The School Of Self Destruction
Felix
Today I spent my history class in the library. I spent a few minutes wandering aimlessly amongst the aisles of dusty books before I decided that I'd rather take a short cut, and use the internet to search for information on the black plague - this week's assignment.
Did you know that way back when, the citizens of the time believed the black plague was God's curse?
Same as how citizens of the now believe that 9/11 was God's answer to homosexuality.
I'd love that kind of blind optimism.
Word is that people who believe in religion are happier than those who don't.
Not incredibly surprising, really.
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Why should anyone bother trying to be original or individual anymore?
Nothing is new anymore.
The girl standing at the front desk, with the pink shirt and short skirt and cute blonde hair, she's just like thousands of other girls with that haircut. Like millions who bought that outfit.
The boy sitting at the back of the library, hiding from everyone, he's just like every other person who needs to be alone.
Reality is, we live alone, we die alone.
And everyone is the same as everyone else.
The bell rings and a few people run for the exit, a few people walk. A group of boys, aged from fourteen to sixteen, come in and get the chess sets out from the front desk. In a normal school it would be easy to write them off as nerds.
Here, it's different.
Yes, they're still nerds.
But they're also all past victims of domestic abuse.
Of fathers who drank too much and mothers who cared too little.
A few of them wave at me from the other side of the library and I wave back. Almost all of us here get along. We have to.
If I didn't have friends at Saint Jude's, I think it would be an incredibly depressing place to be.
All these people who hate themselves in the one place.
It's like a bad teen-angst movie.
And I say that in the most loving way, because they're my closest friends.
The friends I have here keep me from offing myself in the low moments.
Well, them and the orderlies who put my into solitary confinement when it gets really bad.
I'm told I shouldn't talk so blithely about the bad times.
They don't understand that it's the only way to talk about it.
In the common room, two people sit on the floor playing a game of blackjack. Fifteen and sixteen years old, the girls laugh and chat away happily, just like in any normal school, not the least bit conscious of the scars they would normally hide with long sleeves and pants. They know that no one will judge them here.
I plonk myself down on a faded blue couch and watched them play.
There's a new kid sitting on a chair to my left. He's aggressive and stand-offish, based purely on his posture. The girls ask him if he wants to play, but he just glares at them with an expression that does nothing to mask his distaste of his surroundings.
He seems around my age. Seventeen, eighteen at most. Old enough that he could leave if he didn't want to be here.
The girls, having shrugged off his glare, turn to me and ask if I'd like to join them. I don't, so I make a joke about being too cool to play. The new kid turns his demonic gaze to me now.
I don't think he can take a joke.
The younger one of the girls, Alice, tells me that Elizabeth got back a few hours ago, but Alice hasn't seen her since. In the corner of my eye, I see the new kid look suddenly attentive. He's hanging on Alice's every word as she tells me about how Elli got to go home for Christmas.
We chat for awhile, and eventually the girls finish their card game and leave. The new kid glares at me again before getting up and following them, leaving me alone.
My name is Felix Preacher,
and everyone is alone.
Did you know that way back when, the citizens of the time believed the black plague was God's curse?
Same as how citizens of the now believe that 9/11 was God's answer to homosexuality.
I'd love that kind of blind optimism.
Word is that people who believe in religion are happier than those who don't.
Not incredibly surprising, really.
Copy.
Paste.
Print.
Why should anyone bother trying to be original or individual anymore?
Nothing is new anymore.
The girl standing at the front desk, with the pink shirt and short skirt and cute blonde hair, she's just like thousands of other girls with that haircut. Like millions who bought that outfit.
The boy sitting at the back of the library, hiding from everyone, he's just like every other person who needs to be alone.
Reality is, we live alone, we die alone.
And everyone is the same as everyone else.
The bell rings and a few people run for the exit, a few people walk. A group of boys, aged from fourteen to sixteen, come in and get the chess sets out from the front desk. In a normal school it would be easy to write them off as nerds.
Here, it's different.
Yes, they're still nerds.
But they're also all past victims of domestic abuse.
Of fathers who drank too much and mothers who cared too little.
A few of them wave at me from the other side of the library and I wave back. Almost all of us here get along. We have to.
If I didn't have friends at Saint Jude's, I think it would be an incredibly depressing place to be.
All these people who hate themselves in the one place.
It's like a bad teen-angst movie.
And I say that in the most loving way, because they're my closest friends.
The friends I have here keep me from offing myself in the low moments.
Well, them and the orderlies who put my into solitary confinement when it gets really bad.
I'm told I shouldn't talk so blithely about the bad times.
They don't understand that it's the only way to talk about it.
In the common room, two people sit on the floor playing a game of blackjack. Fifteen and sixteen years old, the girls laugh and chat away happily, just like in any normal school, not the least bit conscious of the scars they would normally hide with long sleeves and pants. They know that no one will judge them here.
I plonk myself down on a faded blue couch and watched them play.
There's a new kid sitting on a chair to my left. He's aggressive and stand-offish, based purely on his posture. The girls ask him if he wants to play, but he just glares at them with an expression that does nothing to mask his distaste of his surroundings.
He seems around my age. Seventeen, eighteen at most. Old enough that he could leave if he didn't want to be here.
The girls, having shrugged off his glare, turn to me and ask if I'd like to join them. I don't, so I make a joke about being too cool to play. The new kid turns his demonic gaze to me now.
I don't think he can take a joke.
The younger one of the girls, Alice, tells me that Elizabeth got back a few hours ago, but Alice hasn't seen her since. In the corner of my eye, I see the new kid look suddenly attentive. He's hanging on Alice's every word as she tells me about how Elli got to go home for Christmas.
We chat for awhile, and eventually the girls finish their card game and leave. The new kid glares at me again before getting up and following them, leaving me alone.
My name is Felix Preacher,
and everyone is alone.