying ominously by itself. Damn.

“And what day is it Mr. Faga!” she screeches, flinging spittle that lands so very close to me. I look up slightly.

“Thursday, ma-“ she cuts me off like a guillotine.

“That’s correct, Mr. Faga, it is Thursday. And do you know what is so special about this Thursday, Mr. Faga?”

I don’t. She takes a final step, standing in front of me, the yard stick gripped tightly in her fat hand. I manage to bring myself to look her in her hard, blue eyes. Tears fill up in mine. Goddamn.

“No ma’am.” The lump in my throat makes it hard to get those two words out.

She brings her fists to her hips, matter-of-factly. The weight of the fat on her arms drags her skin downwards and covers her elbows. The yardstick juts out in my direction, inches from my chest. I imagine turning around and bolting out of the room. There is no way her legs could’ve carried her fast enough. I could probably even make it past the Monitors, outside into the school yard. From there where could I go? I couldn’t jump the chain-link fence cause of the cutter wire stretched across the top plus the voltage. At this point I would have an unknown amount of pursuers on my-. Movement.

Intense pain on the left side of my face. It shoots from my jaw to behind my ear, which is ringing a familiar tune. I’m looking, somewhat blurred, at the point where the floor meets the wall. There are a line of ants disappearing into a small hole. Some are carrying bits of chalk in their mandibles. They ignore me and continue with their work. I attempt to get up and am greeted with a whoosh of air and a cutting attack on my side, that spot where the ribs end and the fleshy kidney area begins. Air escapes my lungs in a feeble sounding rasp. Suddenly, heavy weight, accompanied by the hardened sole of a combat boot, is pressed down upon my back, making it even more a struggle to regain my breath. My side is screaming. I just lay there, gasping.

“Class, Mr. Faga doesn’t know why today is so special. What a stupid boy. You are so stupid. You of all people should know what today is. Do you know why today is so special class, especially for Mr. Faga?” She digs her poundage deeper into my back with every mention of my name. I feel blood trickling down my swollen cheek. My mind races to find any answer of why this is happening. It’s not because I was late. That would only have gotten me sent to the principle.

Why?
Why?
Why?

Realization. Oh no. Oh, God no.

“It’s his birthday! His birthday! His birthday!” The class chants this in perfect unison. Rehearsed unison. Hive-mind unison.

“How could he forget his birthday?” questions Mrs. Fork, like she doesn’t know.

Easy. I never wanted to be born.

The class answers her, honesty in there voices.

“He’s a stupid boy! A stupid boy, a retard, a FUCKING REJECT! A stupid boy, a retard, a FUCKING REJECT! RE-JECT! RE-JECT!”

They chant until Mrs. Fork jovially quiets them down with a laugh and a “Now, now” line. The ants had seemed to stop their transit and were facing towards me, their feelers probing my direction. Their movements almost looked like laughter. I focus on the ants. I am numb of all emotion. Except one. I can barely sense it, like it’s lost, trapped somewhere shouting, raging for someone to find it. I do, and hold on to it.

“Ha, class, you couldn’t be more correct. Our dear Mr. Faga here is indeed stupid. I could show you his test scores if you would like.”

I score the highest in the class.

“Show us! Show us!” they purr, like lions at milk.

“Oh, how I would love to my children, but I’m so disgusted with his failure that I burn all his school work after I grade it.” She lifts her tremendous weight from my back and slams her combat boot down again, to the enthused amusement of my classmates. Exquisite pain flares in my spine. Tears and blood drip from my face, coalescing with dirt on the floor into a viscous looking stew. Not a sound escapes me save for the wheezing of air from my lungs. Rapid applause reaches my ear. The ants feel out and start drinking from my body’s mire, ever expanding towards the wall.

“And why, precious children, is his birthday so important. More so, for him to remember it?” Mrs. Fork’s question invokes immediate response.

“Because he isn’t natural. He’s a freak! An accident! Only by Mercy is he here!”

I picture them now: little hands gripped in violent strain onto the edges of their desks, eyes twitching, feeding on the sight of me being grounded into beef by this bitch of a butcher, legs vibrating swiftly beneath the desks, biting their cheeks, brandishing red smirks as they lick their lips in anticipation of my inevitable slaughter, and, at the same time, lamenting behind that crazed mask. They are just children after all. Yeah right.

I know why my birthday is so important. I just needed to be reminded. Nothing like a good three-hundred pound kick in the back as a refresher. It’s not like I forgot, not really. I tend to block out things that cause physical harm, and that’s one of them. I’m only reminded of it once a year so it’s not that hard to suppress. I’m not natural. Not anymore at least. I am a freak. I don’t bite my toe-nails or anything like that. In fact when I walked into this room I looked much like any other boy in the room. My Red Sash tied proudly round my arm. Now my head is gushing blood and I’m crying and ants are feeding from my fluids. And I am critically reminded of one fact. I am one of the last humans to be born.

I drown out Mrs. Fork’s yearly speech. More laughter and applause. I ignore the pain in my head, side, and back. More kicking. I push my awareness to that emotion I never knew I had. It feels so familiar and foreign at the same time. I embrace it, welcome the heat that it gives off, the power it commands. And I give myself to it, splitting into what seems a million versions of myself. All are getting kicked. I switch focus to one of the ravenous selves, aware that the others are watching, and on one of the thirsty little ants, maybe four inches away from me. The insect is drinking methodically, its brothers crawling over him to get a better taste. I reach out with the emotion full force, and touch the ant. He looks up at me, antennae probing at the air. He feels it! I zero in on his head with the energy inside me and dig it into the floor. He squirms in my descent and sadness, drowning, and I push harder, forcing his meager ant brains out of his exo-skull. I vaguely feel a boot smashing into the back of my own crown and my last thought, screaming from every one of me, is that we would like to die now.

HeatherLee

wow this was very interesting. you have a unique way of describing the scene and the characters in it. for instance when you described Mrs. Forks fat above her elbow, i knew exactly what you were talking about but i have never seen anyone try to describe that trait in someone. really really good job and i hope that you are continuing on with this story because i am curious as to how it turns out.

~Heather

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Favorite Quote (for now):
"Cause' every pane of glass that your pebble taps negates the pains I went through to avoid you." -FOB

Rowan Hart

I'm enthralled. Tell me more. Please! Can't really offer any critique as I just read the story and enjoyed it. Well paced, engaging, intense without being overwhealming. Kudos, keep it up.

domoarigato206

Hey, thanks for the support guys. I will keep writing based on the responses I get.

A-L

I read the second part first somehow, but i really enjoyed this one A LOT really amazing descriptions, keep on posting!