Profile
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| User: | _mathemagical (8960222) (no userpics) TALKIN' SHIT
about a pretty sunset |
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| Name: | oi oi oink | |||||
| Website: | and you have one too | |||||
| Location: | 90505, California, United States | |||||
| Birthdate: | 06-30 | |||||
| LJ Talk: |
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| AOL IM: |  alanthealligator (Add Buddy, Send Message) | |||||
| Bio: | Here is what I remember. Everyone is wearing white and they are being led in by the dozens. It is just us, south high students. I don’t recognize most of the people and at first I can’t make out what’s going on. Then the gun shots blare and teenage hands fly up to shield their faces. Their hands can’t and would not save them but I suppose I would do the same. It isn’t a room. It isn’t inside so it must be outside. There is a picket fence separating the people being killed, the people in line waiting to be killed, and the gunmen. So there must be at least three parts. There are hundreds of us. Thousands, maybe. All in a line being pushed to our fate. The gunmen have no face. Or maybe I wasn’t brave enough to look. I found it strange that they were killing us one by one instead of all at once. I mean, there were 12 gunmen and 12 students at a time. I later decided it was simply a sick ploy. I don’t know where I am. I'm not in line. I'm not on the gunmen’s side. Nor am I being killed. But somehow I have an impeccable view of the victims. The way they draw their knees to their chins and wrap their arms around themselves. The way they flinch at the sound of the guns firing closer and closer until their white clothes are splattered with blood, until their drawn up legs slump and extend inch by inch until they are almost straight out. I don’t bother to look at their heads. I don’t think I could, anyway. I think it’s sick; having to wear white clothes during a massacre. Then another group comes at them with large brooms pushing pushing pushing their bodies until they were gone from sight. I still don’t know where they went. It’s disgusting how motorized the whole thing is made out. As if the people in line 2 feet away haven’t just watched their best friends and siblings killed and reduced to that of a piece of trash being minimally brushed aside. The people in line. Well we were just waiting to die too. The whole procedure is repeated a good three times before I see anyone I recognize. Paul is the last one in line; I see him being pushed on his knees with 11 other people. He is crying. One by one the people around him are shot. His crying becomes more desperate; more frantic. He is the first of the victims to speak, or to try to. He hardly begins to say please when they shoot him. So it comes out “ple---”. I begin to cry. I realize then that Paul is only the beginning. I was going to die. My entire south high friends will soon be killed. And, well, truth be told, Paul was not all that important compared to my other friends. I immediately think of Jon and Dylan and hope to God they did not come to school today. I think about myself again. My entire body is flooded with fear. I don’t want to die. I am not ready to die. I have accomplished nothing, nor have I been a good person. I have repeatedly made the same mistakes. I have lied. I have cheated. I have stolen. I have gossiped. I have betrayed those close to me. I have been rebellious and defiant. I am not ready for death. Just then a large woman kicks me to get up and tells me to get in line. Here it comes, I think. Oh, here it comes. But first I have to put on the white uniform. I am lead to a dressing room that looks very much like our locker rooms. A split second before I enter through the doorway I catch a glimpse of another face I know at the head of the line. It is Dylan. Just then I stop caring about myself and decide to focus on him. I do not want him to die. Rather me than him. Sadly, I cannot help him. I am in the locker room. He is outside. The door is closed and locked. I am helpless. And believe you me there is no worse feeling. I stay where I am waiting for the sounds of the guns. I don’t know why but until I hear them I am paralyzed. I’m not ready when they come. I kneel over and throw up. When I stand up I'm under a shower surrounded by people I’ve wronged over the past two years. I find myself apologizing. I say sorry over and over again for the harsh things I’ve said and the ruthless looks I’ve given and for my callused attitude. Some faces I remember are Cassandra’s, Carmen Drake’s, and Mona’s. Throughout my tearful admission of guilt they just smile and tell me its okay. God knows it’s not. We are, after all, here to be stripped of our lives. I stick with Mona after that. After a while I’m more and more ready to die. I had done more than anyone else around me, bad as those thing may be it was still more. Dying wouldn’t be so bad, right? At least the pain will be brief. I hope I get a clean shot. Finally we’re being led out but to my surprise I find myself facing women and men alike in lab coats inside an almost empty white room. I grab Mona’s hand. A woman steps forth, unmistakably the leader, and begins to explain that we would be used to conduct one of their experiments. And that we will most likely die. And if not we would be sent to the gunmen. So we were not to get excited. She smiles at us. I hate her instantly. She turns around to whisper impatiently to the rest of her staff and I squeeze Mona’s hand and she squeezes back. I can see Monique distantly in the crowd; I think of Jon and begin to feel sick again. The woman turns back around to face us and further elucidates to inform us that our particular experiment would consist of us taking ecstasy. I get excited. So our death would be that of a drug overdose? Big deal. The excitement of trying ecstasy almost completely depletes the fear of dying. Just then a hose is turned on and is spraying us. None of us move. We follow the orders to turn around so the hose’s contents only touch our backs. The woman tells us that our backs are the only part of our body that can fully absorb the liquid ecstasy. Once we’re all sprayed we’re told to lie down on our backs on top of a mass of small, scattered styrofoam pellets. The pellets are intended to slow down the absorption process, she explains, so that the doctors have more time to record our results. Before we die. I look around for Mona but she’s gone. Monique is only a foot away. I get her to see me and we smile weakly at each other. We’re all lying down and we’re all just waiting. Suddenly, a wave of pure happiness washes over me. ‘Death’ becomes just another silly word. I can see the shoes and shadows of all the doctors and nurses walking around us recording our responses. I wiggle my toes carelessly in a state of euphoria and I become aware that I’m smiling. I decide that nothing matters. Neither life nor death. This is my little ‘fuck you’ to God. I stand up and everyone on the floor is telling me to lie down. I dom't listen. Just as suddenly as I stand up doctors are rushing at me and the next moment I’m lying down again, tied down so I can’t move. In the instant it took me to stand up I have become a special project. My eyes are rolling around in my head like marbles and on either side of me is a needle injecting a purple fluid into my shoulder. On my right is the woman in the lab coat and on my left is a fat balding doctor sweating profusely. He snorts, clearly amused by what’s going on. The woman in the lab coat hooks what seems like millions and millions of tubes into me. My heart speeds up. It’s going so fast there doesn’t seem to be any intervals at all. The woman and the man exchange looks of worry. They’re saying something about how it shouldn’t be working so quickly. And that at this rate I have 60 seconds to live, at best. I become ecstatic. I’m going to die! Finally! I mockingly countdown form 60 out loud, “Sixty! Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty seven…!” and I can feel myself being lost. And it’s such a strange feeling. Like an extended exhaling breath. I’m going to die. I’m dying. I look over at Monique and she’s crying and shaking her head. I guess the woman and the man had left because the run over to me with more equipment. It seems they’re trying to save me, which I don’t understand. Aren’t we here to die? How many of us have died already? They need me. I’m some kind of breakthrough. Which only makes me more eager to die. The last thing I want to do is help the people who have killed and are killing the few people in the world I was able to properly love. I look over tat the stop watch that documents how many few seconds I have left; it says one second. Then I die. But really I just wake up pissed as hell that I’m not really dying. | |||||
| Interests: | 5: alligators, isaac brock, meeting virginia, the dane train vocabulary, x-men | |||||
| Schools: | None listed | |||||
| Friends: |
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| Account type: | Basic Account | |||||
