Two Fried Bats in a Green Bowl

"How does it feel to be new?"

The question was there before me written in black ink. Upon reading it a third time, I whispered it to myself excitedly. I dreaded the sound of my voice almost as soon as I expelled air until I abandoned the endeavor indefinitely. Suddenly, I felt a gust of wind enter and realized someone has entered one of the bathroom stalls. I leaned back on my toilet seat, sat still, and chewed my sandwich discretely, until the person who had come in to satiate their bodily obligations left me at my solitude, even more, scented with unquestionable repugnance.

Oh, the things I allow myself to endure. I know I am sickening, but I am too frightful to change; I can't be pushed to straying from my routines and learned operations. All my life, this I've come to accept. I will never care what, or who will decide to manifest as a divine intervention or a wonderful fix to my individual ailment and present me safe passage into a new map pregnant with colorful possibilities. Also, I grew fond of this heavy self-loath, I've founded amusement in this abnormal way of life, in my fourteen years of existence. I insist, that no one, no matter how great you introduce yourself to be, will pull me out of the waters I muddied to make it seem deep.

I gazed with contempt at that scribble, waiting for the sound of urination to cease on the stall next to mine. I swallowed my food, as soon as this nameless musician reaches its instrument's crescendo and left my maddeningly resentful features on a tight smirk, disillusioned into thinking it has discovered what the question entailed all along. But I know myself to be wrong in my analysis of matters that grab a hold of me at the surface level. Mostly because I have the habit of mixing so many spices into one bowl to marinate a meaty answer, ignorant of past experiences in which my mental kitchen experimentations result into something inedible or inevitable.

I pursued another bite of my sandwich, which was three quarters of its way into oblivion. Footsteps from this patient shadow, lingered on the next stall, his breathing became intense unreasonably fast and before I looked down to behold his grotesque shadow leaking perversely into my private sectors, he shouted furious proclamation causing me to bite my lip upon readiness to chew that large finale of a bite. Mostly to get my lunch over with and make my easy way out of the fourth-floor washroom, with the sound of a flushing toilet behind me, faintly sounding as I arrive at the hallway, and make a run to my next period class, before the crowd of mindless students irritate exponentially the murderous mood I am already inhibiting profusely.

I spit the chewed elements of my food onto the question, finally giving it my answer. Then applied pressure on my bleeding lips with the white sleeve of my uniform. Confirming upon glancing at the pinkish substance, that I was indeed bleeding. While I pressed my sleeve on my tortured lip, I watched the nameless stranger, now promoted to nameless figure, beat with aggressive brilliance at the stall next to mine.

The bastard. He was smiling through his teeth; his eyes were even closed as he meditated through each random punch. Knowing full well where he is and how well he is executing his bold entrance into my life. What gave the bastard the right to disturb my sacred lunch this Monday afternoon? And cause my heart to palpitate with such grandiose understanding. So, with starving curiosity and generous apathy I allowed the man a few more swings. Before I folded the tainted sleeve and took delicate steps towards him, he seemed by then drained of energy.

His white uniform was wet with sweat in certain areas, blaspheming of the dress code; adorning blue jeans instead of the gray ones I wore the last two years of high school, here at Mars Secondary School. I am sadly in the beginning of my second year, and more saddened by the fact that my buddy here, would not last longer than today, if he isn't more discrete with where he does his boxing regimens.