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I’ve always thought that the last class was always the worst.
The accumulating fatigue during the morning finally beats our strength and will, pressing us against the desks once more. Today was one of those devoid-of-meaning days at life, perhaps because the large gap left by the vanishing self-deception cannot be occupied by the passing daily routines and the lies I keep telling to myself.
The teacher then loudly presents an interesting monologue about the Kantian logic. I’ve always thought writers and philosophers were such curiously strange beings.
Everyone else seems shocked at the simplicity of the monotonous cycle of life and to avoid despair, they spend their time creating thousands of reasonable possibilities, parallel worlds, complex interconnections, too difficult for a conceptual understanding. Not to mention they try to live multiple realities at the same time and they find themselves trapped in a whole range of metaphysical ridiculous humanity, as they keep tripping on what they’ll never be. One who does not recognize its limits is inevitably doomed to crash into them, and this drowned, snorting classroom seems to confirm what I think.
I stare out the window and suddenly I capture a fluctuation of long-forgotten memories. Without a meaning or direction, I start floating on and finally drowning into my own subconscious. The wind blows softly, bending the weeds growing next to the building and the sky seems like covered in ashes.
Rain will surely fall.
Suddenly, I'm starting to feel sick. My head is spinning. As my vision starts to blur, the shapes around me start to fade into fuzzy spots before my eyes. A sharp discomfort in my stomach begins. My bowels constrict. I hate the last class. With great effort I raise my right hand while supporting to the desk with my left hand, thus preventing me from falling flat on the floor. As everybody else turn their expressionless faces toward the new stimulus before them, the professor makes an indescribable movement with his arm without interrupting his speech, which I interpret as the granted permission to leave the classroom.
Assuming that’s my ticket out I quickly rush toward the door, as the pain grows bigger I close the door behind me and I head for the bathroom at brisk pace. I can feel it, something is bubbling, changing inside of me. The skin at my right hand begins to peel. Quickly, I unbutton my shirt’s sleeve and to my surprise, I find out that my whole right forearm is skinned, raw; I stare at the fine network of blood vessels wrapping my now exposed, tender flesh. And suddenly the pain is gone. I can’t feel anything anymore.
A strong smell of urine and bleach hit me as I enter a white-tiled room. Before reaching the nearest toilet my shattered body finally succumbs, it begins to convulse and shiver uncontrollably while a flow of thick black fluid begins flushing down my nose. I fall down to my knees, pouring more of that disgusting black liquid from my mouth. Suddenly a blow cracks open my now exposed skull as I try to realize I’m lying in the floor, surrounded by a pool of my own dark fluids.
I attempt staggering back into the class. A new shiver rushes through my whole body; a mass of intestines rips my flesh, tearing my shirt, breaking outside me. Vainly I try to keep them in place with my left arm. I don’t know what’s worse: Not knowing what’s going, or feeling completely nothing. All my skin begins to tear apart from my flesh, and then in a blink of an eye, like an old parchment, my flesh starts slipping off my bones at every turn. My lower jaw is left behind in a pool of my damned black fluid, my right eye was hanging from the optic nerve, so I quickly tear it off, allowing me to keep the visual stability. Physical pain is only a memory of a nonexistent feeling now.
With a slight effort I manage to open the classroom door. For a split of a second, my only working eye perceives the faces of my fellow classmates just an instant before their transformation into masks of pure terror. Their faces distort and twist in indescribable expressions of repulsive terror and inhuman fear as I try to speak, which is impossible now. Inconceivable cries flood the room when their collective perception tells them that this is real. Many fade away on their tables, while others become paralyzed with horror. I know I may look as terrible as hammered shit, but well, the fact is that mentally I'm still myself. I creep slowly toward the teacher's desk, but he already lies on the floor, like a torn down statue with his mouth twisted and eyes wide open, frozen in terror.
Behind me I can only hear howling lunatics’ echo. The fading screams of those who escaped in the distance, reverberating through the wide, empty corridors. My body no longer has the supporting elements and enough energy that would normally have. I can’t keep myself on feet anymore and I fall forward, severing my raw, skinned head with the edge of the teacher's desk. My head lies on it while I stare out the window and suddenly I capture a fluctuation of long-forgotten memories.
I'm just consciousness.
I'm just insensitive material.
I can see the mountains around the horizon, a flock flying away in the distance.
The wind blows softly, bending the weeds growing next to the building and the sky seems like it's covered in ashes.
Rain will surely fall.