empty
(pure)
20.07.85
Justin
Lo
The
world didn’t seem to be very fond of Michelle.
To
that end, the fault laid quite heavily with her in the first place. She made little effort to improve her status
in life, and her revolutionary ideas that she flaunted with her clothes and
writing were just hollow theories.
She
knew she was an outcast, too. She
wasn’t pretentious enough to believe that she had any special abilities or
perfect niche in life, but she did have the conviction that she was infallible,
something that irked the others around her.
For one thing, they thought, the only reason why she never said anything
wrong was that she never said anything at all except a few curses at the
government and the school bureaucracy.
Of
all the things Michelle believed, her strongest opinion was on the fact that no
one in the world would care if she suddenly died. Her friends and parents and guidance counselors and teachers all
told her to the contrary, because they were very kind people. They reassured her that she was a very
unique and intelligent individual, that she was just a bit more sensitive (and
brooding) than other kids, and that it was just something everyone went
through. In other words, she was
normal. That was what kind people said
to outcasts: that they could be accepted like family.
But
Michelle’s world could not hold. There
were thousands of cracks everywhere in the porcelain trees and buildings and
apples and dollar bills. People threw
out weeds all the time and didn’t care because the weeds had nothing to gain,
anyhow. All the weeds did was just grow
and grow and grow, then make some seeds and die. Michelle noticed that she grew and grew and grew, and that she
definitely had the seed-making capabilities.
As
a favor to the world, though, she decided that it would be best if the pollen
stayed away from her hideous self (that’s what she thought, anyway; most people
actually considered her a princess of beauty who just looked too hostile to
approach). So one day, she considered
her place in the Universe and decided that it really wasn’t worth the
effort. She went into the bathroom and
slit her wrists, marveling at how thick her blood was.
Michelle
was right. No one did care. Once they got the yicky yucky carcass out of
the bathroom, everything returned to normal.
The guidance counselors frowned a bit, wondering how much the suicide
would hurt their careers; her parents wondered if they ought to try and have
another child or just adopt one; her teachers thought she’d moved to Paris.
When
Michelle dropped by her funeral, which was her one allowance before she had to
go and start working, she saw that her friends were absent; she later spotted
them a few blocks away, smoking and drinking under the pretense of attending
her funeral. After mouthing a pleasant
“fuck you” to them, she turned around and headed for the subway.
Michelle
was amazed at how large the subway station was. She quickly looked at her token, which was much more detailed
than standard Metro tokens. Among other
things, it told her to ride the Green Line.
She
wasn’t in much of a hurry, so she stopped by a small hot dog stand and bought
some cheese fries and a Coke. The line
was incredibly long, but it was laughably short considering the life that she’d
be living.
The
cheese fries were delicious. Once in
awhile, Michelle would look down at her wrists and try to recall how they
looked when they were sliced open