‘I am content.’ That’s what you think as you sit in that desk chair, answering question after question without pause. The tiny sighs of your body are ignored; you don’t care how uncomfortable the chair is, though you’d be sure that your body has gotten used to sitting like this for the last few years. Just concentrate on the sound of pencils and clicking of the abacuses instead – not even those, concentrate on the questions. You move the pieces up and down on your own abacus with one hand and write down the last four answers.
Finished, you stand up, the chair barely making a scrape, and walk over to the teacher. He smiles at you when he takes the sheets, to which you politely nod and return to your seat. The clock hanging on the wall to your right shows that you have forty minutes of math class left. You let your gaze wander over the rest of the students, dully noting that you are the first to finish another test. The only thing left to do now is to sit and wait for the bell to ring.
But you’re content with that.
When the bell sounds, you pack up and leave with the other kids, paying no interest to the few others writing as many of their blank questions they can before Teacher asks for their tests. You march straight to the bus stop, the buzzing of the other students nothing but white noise. Picking an empty seat by the window, your gaze lingers over the track team doing stretches on the field.
A paper appears on your desk, riddled with the teacher’s red penmanship. You scan over it, only reading the legible parts. The biggest reads ‘More showing, less telling’ and another one, in plain text, says ‘See me after class’. With a blink, you put it in your binder, after the other past assignments, all scrawled in red. Language Arts passes by slowly and when the lunch bell rings, it’s just you and the teacher.
“This is the fifth assignment you’ve failed.” He remarks. You stare up at him, waiting for his continuation. “I know that you are great at math and science, but if you don’t at least pass this course, you will fail the grade.”
“Why?” You ask, the question since repeated. “There’s no point in me becoming a writer. That will not get me into a good university.” Language Arts is a pointless course, what’s ever the point in taking it?
“That may be so…” He licks his thin lips. “… But everyone should have some grasp on language and writing, even if they don’t plan on authoring a book.” You both gaze at each other there, Teacher waiting for your response, and you not having one. Seriously, what is the point?
“Well.” He sighs and your eyes follow him to the chalkboard, where he begins writing. “If you want to pass this grade, you’ll need to do some extra credit.” He steps back as you finish writing the assignment’s guidelines down. “Five hundred words at least on a story of a dream job. It can be on what you aspire to be now, or a profession you wanted to take when you were younger. Due on the last day before holiday break.” He makes a gesture to the date, which you’ve already written down.
A blank sheet. That’s what you’ve been staring at for the last… What does your digital clock say?
24 minutes. You haven’t moved in that time.
‘What’s the point? I’m accomplished and content.’
A white classroom with those wooden beige desks all lined up in neat rows. The only other person in the room is… Another boy in a plain blue school uniform. You note the blank piece of paper taped over his face. How odd… And perhaps a little sad.
“Why do people say how they are sad and lonely?” It’s only after the words echo in the room that you realize they came from your mouth. He makes no motion.
For a split second, the chairs are piled up in a mess, with the boy on the floor and hand tied to it.
Your eyes snap open, letting out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding onto. You lift your head off the desk, the page sticking to your cheek. Sighing, you peel it off, but frown a bit upon noting the small brown stains on it. You look at your desk a – woah. Your – the pen… Is stuck. In your arm.
‘When did…?’ Probably when you were sleeping.
With a grunt you take it out – some blood drips onto the blank paper – and promptly go to bandage it up.
Days pass by since that incident. By now, the wound has since healed. Things should be moving along as usual… Except….
You stop working the abacus to cover your mouth as another yawn escapes. It’s those dreams, those dreams of the Blank Sheet Boy. Sometimes he’s sitting on the desk in front of you, other times tied to that chaotic pile of desks and chairs. Recently, the string would cut into his arm and it would bleed, making the desks turn red. Still, he sits there motionless.
“Young Sir.” You perk up at Teacher’s voice to see her looking at you expectantly. “Please answer question 24.” Ah yes, the equations on the blackboard. It’s your turn.
“… 29.” She looks from the blackboard and then back to you, concern in her eyes.
“No. It’s, it’s 42.” It is? Oh, you mistook the 1 for a 7. You… Don’t make such easy mistakes. You can’t sleep much because of those dreams, they’re starting to distract you. You’re finding it’s harder even to ignore your sore back from sitting at the desk.
The class and school day ends. As you walk through the hallway to the bus stop, you catch some of your classmates hanging out and chatting in the hallway. That one girl who sits to your right, has she always worn that sparkly yellow scrunchy? It looks nice. That boy who sits at the corner of Science is showing a green karate belt. You’ve never thought of taking up martial arts.
When you get onto the bus, you take a minute to gaze at you empty seat before sitting. The track team is stretching again, but some are in small groups. You could almost hear their laughter at this distance.
‘Am I okay this way?’
He sits there again, tied up with the red-tinted hunks of metal and wood, staring at you from behind that paper covering his face. Scattered around your feet lie several blank sheets, as lively as him. You try to focus on him and not the paper, which almost feels like a mockery of your lack of creativity.
“Are you content living like this?” You squat down to ask him, but you should know that he n-
“Please…” A voice – yours, but not from you – squeaks in your mind. “Let me just leave.”
“Leave?” You echo.
“Please.” The desks begin to shake and there’s a weight pushing your form still. “Someone kill me!”
The desks and chairs of pumping scarlet fall around you in slow motion and you picture the slightest twitch of your figure sending them all crashing down. Numerous questions scream in your head:
“Can you clearly read what’s on the blackboard? Can feel my thoughts – my desires!? Can you find out who blackened this once pulsing heart? Who could it be? Please, tell me!”
The floor’s pattern blurs and flickers as his demanding continues.
“Is your abacus not helping!? Can you stop the rope from coiling around me!? Are you really okay!? Hey, just tell me how!!!”
Everything goes black and now you’re stuck in a void, still with Blank Sheet sitting motionless – yet screaming – in front of you.
“What’s the formula of area!? What’s that dream job you promised you’d do when you were a kid!?”
You open your eyes – they were shut? – to see you both back in the classroom, now blank white.
“… Who did make me like this?” A quiet thought you share aloud. “Who did let my dreams die?” Your shaky vision lands on Blank Sheet. A fire flares in your veins and up your throat, ready to spit out.
“YOU!” Pushing away the appearing red chairs and desks, you pounce at him, clawing his uniform. Why doesn’t he do anything!? “Just take that off already! You think you’re helping!? GROW UP!!!”
Blank sheet does nothing. Tears blur your vision, your hands begin to spazz, tearing his uniform, and an acute pounding clutches your skull.
“You don’t know what ‘growing up’ is, don’t you?! I don’t even know what it is! When will I even know!?”
Nothing!
“Hey! Just tell me!”
NOTHING!
“Does it even matter now!?”
Raging scarlet replaces Blank Sheet and blinds the room.
You wake up weeping in Mom’s arms.
It’s been about a month since that nightmare. You finished that extra credit assignment with Mom’s and Dad’s help. Apparently, you wanted to be and artist.
…
Everything is back to normal… Mostly. You still have those dreams in that white classroom. You usually just stand there amoungst cluttered desks and chairs, holding a piece of paper. Blank Sheet only visits on occasion and usually not for very long. Sometimes, there will be several of him sprawled out on the floor. Sometimes, he'll move that sheet, revealing a bit of his face. Those days are more tolerable. You theorize that maybe he represents a past self of who you used to be. You… Haven’t truly discovered who that was... And might never will.
You’ve been able to adapt and get used to the dreams, but sometimes you’ll space out and see the desks and Blank Sheet… And you’ll find those strings wrapped around your own arms. With the help of a knife you now keep in your home desk, you’re able to cut them. However, you’ll accidentally cut your arms. No one has seen them so far, not when you raise your hand or work with your abacus.
‘I am content.’ That’s what you tell yourself, at least.
END
This turned out much longer than what I intended, but I've always wanted to do a work based around this song and now I got the chance! It's one of my go-to songs when writing genres like angst and tragedy. I recommend this song (English, Japanese or other - I love the Italian version!) to anyone who's trying to write out a negative scene.
Critiques are appreciated - Monos D.O.A
ns 15.158.61.23da2
