1 I.

"U gon die!"

That's what was printed on the cheap scrap of paper that got out of the fortune-telling machine. Y'know, the ones which look like straight outta some racist's mind, a well-tanned gypsy with a turban or god knows what. I squinted under the video stations' blue light to see properly. The print didn't change; I wanted to make sure of the message. I entered another penny in the machine before hearing awful rambling-like sounds and watching the animatronic gypsy's eyes shining red. Then, he suddenly stopped as though someone had unplugged it.

"U gon die!"

The print didn't change. I squinted again, not because I couldn't read, but just out of skepticism. I threw the first prediction and kept the second one in my bag, between the English textbook and my precalculus notes. Taking out my phone, it was past 8; I shouldn't have spent so much time on getting better at old-school games. And it indeed was past 8 when I got out of the arcade and saw the dim moon creeping above the dark streets. I guessed I'd better go home before my father came in. I took my time though, not like he'd have come home earlier to spare him going to the pub.

I didn't like my father, more than how I hated almost everyone; I hoped booze would kill him someday, but his liver was sturdier than I thought, so he still lived after my sixteen years of existence. Fortunately, he wasn't used to beating my mother, even if it did happen twice or so each year. The worst was his mouth; when you could beat anyone in your house, of course you'd yell and insult them whenever you're fed up. They wouldn't talk back anyway. That's exactly how he thought. Swear to god, he was the only one I heard at home, and loudly. My mom and I would just keep quiet.

And my mom, that weak-ass woman who couldn't even care enough for what came out of her pussy. It was her fault if I was quiet, it ran in the family, and I found out that it was from her dad during a Thanksgiving dinner since he kept his mouth shut like some dead man. My mom might've been more despicable than my father since there were times she couldn't even remember my name. At least my father yelled it from time to time. She'd barely speak to me, and I think she never once hugged me; I asked one time, and she replied, clearly, that she'd puke if she did so. She was one of these women who didn't recognize their own kid, but more than that, she was disgusted by the kid. Only the legal obligations to one's child kept her around me.

Fuck. By the time I got home, my father was there. They were already eating dinner; he stopped his fork of steak midway to stare at me. My mother was smoking while gathering a fork of mashed potatoes. He stared at me for a while, and the other one kept exhaling her poison under the dim light of the kitchen.

"FUCK! WHERE DO YOU EVEN FIND THE MONEY TO PLAY VIDEO GAMES, HUH?!"

"I might've stolen it from the money you keep for your booze."

"AND YOU STEAL FROM YOUR OWN FATHER!?"

"For god's fucking sake, don't you know what a joke is?" I replied.

"THAT'S IT! NO FUCKING DINNER FOR YOUR ASS!" he said as throwing the plate at my seat against a drawer.

I scorned him as he kept eating grumpily. My mom's cigarette was almost done. Then, my father talked with her, a monologue given she said nothing; on my side, I ignored their discussion and tried to snitch one of my father's can beer from the fridge.

"THE FUCK YOU DOIN' KID!?"

"Keep up being sober," I replied as showing the can.

"PUT THAT BACK!"

"Come on, I'm already out of dinner," he sneered and carried on eating. "Why are you early today, anyway?"

"The pub's fuckin' closed for a week. I ain't 'bout to drink anywhere else. NOT HAPPY?"

I went up to my room and closed it for the night. I didn't want to turn on the lights for some reason, so I chugged my beer in the dark, observing the moon from my dirty window. Of course, the prediction was always lurking in a corner of my mind. And of course, I wasn't scared; not that I didn't believe it, but rather because I didn't mind, that is, dying. Everything would equate to naught anyway, what's the point in giving a fuck. I was actually looking forward to that, and I was eagerly waiting.

I'd die in seven days. I was sure.

I had heard my classmates talking about that machine in class, and the prediction seemed always accurate; be it one got out with another, or one had that precise mark for the physic class' exam, or one broke his arm at baseball, or one's phone got confiscated, it always happened for sure, and after seven days. I was amazed by how much people carelessly blurted out stuff, but thanks to that, I grew interested in that machine and ultimately tried. I was expecting much less from it though. I laughed somehow. I'd die in seven days and I was supposed to wake up at 6 the next day to go to school? Why not carry on a little bit more this madness? I decided to sleep after finishing the can.

Staring at the ceiling while tucked in my pajamas and my blanket, I wondered what I should do now that I could count my remaining days on my fingers; maybe doing what I always dreamt of? Hell no, dreams are for suckers, I had none anyway. Welp, there was nothing else to do except that. But no. Maybe carry on a little bit more with this madness? Yeah, let's just keep our everyday miserable life, I thought. I stared and stared at the ceiling as the small cracks on it became more and more visible under daylight. At some point, I heard wiping sounds accompanied by glass shards rubbing against tiling. I didn't blink a single time.

Meanwhile, my stomach started growling like hell; the first rays of daylight pushed me to go find breakfast. By the time I reached the kitchen, my mother was there, in her nightgown, with a half-finished cigarette. She looked at my eyes, I stared harder, she averted her sight… She left her cigarette in the ashtray on the table and headed over to the living room, away from her offspring. I just shrugged and wondered what my breakfast would be. Looking at the watch above the fridge, I had plenty of time before school. Some eggs were lying around, and I stole some of the bacon my father liked so much.

The crackling sound of the oil was more talkative than me. I liked that sound; at least it wasn't my father yelling, or my mother internally crying. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting before an omelet, some bacon, a buttered slice of bread, and a warm cup of tea. I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea. I laughed a little bit while thinking about that. I didn't take my time though; I wanted to leave before encountering my father. It took me less than five minutes, and twice that time later, I was fully prepared. I grabbed my bag and rapidly said goodbye to my mom while passing through the living room. She just carried on watching the morning news.

It was too early; bakeries might've not even been opened. It was that moment when day splashed its blood into the night and shone that awfully vibrant orange amid the somber sky. I stayed a while on the porch, gazing at the changing sky. At last, it became dull, very dull, not even like a rainy day, but just like a grayish canvas you couldn't even use because of the color. My eyes stung a little bit since the change of contrast between the sky and the old streets was too sudden when I lowered my head. I carried on walking to school.

School. That was one of the places I hated the most. As much as I hated almost everybody. Because I hated everybody. Their madness could kill you. They're not even dumb, no, they're deliberately dumb. Jerks. They think the world revolves around them. Hypocrites. Always lying to one another for god knows why. Hypocrites. Always ignoring all the world's suffering. Hypocrites. Always dishonest with themselves, trapped in the cage they made. Hypocrites. Always blaming the other for the cage.

They're full of hatred, against everything, and against themselves. So they seek nothing. Bring forth nothing. So that everything will be as empty as their heart.

My hatred of them was perfect.

Because I'd wake up before my father, I was never late at school, always way too early. I liked school when they weren't there. I felt like I owned that place, that I could do anything. I could hit the locker as much as I wanted, only that sound echoed. It was like time dilation around a black hole, but I was an absolute observer; everything slowed down, while I knew it. And that somehow made me happy; no homework, no class, no professor, no 'them'… Nothing, only an infinite time—which unfortunately ended when the bell rings.

I wasn't different from them in fact. I only knew I was the same. And I hated that.

There was that girl though who always came early, earlier than me; each time, my feeling of property over the world would momentarily break when I'd see her seating and reading in our lonely classroom. She was always reading 19th and 20th century French poetry; Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Hugo, Chateaubriand, Apollinaire, Lamartine… And she'd always have an English-French dictionary on her table. I thought she didn't have a phone. And the morning rays of the sun were always scattered across her face, round glasses leaned upon lyrical verses while her tomboyish, very short, blond hair emanated a golden glow.

Her name was Kimberly.

I knew nothing of her, but there were a few things I noticed in class; she was a bit like me. I never saw her talking with one of our classmates. Also, she was seated on the front row, and she was my neighbor; my table was at the farthest left of the room, and hers was just right mine. They were all seated in the rear rows. And above all, she was awfully quiet; her eyes didn't seem dead, but there was an exasperation in them which made her very cold. Hid before her glasses, they seemed livid. Her whole being was apathetic, but her eyes were perfect in that way. I never wanted to talk with her since she was known to have a sharp tongue; y'know, the kind of tongue that tells you how absurd it's all is. That is, that tells the truth. I heard her once, saying to a guy, I quote 'I'm trying to read so could you shut up since your opinion wouldn't matter anyway and doing so would at least reduce the CO2 emission'; I hid my laughter.

But I liked her a bit for that. I like honest people. They know how absurd it's all is.

She was indeed there when I got into the classroom. This time, she brought Baudelaire's 'Les Fleurs du Mal', and as usual, with the dictionary on her table. I felt like saying good morning to her somehow, but she just continued reading. I sat as quietly and took my unfinished homework out; there was nothing better to do anyway. At some point, she handed me her answers, very rapidly; I didn't even see her moving her hand that she was again reading. Thanks to her giving me answers from time to time, it'd spared me being scolded by a professor, or having bad grades. Well, I was already fine on my own, but she sure helped. It might've been her way of showing appreciation, too bad I couldn't have done something in return. I thanked her as usual and she replied with silence as usual.

"Thanks, Kimberly," my voice reverberated in the lonely classroom.

"I'm fine with Kim," she said after a while.

We made some progress, I thought as staring at her, dumbfounded.

"Thanks, Kim," I replied.

That's the first time I heard her speak to me, let alone speaking with someone as gently.

"Wow Kim, I feel honored to hear your voice," I teased.

"I do speak," she said in an almost whisper.

"Here it goes again! No really, does that mean we're friends now?"

She said nothing.

Incidentally, while taking out my English textbook, the prediction dropped on the floor like a feather. I grasped it as rapidly before facing Kim; she was staring at me hard. I pretended nothing happened and she kept stabbing me with her gaze. Her eyebrows were very slightly arched down.

"What was that?" she muttered.

"Nothing important."

"I'm not blind. It was one of these predictions. Carry on lying if you want," her sentences were heavy.

"You saw what was written on it?"

"'Nothing important,' huh? 'U gon die', that what was written on it."

A silence followed while I desperately tried to play it cool. Her gaze was awfully violent, it made me back off my chair an inch further. Soon enough, she went back to her reading as though nothing happened. I sighed a little bit.

"Are you scared?" she blurted out, all attention on Les Fleurs du Mal.

"What?"

"Are you scared?" still all focused.

"Of dying, you mean?"

"Duh, what else?"

"Not the slightest. Do you actually think I'll die?"

"From what I've heard, yes. Reasonably, not really."

"And what's the best theory for you?"

"From what I've heard. It's better that way."

"That I die?"

"I'd like it, for me, not for you. Who wouldn't anyway?"

"A lot of people. They can't understand, so fear comes. I guess you're not one of them."

"Death is the only outcome of life. It's our sole salvation."

"You're rather pessimistic, Kim."

"Imagine your brain cease to work, like how clinical death is defined. No brain, no mind. No mind, no way to process your senses. No senses, no reality. No reality… nothing. And all that process almost instantaneously. See, it's almost magic. I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic."

"What a cold logic."

"Logic isn't cold, or gentle—or bad, or good—it's either true or false, and it ends there."

"You really think death is our sole salvation?"

"I do."

"What about love?"

"An illusion caused by the biochemical and electrical signals of your brain, all that for procreation."

"What about kindness?"

"Only an effective way of survival. And it can be proved mathematically."

"What about beauty?"

"…There nothing such as beauty. It's just a made-up concept."

"Ah! I'm not hearing a well-developed argument! That's all you have to say about beauty?"

"…I don't need it."

"Losing aren't we?"

"I'm not arguing with you anymore."

"You don't understand beauty, don't you? Well, it ain't something to be understood. But I'll tell you something, beauty will save the world. Dostoyevsky said it, Schopenhauer agreed, Proust developed it in his magnum opus. And what even is salvation if we can't even enjoy since we'll be dead?"

"Then SHOW me! Show me the beauty and I'll tell you it's useless!"

"I'll show you anyway, I'll take these last seven days to show you you're wrong."

"Don't you have better to do?" she snapped.

"Don't YOU have better to do than arguing with a dying man, Kim?"

"Alright, show me your so-called beauty. But don't you have better to do like I said?"

"I'm free 'til I die, I'm freer than anyone, free to do all I want. And what I want is to show you you're WRONG."

"If beauty can save us, that there's something out there that can save us, why aren't you afraid of dying?"

"I was just asking myself this morning. That's because beauty is already saving me. When you're sure about your end, everything becomes beautiful; this table, this classroom, this window, the blackboard, your glasses, your hair, your face, your little nose, your eyes. EVERYTHING BECOMES BEAUTIFUL."

I realized after she didn't reply that my comment sounded like sexual harassment.

"…ANYWAY," she averted her eyes. "Define what beauty is, first."

"Haven't you ever stopped your thought and just felt happy?"

"…I can't even remember when was the last time I felt happy."

"…What do you mean?"

She kept quiet. Not like usual, but she didn't want to speak. I sighed and continued copying the answers. Soon enough, the classroom filled itself with students, vainly chatting and waiting for the inevitable bell. It rang, and another dull day defiled before my eyes. I watched Kim for the whole day, thinking back about her strange quietness; she did notice I was staring, and she blushed from time to time, averting her eyes away from mine. The day went by very slowly, so slowly I actually looked forward to my death. See, there was no beauty in that room, only madmen chatting with madmen, doing futile stuff. They're mean, aren't they? They don't care about you; they'll just spit out everything about them, hoping another could understand. They're mean, too mean to be pitiable even in their struggle. There is no beauty in their struggle.

My head felt like exploding. I hit it several times on my desk, but it still wouldn't go away. Their rumbling made me sick. At some point in my deliria, I felt a hand patting my shoulder. I thought it was Kim, but she was reading; I carried on watching her after lifting my head to see who it was. Maybe some things are inherently ugly, I thought. At least she didn't lay in the latter category. I kept looking at her to ease my mind.

Even being seated at the front row, I didn't mind the slightest dozing off in class; after a while after noon, I just brought my head on my cold desk and shut my eyes. I slept soundly; maybe because I didn't blink once the previous night, or rather, I was just fed up with them. Not even the bell ringing freedom for the rest of the day woke me up. Ultimately, I felt something heavy being thrown at my back; I shouted not too loud before patting my spine, suppressing the pain with other signals. The sun was quite above the horizon when it shone its light upon the object that hurt me: a thick English-French dictionary. Kim, I thought.

Standing at the right of her seat, she was looking at me with her uncompassionate eyes, well-hid behind her round glasses. She was clinging to her bag on one hand, and tightly holding Les Fleurs du Mal against her breast while I threw her puzzled glances as to why I was suddenly attacked. She stared at me while saying nothing. I got enough of her quietness and looked around, trying to find other clues to solve my own case; no one. They left already; the classroom was as lonely as the morning. It might've been because of the dying sun, but it felt very vacant, unlike how I liked it. I wanted to get out as soon as possible. I took my bag and mindlessly passed by Kim; I had totally forgotten about what happened in my hurry to run away. She tugged my sleeve, and even without putting force in her movement, I stopped dead.

I turned at her as confusedly, but she just lowered her head and admired the tiles shimmering under a morbid light.

"…Wanna go home together?" she asked as timidly.