After breathing in my hands to warm them up, I picked up my drink from the vending machine. The can of hot milk coffee was a soothing source of warmth. It was also my favourite beverage; I liked the coffee, the milk and especially when it was hot. I looked around: there was no one. The park was empty; no one but me and the warmth emanating from my hot “café au lait” at the centre of this small world. This emptiness was in no way unusual: it was early in the morning when I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I decided to take a stroll; it should be very early because it was the first time I ever saw the park so voided of everything. I slowly walked along the only path, my can of hot coffee in both hands, my breath turning into cold vapour as I exhaled, my body trembling ever so slightly from the cold.
The other night, it rained. A small rain that didn’t last very long, but made all the differences: the humidity rose, and the air cooled down; so much so that I, who was very much resistant to the cold, was forced to put on a jacket. On such a cold morning, I didn’t expect to see anyone to be out so early. Yet earlier when I was about to go through the park’s entrance door, there was a man running the opposite direction. In his tight sweat pants and Nike shirt, he ran at a fast pace, almost out-of-breath. I made sure there was no one chasing him: I wouldn’t want to be in some sort of action film and run along with a mysterious stranger in hope that the latter would save me from my impending death, because the “evidences” had to be disposed of. In that case, hiding in the bushes was the most clever course of action. But of course, it was just my spontaneous imagination: no one was chasing anyone, there was no men in black, no bushes in which I could possibly hide. The running man quickly disappeared from my vision and into a light fog. I realized moments later that the man didn’t wear any shoes and that the fog was not there when I was passing through the street.
I sat on a bench and threw a glance at my watch: it indicated “5:30”. Still early, I guess. I put my bag down, opened the can of milk coffee and took a long sip of it while enjoying the cold breeze of autumn brushing against my cheeks. A warm feeling went from my mouth, slowly down to my throat, oesophagi and finally my stomach; then, like bursting bubbles of warmth, spread out to the tip of my fingers and toes. I sighed in relief; nothing beats a hot “café au lait”. Some of my friends found me odd to like this drink; they inquired, they chatted, they laughed at my odd taste. My response remains the same: I don’t know when I picked up the habit but not that it mattered in any way: I like hot milk coffee and that was the end of the topic. Some habits never change: even now, I enjoy a hot milk coffee when bathing in the sun on the veranda.
After the tenth sip, the can was emptied of its content. I enjoyed the last bitter smell of the coffee and threw the can in the garbage bin beside me. I glanced at both ends of the path, right and left; it was dark and the various lamp posts, each separated by a small distance in which only darkness resided, lighted partially the path with circles of light, each four meters in circumference. Additionally, with the light fog, the park gave off an eerie feeling of dread. Perfect settings for a horror movie! I thought. Funny enough, like answering to my disturbing thoughts, a shadowy figure crossed my vision for a brief second before disappearing into the darkness. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands several times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. And yet, there it was again: escaping from the dark and quickly hiding behind the second lamp post to my right. I told myself there was no need to panic but, of course, our body usually reacts in ways that no chain of logical thoughts could keep up. Like an automaton, I picked up my bag from under the bench, turned the other direction and ran. No logical thoughts was going to stop me; the only thing that was logical was to escape from the unknown. I couldn’t care less if it was a rapist, a ghost, a monster or a cute cat: what was not in my scope of understanding, especially in the dark, in the middle of an empty park where no one could hear my screams, was the first sign to get out, turn tails and run.
Running out-of-breath, I stopped and too late to notice that I was no longer in the park. But the quick beatings of my heart that was pumping blood too rapidly to my brain, the numb feeling in my arms and legs, were painting a pure white canvas on my vision. A sudden vertigo almost caused me to fall to my knees. I tried to control my heavy breathings: inhale with the mouth and exhale from the nose; and after ten sequences, I finally calmed down. Yoga proves to be very useful in a situation like this. I turned around: there was nothing but an empty and cold street, shops that had not yet opened, lamp posts that was dimming one after another; I realized that I was at the market and in the east, the sun was slowly rising. My watch said “6:30”. I was tying back my hair when, out of the blue, a loud growl put me on my guard. I looked down and blushed at the realization: I was horribly hungry. I held my belly to alleviate the pain but, like a child, it demanded something nutritional and filling. I waited until the first shops opened their doors and snatched some snacks that I stashed in my bag and two melon breads. The shopkeeper gave a hesitant nod and glanced at me with furtive eyes. It was probably uncommon for a teenage girl to be so early in the morning, only to buy some snacks and two melon breads. It was just a brief glance; he didn’t ask any further questions and I was glad he kept them for himself.
Taking the first bite out of my melon bread, I watched the horizon with distracted eyes as people were passing by. They all had a destination: children going to school with their friends in their cute blue uniforms, some young and veteran housewives came out early eyeing wildly opened shops for exclusive sales, men and women in suit and tie marching like a flock of penguins towards what I guessed was the metro. They were all polite, almost excessively, like they were meticulously programmed to do so: the moment you lock your eyes with theirs, you smile and they smile or you bow and they bow or you say “hello” and they respond respectively with a bow, a smile or more rarely with another “hello”. Oddly, there on the side of the pavement, I stood immobile, chewing on the bread, tasting its sweet yet strangely salty flavour; it reminded me nothing of melons. As the street got rowdier, I reminded myself of the past one and a half hour. First, I saw a man running at his wits end without shoes. Then, while minding my own business, sitting peacefully on my bench, sipping on my hot milk coffee, I saw something in the dark that almost chased the soul out of my body. Like a fool, I ran, and now, here I was, standing in the middle of the street, eating a melon bread. I sighed and asked myself why I went out so early in the first place: because I felt like it? Because I wanted to drink hot milk coffee? Finally, with all these things happening at once, I had forgotten something incredibly important. The watch indicated “7:14”: I was late for school!
My effort to give a proper explanation to the gatekeeper was all but successful. Whatever I said, he brushed it off; I didn’t expect him to believe my story anyway. Halfway through the argument, I stopped and listened to his scolds. After that, I rejoined my class and became the centre of curious and surprised eyes as I opened the door in the middle of the lesson. The teacher simply asked me to take my seat. I took out my notebook but failed to note anything after all that happened. Staring blankly at a white page, I fiddled with my pencil, turning it around with incredible agility between my index finger and my pinky: a skill I mastered after many months of lethargy and boredom. Doodling was also a fun activity; I especially preferred the bunny sticking its head out from the corner of the page. However, immersed in my activities, something was bothering me: an uncomfortable feeling coming from behind. I looked back and was startled by two sharp eyes shooting daggers at me; it was the class president’s. Her eyes betrayed her startling beauty: they were like two contrasting elements in a single body. Her straight black hair that almost reached her bottom shined brilliantly in the last rays of light that penetrated through the class’s windows. Her clothes were well ironed, not a single imperfection in her attire, not a speck of dirt on her uniform. Her pure white skin, her slender arms, her attractive nape, all of that amplified overwhelmingly her presence in my eyes. The smell of her perfume reminded me of the lavender: a gentle and soothing scent. She had a face that screamed innocence and perfection, and yet her eyes were the complete opposite: “Start writing or no mercy!” something like that I felt coming from the intense glares. Almost by reflex, I did. Then, after five minutes or so, I gave up. It was the same repetitive action for the next two hours.
Finally the bell rang for the ten minutes break. An unprecedented exhaustion just seemed to weight on my body like a bag of sand. As time passed, I found it harder and harder to keep my eyes opened. I laid my head against the table, blotting them in my arms to chase away the light and the noises around me. The latter was particularly annoying: my classmates were chatting very discreetly about my late arrival and the topic eventually blew out of proportion: about me going out in secret with a boyfriend or, worse of all, prostituting. I wished they would just ask the person in question but I doubted they would believe my story about a man running without shoes and a mysterious figure hiding in the dark. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t have been a great excuse for being late. Rather, it was my fault for losing in my thoughts.
Deep in thoughts again, suddenly I felt a light pressure on the back of my head. I reached out to it and found a notebook; it was the class president’s. She stood there, next to me, fearless and without any prejudice, as gentle as the morning breeze, and her sharp eyes staring deep into mines said to me “Here’s the lesson you missed… make sure you take notes of the next one”. I quickly gave her my thanks, mesmerized and surprised. She gave a light nod and left without making a sound. Inside of me, confusion and joy seemed to mix into a single vague feeling, and I found myself wanting to justify my late arrival in front of her. I told myself I only wanted to clear up some misunderstandings, so I stood up and made my way to the door in order to catch up to her. The hallway was mostly empty because the students would rather stay in class for ten minutes, but she was nowhere in sight. Slightly disappointed, I decided on a whim to wash my face to wake up. In any case, she’ll be back in class by the time the bell sounds the end of the break, I thought.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The water was cool and refreshing. With it, I washed my face several times, trying desperately to stay awake. After wiping my face dry with my handkerchief, I looked into the mirror and stared deeply into my own eyes. I stayed like that for several seconds; not to marvel at my own beauty or anything like that, I had no reason to do so, I just wanted to. Unfortunately, I was dumbfounded when I noticed at the dead centre of my cheek, a small, red and swollen pimple that looked like it would explode at any given time. A high-pitched voice screamed miserably inside of my soul. Appearances were something I didn’t particularly care about, but a pimple, a pimple, for me, was dead weight when noticed. It is irritating and monstrously painful when accidentally scratched. It is even more annoying when you force yourself not to touch your face until the pimple disappears by itself. Moreover, when did it appear? Last time I checked, this morning there was no pimple. An idea suddenly came to mind. I read somewhere that drinking coffee heats up the body and can have negative effects such as nose bleeding, fever and, lastly and most importantly, pimples. I cursed myself, and not the drink. I couldn’t possibly curse my favourite beverage. The warmth it gives off as you hold it in your hands, the energy it spreads throughout your body as you take the first sip until the last one, it offers the power and the feeling that you can do anything when you are feeling down, and calms you down when you are too excited; everything is just wonderful, and not even pimples can take away my coffee.
I was about to turn away, still irritated, when I saw in the corner of my eye, reflected in the mirror, a red and circular form: it was a red button the size that fit my hand almost too perfectly; I noticed when I picked it up. Underneath was a note that simply said in capital letters: PLEASE PRESS THE BUTTON, SOMETHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN. A winking smiley was drawn at the end of the sentence. I reread the paper a couple of more times, trying to decipher the message but it was a vain attempt. If it was bad, why should I press it? Yet, here on the paper, the writer seems to encourage me to press it. Is it suppose to be ironic and something good is going to happen if I am to press the button? Or is it as clear as day: something bad is going to happen if I am to press the button. However, the winking smiley at the end could suggest that it was a joke all along but who is to be certain that it is a joke, or that it is a winking smiley at all. What does “BAD” mean anyway? Does it concerns the lives of other people or only mine? Is the effect on a small scale or a big one? How can we quantify what is bad and what is good? In the end, I realized I was debating over a red button that may not have any effect, but the chances that something bad could happen if I pressed it is not non-existent. I decided logically to put it down and walk away, but something extraordinary happened: my pimple exploded. The sudden pain caused me to drop the button facing the floor. A mechanical bip echoed throughout the room, and I think it was loud enough to be heard by the entire school. A high-pitched noise reigned over my hearing and I felt as if my skull was splitting in twine like a coconut crushed under a mountain. Eventually, it settled down but I was unable to hear anything but static noises. I approached the button and kicked it to vent out my frustration but, as it was about to hit the wall, it vanished. It was there and now, it turned into thin air like it had never existed. I stared blankly at the wall where it was supposed to impact, and for a second I thought I was dreaming. I pinched my cheek to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. How many times do I have to remind myself that today is the strangest day of my life, I thought. I walked to the water basin, washed my face once more, wiped it with my handkerchief, fixed my hair and went out, with a dumb face, trying to contain my hysterical laughter.
The bell had rung long before I got back to class. I was once again scolded, went back to my seat and asked myself: what bad thing had actually happened? Apparently, no one heard the loudest bip in the world. No one, except me, heard that terrifying sound. I knew for a fact that it was real, that it was no illusion, that it was not in my head: my eardrums were still ringing and there was still the tingling pain on my left cheek where a pimple once existed. I felt happy and disgusted at the same time: the pimple had disappeared – which is great news – but such a giant pimple would have left a scar. I touched my left cheek to be certain of it but after passing my hand through it several times, I felt no scar, much less the existence of a pimple. Nonetheless, the pain was there; it was faint, almost unnoticeable, but it was there at the centre of my left cheek. I was so focused and confused at the same time that I had not noticed the teacher calling my name.
“Elinor!”
I jumped and answered almost instantaneously:
“Y– yes?”
“Could you please shift your attention to the lesson?” He asked ironically nice, “If it isn’t too difficult for you?”
From the whole class arose discreet laughters. I was about to sulk in embarrassment when a bright light in the left corner of the class caught my attention. But the source of such a blinding light shocked me so strongly that I found myself unconsciously speaking out.
“Y– your hand!” I yelled, unknowingly pointing my finger towards the light.
My classmate himself didn’t seem to understand what was happening until, turning back to face his left hand, he saw it covered in a fire so furiously ignited that it burnt the sleeve of his uniform to ashes. My classmates gasped in unison, some had started taking pictures with their phones while watching their burning classmate screaming for help. The teacher, on his side, managed to regain his composure and, with a calm tone that betrayed his distorting facial expressions, he asked everyone to exit class and rushed outside to the nearest fire extinguisher. Meanwhile, the class hadn’t moved a finger; either they didn’t hear the teacher’s order or they deliberately ignored it. Instead they stayed in their seat, morbidly curious and amazed that his hand hadn’t turned into charcoal already. As a matter of fact, his hand was perfectly fine albeit the part where it was covered in flame. A voice asked if it hurts.
“N–no!” He said, surprised at the realization.
He swung his burning hand around in front of his face. His eyes, as well as all of that in the room, focused solely on the scorching torch that was his hand as if hypnotized, falling into a deep dream-like state. Afterwards, he spread the palm of his hand against the table, out of sheer curiosity and interest, and it burst into flames at the moment of the impact. A piece of burning wood unfortunately flew into one of the female classmate’s skirt, catching it on fire. She beat it in an attempt to put it out but the fire spread relentlessly and without mercy to her hands. Trapped and in a panic, she begged for help, she cried, she yelled so much that her voice could be heard in the entire school. Her tears, in contact with the fire, evaporated instantaneously. No one budged a muscle and the teacher who had arrived just seconds ago, then stood at the door with a fire extinguisher, dumbfounded and immobile. She rolled on the floor in a last ditch of effort but no matter what she did, the fire didn’t stop and it ate away her uniform, her hair, her skin, boiling her blood as it gave off the smell of burning flesh. Meanwhile, her voice cracked and her deafening screams died down little by little until only weak moans could be heard. Finally, after the fire had completely consumed her body, it stayed lighted for ten seconds before finally attenuated into small sparks, leaving behind a black balded human coal, laying in a foetus-like position. All of that happened within the span of thirty seconds.
For a long amount of time, nobody batted an eye, nobody took their eyes away from this black gooey piece of charcoal that was once their classmate, and, as if time itself had stopped, the room became eerily cold and dark. The air was filled with such profound silence and deadly void that when a high-pitched scream finally made its appearance, it took a moment for everyone to react appropriately. At the same time, an earthquake and the deafening sound of an explosion came out-of-the-blue, shaking the earth so violently that I almost fell to my knees. The mass of young juveniles moved as quickly as possible to the escape the rooom, when suddenly the door was ripped off of its hinges with such unimaginable violence and force that it tore down the walls and flew out of the windows, squashing five students in its path. The windows shards, flying at deathly speed, stabbed a young boy in the eye; he shrilled in agony and fell on the floor in a puddle of blood. I was lucky enough to crouch at the right moment and avoid the shards, but the class president, who had stayed behind me during all this chaos, was less fortunate: a piece of glass impeded in her right arm when she put them up to protect her face. She cried in pain but her voice, muffled by all the noises around, was barely audible. I grabbed her uninjured hand with my left hand, my right hand holding onto my bag. I asked her to follow me. She submissively complied, drowned in a river of tears. I looked to the broken windows: we were on the ground floor, escaping through the window would bring us to courtyard, and across it was the infirmary where I could disinfect her wound. I took a brief glance back at the class. Chaos reigned over the room: people fighting over the exit as obnoxious insults of all kinds popped into existence one after another, the floor littered with crushed chunks of bloody meat and organs, blood splattered on the wall in such quantity that it painted the whole class in a dark, perfidious red. Yet, in the middle of this sacred butchery, stood a naked young boy – the youngest of the class – and whose face had shined with such brilliance innocence that no one would believe their eyes when they saw him then, smiling and bathing in guts. His once beautiful blond hair was dyed in dirty blood, and his left hand, consumed in a fierce blue flame in which he immersed himself with almost religious devotion, hid a barely noticeable grin on his face. I chased away the fears and the terror that grin implanted in my heart and escaped through the windows, holding tightly onto the class president’s hand.
----------------------------------------
I hope you like the first chapter of this story. Please do not hesitate to comment: I welcome all type of criticism; it would be very much appreciated because improvement and gaining experiences are my only paychecks. Thank you very much!
P.S.: I will update one chapter every week. For your information, this chapter took seven hours to write and is comprised of 4002 words.