《Alexendra's Dilemma》


 I.

    She was afraid.


    It didn¡¯t help that the look in her eyes screamed terror and uncertainty. The counter girl clasped at her merchandise of pens as though for dear life. Her complexion was pasty; blown wide, her brown pupils darted left, then right, and left again. Restless. She wouldn¡¯t look at me, barely muttered an answer even when I¡¯d politely asked the price of the calligraphy brushes.


    What have you done to look so guilty, young Miss? What were you going to do to subject yourself to such nervousness?


    She hadn¡¯t answered, unknowing of my thoughts. It was easy to refrain from any swell of disappointment that could¡¯ve bloated from my ego, for it was suspiciously large yet liquid at the same time.


    Her hands trembled as I took out my wallet to pay for the fine brush I¡¯d selected; caramel coloured body with soft, fine hairs. ¡°three-fifty.¡± She blurted. My face remained as expressionless as could be. Even as Marissa snatched the leather wallet from my hands. The chair she sat on screeched as its legs scraped across away from the counter. The part-timer then sprung out of the shop and sprinted down the stairs to where the teacher¡¯s office was.


    I followed Marissa slowly in turn. The money-filled thing that was tucked close to her chest, experienced intimacy in ways that even I hadn¡¯t. My new brush was carefully placed in my pocket, the head protruded ever so slightly.


    My ¡®chase¡¯ was leisurely in comparison to her desperate dash. Without difficulty, I found Marissa pacing in front of the window panes outside the office. She had my wallet still, and a pocket knife in hand. The adults glanced curiously at the twitchy part-timer student of their school.


    They wouldn¡¯t bother to be invasively curious. I could almost taste the detached disdain they radiated quite openly. Marissa the Outcast could¡¯ve jumped off a building and they¡¯d act as though they hadn¡¯t noticed. Like they didn¡¯t already know.


    Even though she always sought help in her more pleasant days. Persistent to the point of irritation for the adults. She knew how she felt and why. I envied that ability of hers. Decisive Marissa, helpless Marissa. ¡®Please.¡¯ I remembered her saying outside the office¡¯s door once. ¡®Please, help me. My father. He¡­¡¯


    They slammed the door, naturally. Hearing, but not listening. Gave false condolences when the news of Marissa¡¯s father¡¯s death reached their clogged ears.


    I assumed Marissa contacted the police, but they were either too late or didn¡¯t care. The father was well-known scum around these parts. The position held weight when you lived in a small community. Anybody could have known or heard anything and everything if they tried hard enough.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Or thought whatever too. Label you with so many stickers a person could enter smiling and leave crying. Left or made into a state worse than the stamp album of a very enthusiastic stamp collector. So many labels it¡¯d stick on your mouth, in your nose, and cover every square inch of skin you had if only to suffocate you underneath layers and layers of labels.


    I fixed my features to a hard frown. Maybe even a touch of concern. It wouldn¡¯t do to look so calm, I hoped the teenager found some twisted sense of comfort that way. It would be uncalled for to agitate her further. The one only thing she lacked in life was control and I offered to help with the dismay I displayed.


    Theoretically, it should give her the illusion of control. Or so the books normally said.


    Marissa was the one with the knife, but she acted otherwise. Always afraid, darling Marissa. But she needed the attention here, now.


    (This way, they could finally- most definitely- find the help she always wanted, needed.)


    Almost desperately, I suppressed the weird twitch that threatened to appear on my lips.


    Even with a knife at neck point my pulse wouldn¡¯t quicken. It was tiring, borderline exhausting to feel so empty inside. Like something was missing and I was quite sure that that was the closest, if not literal, definition of empty.


    Yeah, I know, today was definitely one of those days.


    Was her intent too weak that my brain didn¡¯t feel threatened enough to connect a response?


    The blade nicked my skin. Beads of warm blood came dribbling down my neck, staining my skin and the collar of my t-shirt. There was pain, but not enough fight-or-flight response. I frowned, for the 4<sup>th</sup> time that day.


    The teachers seemed to have found it in them to finally panic. They were already on edge when I¡¯d walked towards Marissa, too close for anybody¡¯s liking. As far as ¡®close¡¯ to an armed and unstable person could go anyway. In mere seconds? I supposed, and an alarm bleared. It was too loud and too bright in their rotating lights for my liking. I cursed the fact I stood so close to the panic alarm on the ceiling.


    My ears rang with a buzzing sensation. Seeing the widening eyes of Marissa had struck something in me somehow. I suspect she felt something off about my reaction. Quid pro quo- as she looked at my demons I saw hers¡¯ too.


    By the minor way Marissa¡¯s lips pressed together, I imagined bronze cogs turning. ¡®Too indifferent. Too unfazed. Weird, unnatural.¡¯ I knew better than anybody how I acted like. It was cruel to rub salt in a wound that is already a complex of mine about expressions and emotions and natural reactions like oh my god I know, okay?


    I saw a pair of guards in white uniforms come from behind me. Their broad shoulders towered over me and they hastily pulled me away from Marissa. I barely kept myself on my feet when then shoved me backwords. Brushing off the invisible dirt on myself, it was quite the scene- sight- to see Marissa struggle against two grown men in sobbing hysterics.


    The brunette gave her retainers work. She blindly swung the pocket knife, its blade gleaming under the ceiling light. She looked somewhat of a fledging Amazoness with her wild expression and dishevelled hair. Beautiful. I¡¯d think, if I were a better, more sympathetic person. But I wasn¡¯t.


    I couldn¡¯t feel anything for the teenager. Maybe if I did, I¡¯d feel that Marissa looked pitifully humane in her desperation.

 ii.

    My friend once compared me to a cat. They described me as fickle and curious. Common stereotypes for the misunderstood felines. I denied the curious part pretty quick; I saw myself more reserved, and definitely less likely to stick my head in where it wasn¡¯t needed. Being ¡®curious¡¯ only brought unnecessary trouble. You could find out too much and understand too little; ask a little more and stay safe a little less. It wasn¡¯t worth it.


    My friend might¡¯ve missed the word ¡®rational¡¯ because it was what I thought suited me best.


    But Jamie brought the topic up again after the whole fiasco that occurred shortly before. She said, and I quote, ¡°Normal human beings, like, don¡¯t even need to experiment with their fear and panic responses, Alex. You can¡¯t just throw yourself in a dangerous situation just to see what would¡¯ve happened. Cat, remember? You said nooo, but you haven¡¯t acted not like one. What I¡¯m saying is, don¡¯t do it again, like, ever. You could¡¯ve given me a heart attack.¡±


    Jamie was a reasonably serious person. No nonsense and I liked that bout her. She knew a lot but never pretended to understand. It was strangely pleasing. Her ticks and tocks intrigued me. Jamie was nurturing, like a mother-figure but never overbearing. She was stability.


    But she cuts, and I¡¯d never understand why or how.


    I did ask, practically pried the words out of her as I sat to patiently bandage her wounds. She called herself broken and dirty. And that was another mystery added to the already lengthy list to my character development bar. Because I felt¡­ funny? It was an indescribable feeling when Jamie looked so remorseful of something. Like a drenched kitten. Why was she broken? dirty? Jamie was the cleanest person I knew.


    When the explanation delved further however, I understood the logic behind those feelings but I was still unable to comprehend why Jamie felt that way. The unconsented assault wasn¡¯t her fault, never her fault. She said she felt dirty, but wasn¡¯t she so pure and clean still even in her ¡®broken and dirtied¡¯ state?


    So many questions with too little answers. Perhaps Jamie was right about the curiosity thing. Like a cat. And I wondered how many lives I¡¯d left yet.


    I was brought to the infirmary sooner than later within the day. The nurse checked for any other injuries other than the throbbing nick to my neck. He found nothing else. I received an embarrassing amount of attention with the way the nurse bandaged my injury. He wrapped it with layers upon layers of soft cotton fabric. It made the cut look a lot more serious than it actually was.


    The school¡¯s carnival resumed without too much of a delay. They were indifferent like that. After dragging Marissa out from the building¡¯s compounds, the hours simply went on. It was like the commotion never occurred. It hadn¡¯t in a sense, just like how if everyone said the sky was red and not blue, then it actually was red.


    Society was a funny thing.


    I was fine with it that way, or wasn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t know-


    I wasn¡¯t always unclear with where I stood in the pyramid. It was something that went unbothered to me on some good days. Bad days left me pondering. Always unsure, but worse of all doubtful of what I felt. It was as though I couldn¡¯t even trust myself with a well-functioning brain. Made me dysfunctional. I do feel, but the emotion would mostly be muted. A penny to my thoughts, let¡¯s hope to become a millionaire before the age of 35.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Blank, always blank.


    The thump in my chest was my heart. The throb in my neck and wrists were my pulse. The source of my unconscienced troubles belonged to my brain. I was gifted in all the wrong places.


    I kept sighing even as I bought food at one of the breakfast stands. Got myself 2 servings of waffles with peanut butter. It tasted great and cost me alright. A crowd was gathered in the middle of the canteen. I approached the circle of people quietly. An announcement was being made.


    ¡®Beware of any foreign intruders. VHC 6-25 has escaped from its cell from a nearby facility 350 kilometres from [Providence High School]. Have fun during your carnival, students, but immediately alert an adult if you¡¯ve caught sight of the prison escapee. It is highly intelligent and dangerous. Flee immediately upon sight.¡¯


    I found the announcement suspiciously neglectful. Despite being ignorant of what VHC 6-25 actually meant, criminals were criminals. Their identification was distinctly different and it could be frustrating for some. I¡¯d know a thing or two in the future maybe. Still, I had a haunch the announcement was only for duty¡¯s sake. Nobody believed our school- of all the other, better, higher-end schools would get an alien guest visit.


    It was soothing, in a way. The atmosphere remained lax and not at all tense.


    But to be a self-narrating narrator of one¡¯s own life had its perks. We got the 1/45 chance to catch an attack. I spotted the large blue head of VHC 6-25 fairly easily when she, I was later told, looked down at the stairs from the third floor.


    She/ It had large budging eyes. All black, without pupils or retinas. Plus, an awfully blue complexion, in darker hues than the day¡¯s skies. It wore a collared uniform I suspected was from prison. All grey with white lines by the sleeves and collar. 6-25 also wore a witch¡¯s hat. On its tip was a tiny chameleon. I wondered if something existed in our water sources. People- blue otherwise- had strange hobbies.


    6-25¡¯s ability was as strange as the pet she chose to keep because an upbeat song started to drift within the air in an almost visible soundwave. I hurried to inform the teacher even as the music seemed to chase after me, nipping at my heels. It was awfully loud, making my head throb.


    It is the year 2XXX, humanity continues to push forward. But looking underneath the thorny rose, only God knows how many have suffered to possess abilities outside having a pair of eyes to see, ears to hear, and a mouth to speak. Not too long ago, the government had released news on the first successful [FREAK]. Besides having paranormal powers, these death row inmates are also subjected to human experimentation for the greater success of this decades-old project.


    Netizens argue of its ethical premise and worry for the safety of their walking alter egos before the screen. Powerful, anonymous individuals have shut down said arguments, claiming ¡®Progression at its best¡¯ and ¡®¡­ simply releasing humanity¡¯s full potential¡­¡¯ as an argument against public outrage.


    (Further details on what a [FREAK] entails can be found on page 10)


    Excerpt taken from World Magazine, Year 2XXX


    I spotted a teacher. Male, short, and the football coach. Everything was getting hard to identify. Music stuffed the background, the surroundings. Sound was everywhere. I came closer to the emotion known as mad irritation than I ever had before.


    Scratch that. I was definitely irritated. Patient as I believed myself to be, it wasn¡¯t the most pleasant feeling.


    My hand grasped tightly on the shoulder of the dazed coach. He seemed quite out of it if his blank stare into space meant anything. I jerked him to attention, his eyes snapped into focus soon enough. The calmness in my voice seemed to scare him back to earth even further. ¡°Alien,¡± I said firmly. ¡°Get help. Quick!¡±


    I sighed for the n<sup>th</sup> time that day. For once, thankful for my almost non-existent panic button. I feared for the hours to come if some strange music from the alien intruder kept all the company at school in a dazed state. I knew I wanted to return to the orphanage in one piece and alive.


    Was that considered a valid feeling too? The want to stay alive?