Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult (3 page)

I stayed silent
for moment. “Maybe you are right. She is just as superficial as the
others. Nothing of substance there. Took being closer to her to
finally see her true colours.”

Macxermillio
solemnly spoke, his hands clenched together in front of his groin.
“It is such precious things that the world constantly denies from
us. Twisting and driving us under the soil they tread upon. It
forgets us and misunderstands us, judges us and reminds us we are
of no value to it. But this is not a new thing to a
deathing
but a horrid truth like death that no one ever gets used to or gets
over. I grief for you,
deathling
. And this is exactly why
you should have that lunch, we can’t be here any longer to endure
such torment even souls as hard as ours grow frail.”

For lunch I was
served my favourite meal; baked hake, fried chips, cooked spinach
with steamed carrots. As I had predicted Jay came to lunch during
last thirty minutes of the lunch period (which span form 12pm to
1pm). The dining hall sparsely populated all around but the table
where Jay and his friends and a few students from our house
regularly sat was occupied from side to side and head to tail,
except for one seat situated right next to him at the end of the
table. I put my tray there and sat next to him. Strangely I was
feeling confident and less nervous. Maybe because of the knowledge
that his demise was nigh.

“Hey, guys!” I
greeted.

They all stayed
silent as if they had not heard me.

Puzzled I
repeated, a bit louder this time. “Hey, guys!”

Still the same
treatment, the little grin I had employed this time began to
quiver.

“Guys, Sandy,
says hi,” Jay said ironically.

A few responded
with laughs.

He leered at
me. “Sandy, no one says ‘hey’ to another guy. It’s gay.”

I giggled
paradoxically. “But I always say ‘hey’! It’s a greeting. There is
nothing girly about it.”

The others
laughed. One of his cronies replied, “Say somethin’ like ‘howzit’
or something.”

“Yeah,” said
Jay, spreading his arms. “For God’s sake, Sandy, stop being a bitch
nigger for once.”

“What’s that?
What’s a bitch nigger?”

Half the table
exploded in laughter, laughter directed at me. A few voices going,
“C’mon, Sandz! Yoh, everybody knows that.”

“Sandy, you
wish you were white don’t you?” said Jay. “I’m even surprised that
you decided to sit with us today you always sit with the white
guys.”

“What do you
mean I wish I was white? I am who I am.”

“Guys, does
Sandy speak, walk and act like a real nigger?”

Half the table
replied, “No!” While the other quarter exploded in laughter... The
last quarter, bystanders mumbling under their breaths about how
rude Jay was being but lacking the balls to confront him in case
they get cauterized.

“Guys have you
heard the music that Sandy listens to?”

“No. what does
he listen to?” asked one of students at far end, seeming genuinely
curious rather than participating in the mocking.

“He listens to
that heavy metal shit. Like that devil worship kind. All you hear
when walking past his rooms is screams and squeaks. You can’t tell
what the fuck is going on. He is probably in there slashing his
wrists or some shit.”

The boys
responded with a mixture of gasps and roaring laughs. Spat drinks
and food flying everywhere. The bystanders covering their mouths
with their hands and swallowing a few giggles.

I attempted to
stop it by using shock. I rested my elbow on the table and pulled
down my sleeved to expose an array of cut marks across my left arm,
descending to my concealed upper arm. The most recent cut still
seeping. “You are right. I actually was slitting my wrists.” I
grinned widely. “Impressive isn’t it?”

Some scowled,
some flinched, some stopped chewing and some spit the food in their
mouths back into their plates. The silence swept the whole table,
everyone just staring and some gasping at its sight. Then there was
mumbling. They started looking at each other.

“That is
disgusting,” Jay said. “Put that away please.”

I defiantly
stared into his eyes. “No, let’s carry on talking. Are you gonna
tell me black people don’t do this too?”

“Sandy, please
put that away dude. We are eating here. We are asking you nicely,
okay?” said one of his cronies, his eyes watery.

I covered it up
and resumed eating my meal as if nothing had happened. I could
sense their dumbfounded glances exchanging around the table and a
select few just staring down their plates unable to shake the image
of what they had seen, twirling and probing it in their heads. A
significant number of them plainly dazed.

“Sandy, if you
ever go on a killing spree, because your kind does crazy shit like
that, would you please not start with me?” said Jay with a tinge of
sarcasm.

A few people
laughed.

He addressed
them. “I’m serious though guys.” He chuckled uncontrollably. “Sandy
is some manic depressive freak, I tell ya. You gotta try be on his
good side.” He turned my way. “Sandy, please just let me know,
dude. If you just snap at least don’t start with me, okay? Be fair,
give me a head start.” He chortled. “Okay, Sandz?”

The whole
offered some type of weak laughs but the most vigorous were from
him and his cronies.

As the pain
escalated and the shame worsened I bit down my tongue as hard as I
can. I figured I could not ask him what he would be doing this
weekend from here. With a bloated heart and enveloped by a veil of
darkness, my lips began to tremble and tears blurred my vision
before slipping down my jaws in rivers. The thought of sinking the
table knife in his neck a very tempting one, I fought and trembled
to let go of the knife and the fork. Images of blood spurting out
his neck as he shudders and screams filled my mind. His shocked
wriggling body waning and kicking the furniture around and the
bystanders petrified and flustered at the sight.

Soon, Jay,
very soon you will know how it’s like
, I thought.

Quickly I arose
and flounced out the place.

Standing under
the willow tree outside in the garden, I distraughtly wiped my
tears burst after burst with my rocking palms, fingers and fists. I
would not walk to residence from there because I ran a risk of
running into someone which would make the encounter even more
embarrassing. Could not bear the thought of anyone else witnessing
my desolation. The willow tree was where no one would think to look
even with a mindless glance, not even a place where a stoner would
want to be. It was damp and mosquitos whirred about. The self-blame
started boiling up inside of me resulting into more waves of tears
that rendered my hands slipper, I noticed that I would have to use
my wrists if that continued. Against my pathetic attempts to calm
myself stood the resounding insults inducing a sensation of a thin
thread being pulled through my brain, leaving me with a pulsing
headache. Another wave of tears began as the self-loathing gnawed
at my state with its range of insults and commentary that
perpetuated the feeling of being alone in this world and how it
would be best for everyone if I slipped a noose around my neck.
Mostly reminding me of how I can barely stand living underneath
this scarred skin and how I would appreciate total annihilation of
my soul. Too much hate and emotional hurt for one soul to carry
without exploding. That is when the craving for a blade on my skin
reached its peak and the ground beneath my feet seized to hold.
There was one way I only knew how to help myself from being buried
by the darkness that was eager to consume me. Pain, self-inflicted
pain. I fiercely butt the tree’s trunk with my forehead three times
or so.

It must have
been a few minutes or so when something warm and moist fell on my
forehead. I opened my eyes and above me the sun shone clearly
through the bristling branches. Distant voices, the rambling of
vehicles on the road across the garden and the coming and goings of
students by the stone cobbled walkways from the dining hall leading
to an array of places eased me into consciousness. My shirt felt
soggy on my back and mosquitos and flies where buzzing over my
body. I wiped my forehead with my fingers. Inspected them to find
bird faeces mixed with my own blood. I felt my forehead and
discovered I had a gash right in the middle of my forehead. I
figured I must have knocked myself out from banging my head on the
trunk like that. Then I stumbled to my feet, looked around and it
seemed no one had noticed. I brushed the leaves and grass off my
trousers and started walking to residence.

“How did it
go?” was Macxermillio’s greeting when I walked into my room.
Macfearson was on the computer surfing the internet. Eyes on the
screen, all he could do was to echo Macxermillio absently.

“Um…” I tried
to speak then Macxermillio interrupted, “What the fuck happened to
your face?”

Macfearson
looked up from the laptop. “Did Jay hit you?” Darkly, he
smiled.

Macxermillio
tittered. “What happened?”

“New form of
SP.” I walked to the mirror by the basin to inspect the wound, it
was swelling and seeping. “I banged my head against a tree. Too
upset.”

“Did not go
well then?” Macxermillio asked.

“I don’t
know.”

“What did they
do?”

“They got to
me. Showed them my scars.”

“Why?”

“Needed to shut
them off.”

“It
worked?”

I grabbed my
towel on the rack beside me and started wiping the blood. “No. It
only got worse so I went outside and did this.”

“So nothing got
done?”

“Yet.”

“So when?”

“Supper.
Perhaps.”

“Okay.”
Macxermillio exchanged a glance with Macfearson. He cleared his
throat. “Do you wanna be left alone?”

“I don’t know.
Doesn’t matter if you are here anyway. Nothing I can’t do with you
guys around except masturbating I guess.”

Macfearson
stood up from the chair and walked over to view the wound in the
reflection. “Man, you are hyperventilating. Never seen you this
upset in my life.” He peered deeper into the wound, narrowing his
eyes. “I think you should cover it up.”

“No. There is
something about it.” I paused to think. “It’s a conversation
starter.”

Macfearson
chuckled. “I guess so.” He turned Macxermillio. “ Macx, what do you
think?”

Macxermillio
only laughed. A smile flickered on my face. “I’m gonna go for a
walk to the shops now. I’ll see you guys later,” said Macxermillio,
picking up his backpack from the floor.

“Cool. See you
later.”

“You guys want
anything?”

Macfearson
replied, “Can you get me a new lighter and pack of ciggies?”

He nodded. “And
you, Sandz?”

“It’s
Wednesday. Get me three beers.”

“750s?”

“Yes,
please.”

He left the
room.

Macfearson
stared for a long time at the wound, clearly contemplating
something.

“What is it?” I
asked.

“Don’t you
wonder how it will be if you cut it? Extended its parameter?”

I laughed.
“Sounds like a brilliant idea.”

It’s not
happiness in a bottle but an illusion of one. That is what alcohol
is. Happiness is a state of being I have never been close to or
know the taste of. The thing about alcohol is that it detaches you
from your problems, it does not sever you from them, it just
distances you enough to be desensitized to the degree your
predicament actually affects you. It offers a false sense of hope
for the first few drinks, then as I continue drinking my outlook
becomes even more dreary. Then dread draws closer to your face
until it all becomes fuzzy and muddled as this world with its
unfathomable norms. The grief for what I never knew, for where I
should be and for how things are supposed to be disperses for a
moment and later it returns denser. Then the coagulated sadness
strains the body and the soul of its energy and will. Each
subsequent slumber grows longer and from each I wake even more
tired and dazed than before. Faced with my forlorn hopeless state I
dwell in my crying fits, quivering to the floor and helping myself
to a slit or two. As the self-harm loses its ability to feed the
craving a bottle of alcohol works as a mediator. Somehow it kept me
alive…not that being alive is what I want. I think drugs, any kind,
were there not to soothe the pain or provide relief but to help us
endure a bit more, they are the equivalent of the last dive you
make at the end of a race – their usefulness is conditional.
Creatures with our kind of consciousness are given the ability to
escape our current reality and drugs manipulate this ability,
stretching it to its bounds. The 750ml Black Label beer bottle
looked cold. It was tantalizing and I was eager to manipulate my
consciousness to ward off the calling’s weight.

“Do you have
classes this afternoon?” asked Macxermillio.

“No I don’t.
I’m done for today,” I said, staring at the red and black label on
the bottle of beer on the desk next to my laptop. I read what’s on
it , “ Champion beer for champion men.”

Macfearson
laughed. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

“I fuckin’ love
beer.”

I knew after
drinking I would lie down. I looked forward to it because it would
be dreamless. It would be a break from the nightmares that haunt
and tire my soul. I would wake up unable to remember what they are
about, left with the terror and the sheets dampened by sweat.
Napping that afternoon would be different. I was going to wake up
with a headache and a confused mind but that was better.

Macxermillio
picked up a greasy glass on top of the table. Rinsed it at the
basin and placed it on the desk. He gestured for Macfearson to open
the bottle.