That day Sarah killed a man.

Sarah is a temp at an obscure little office in New York that sold all kinds of pens, from fountain to erasable. Everyday, Sarah woke up at 5:30 in the morning. She hated doing this but she did it to have a necessary early start. She would brush her teeth roughly for about 5 minutes and she would do so without much relish. Everything, from the cool touch of the bathroom faucet to the worn texture of the kitchen wash cloth, was deadened to her. She was an unfeeling creature, never touched and thus never touching. Nothing, not the swish of her jacket nor the ding of the elevator in her apartment building, ever reached her, they just seemed to come and go like the passing of cars on the street.
On Wednsday, Sarah was feeling particularly worn out. She had only gone a few hours into her work but already it seemed an eternity, for today she knew she had to work overtime. Her body seemed to refuse every movement, her lips were dry and her tongue like a dried piece of bitter-tasting fish skin. Glumly she flung her arms about in a careless manner, accomplishing one sale after another with disdain. Though none of this disgust was reflected on her otherwise, dispassionate face, she walked to the break room sure that she would not last another minute in this place. Sighing and sitting down hard, she closed her eyes, only to have another attack of frustration. Impatiently she opened her eyes again and glanced about the dingy little room. There was a small table with a chair and a not-to-large sized bench attached to the wall, and on the little counter there was a mini-fridge with a glass door. Through this glass door one could see a brown paper bag, crumpled and obviously used, a box of mini-donuts that were stale, a sticky bottle of cocacola and a pack of green-labeled drinks. Her eye was caught on this pack of drinks. Each can was decorated cooly with green leaves and plump grapes, a sight that promised relief, away from the stuffiness of her desk, from the endless work to be done, but especially from the sour taste in her mouth. Her arms would function again and she would laugh contentedly because she would have awakened to some truth that would return the life to her body. If only Sarah could reach out, open the door and crack open one can, to taste and drink deeply of the beverage just once, she felt she should never desire again, for she would be whole. Her tongue seemed on the verge of a great discovery, but her body was still. She wouldn't do it. She wouldn't walk over to that fridge, she would not open the door, she would not take a can and she would not drink. Sarah sat, promising herself not now, but that the taste would be sweeter after getting some more work done. She would content herself now on the thought of drinking and returned to her desk.
The work before her seemed even more far away as all her thoughts began being directed towards the 6 glorious cans of what seemed the world. Her pen scratched notes that she was barely aware of as she impatiently tapped her foot. The minutes slid by infuriatingly slow and Sarah felt her eyes getting sore from the many times she looked up at the clock on the wall. One paper after another was stacked up in a pile that rose higher and higher, still work to be done. After 3 hours of mind-numbing anticipation, Sarah couldn't stand it anymore. She rose from her desk and ran to the break room and peered through the glass door. One can was missing. That was fine, there were 5 more and that would be more than enough for her. She realized her breathing was uneven and quickly evened it out as she looked her shoulder, not wanting the other co-workers to see her. She shook herself out and resumed her work.
Again the anticipation grew to an intensity that drove her back to the break room to stare at the round, ice cold cans in the refrigerator 2 hours later. There were now 3 cans left. She began feeling uneasy but she quelled the desperation in her chest with the thought of drinking one after just one more hour of work. Surely there would still be one can left in an hour.
She returned to her desk.
After one hour, the time had come. Already tasting the crisp juice and feeling the biting cold surface of the can in her fingertips, she approached the break room with all her senses heightened.
Brian was in the break room apparently taking one last swig from a green can. Sarah was aware of every syllable his throat made as it gulped as she looked towards the refrigerator. There were none left. She returned her gaze to Brian.
"I don't know who brought these in, but they're amazing. It's some sort of foreign drink and it even has these little grape pieces in it, kind of like orange juice with the pulp, only it's grape instead..."
She only stared at him.
Something other than blood was coursing through her veins and it seeped out from the look in her eyes. But Brian chattered on incessantly and to himself in a cheerful manner.
He took a bite of his sandwich and bade her to sit down. She sat in a rigid form, her foot no longer tapping and her hands still. Brian took another large bite out of his meatball sub and was about to continue on in his needless talk when he found himself caught. His breath didn't come through and his eyes became large in panic.
He looked at Sarah and pointed to his throat. Gagging a little, his expression became confused as she just sat there staring at him. His movements became more desperate and his hands slapped the table a few times and he tried to get up and rush the wall but he weakened and fell to the floor. He was grabbing his throat and squeezing hard to dislodge the obstructing mass. While his fingers still twitched slightly and his eyes rolled, Sarah rose from her seat and stood over him in mild curiousity. She felt nothing again, only a muffled sense that something was wrong. But she put the feeling away and just watched as the life leaked out from the poor man's eyes.
Realizing that she was in no way going to help him and that this was how he was to die, his eyes rolled to the doorway, his hand let go of his throat and he was reaching.
In the background a telephone rang. Sarah fixed the dead man's crooked tie and walked out of the room.
She was caught on security camera and when later asked by the police why she did nothing to help the man, she shrugged and stared back with hollow eyes.


The End.



Don't ask me why I wrote this. It was kind of just a thing of the moment. It's weird and twisted, I know, but I'm not a crazy person. I don't usually write this way, but I guess I was just experimenting with writing about different sensations and just random thoughts about what connects us to this world.

2007

Today, I held a fish in my hands until it died.

It was the spotted black fish that had been so sick lately; day after day, my family would stare into his tank and see his cloudy, dead eye and his peeling skin. So tonight, I told my mom that it would be more humane, merciful even, to just put him out of his misery. She looked at me, then into the tank with saddened eyes. I nearly regretted my words, I knew she was thinking about my grandfather. My grandfather had died a slow and agonizing death by cancer, it was a bitter fight that my mom saw him through to the end. Now, as she looked to this poor, sickly little being, I could only imagine what kind of days and nights she was recalling.
We put him in a small ziplock bag and his body was cold against my hand. I could feel every small muscle twitch and each scale shift as the fish opened and closed his mouth slower and slower, more and more resigned, and as I held it I began wondering to myself what it must be like to suffocate slowly and irrevocably in a plastic bag. Until he gasped his last, my mom watched him, stroking him every now and again, whispering things like "It's ok...it's ok." The fish was put into a shoebox which I tied a ribbon around and plan to bury in our backyard tomorrow. To watch any living thing die so pitifully is enough to make anyone feel sick or a little hopeless, and as I felt the life ebbing out of the small body, I felt my own heart twinge. I was hoping that the warmth and softness in my hand was a soothing feeling and pleasing sensation. I thought of sick people in hospitals, holding a warm hand much like my own and consciously choosing to die or die later. I thought about death, of those it came to, willingly or otherwise. I think about life and how infinitely valuable it is, also of how shamefully some people will treat it. Those who say life is pointless and empty have no idea what they are saying. They don't understand fully the extent of their foolish words. Who doesn't kick for air? Who doesn't thrash about in the grasp of death? Who has a life that's not worth it? No one. It's unfair that those who hate life have it so freely and those who love it are robbed of it. Stop being bored and realize that there is beauty, goodness, truth and value in living but don't stop there. Do something about it. Doesn't matter what it is, whether you change the way you think or what you do or what you care about. Don't look for answers in other people, there is no knight in shining armor that's coming to tell you all the answers to your life, no mysterious guru of life that will give you the secret to happiness. Stop waiting, doesn't matter if you screw up, you're still breathing, even if you're a breathing screw-up. Tomorrow you could be a breathing success. Don't be afraid, don't wait for it, don't hesitate, don't even think about it too much. Just understand and realize that each breath you take is irretrievable. Find out just what it means to live without regrets.

I am so depressed.

First year of college felt like it went pretty much down the drain. Why?
Irresponsibility does that. Got away with it in high school...never happening again in life. *sigh*
Finals are coming up, I'm not prepared and everything seems to be getting worse and worse. I found out I didn't do a bunch of different homeworks and I feel like an idiot.

Man...what a shame.