Last Words

These being the last words of Conrad Dover Smith:

I shot him.  It is perhaps the only thing I have ever accomplished that I can truly be proud of.  I shot Dimitri Kendrick.  I loved him so much- yes, this too is part of my confession to the world, that I loved a man, and that he loved me- and then I killed him.  My only regret is that I did not do it sooner, and that I was forced to hide the entire affair from my constituents, my adoring public; and so no record remains of that act so just and right.  Oh, that I could have shouted it from the rooftops, and consequences be damned!- but Favien and mother insisted, quite compellingly it seemed at the time, that I play the innocent, lest my actions adversely affect our political aspirations.

None of their arguments hold any meaning to me now, and I can no longer keep my silence.  The consequences will no longer reach me, for by the time anyone finds this confession, I will already be on my merry way to meet my maker; or more likely, to greet the eternal bliss of hellfire.  I no longer desire to greet Saint Peter and to hear those pearly open wide just for me; I am no longer a slave to the desire for paradise.  I know now that no amount of tortured flesh and demonic taunts could be worse than the hell I’ve endured in this world of the living.

I cannot bring myself to care that my confession and death will have consequences for those still alive.  Mother, if you are even reading this, I am sorry for causing you such pain, in life and now in death.  But the blame lies with you, Mother, not with me.  You caused all this the day you let Favien into our lives, and began to dream of a Conrad beyond what I was capable of.  Your plan has failed, as it was always destined to.  I am ending it on my own terms.  Mother, although I know Favien is beyond any help, mortal or divine, I hope that you at least take this lesson to heart.  Sever ties with those we called our friends, that led us down this path of hubris and impossible ambitions; do not attempt to recover from this downfall.  Live a normal life, and do not mourn me overmuch: I will be happily warm for the rest of eternity.

Perhaps I shall see Dimitri in hell.

Sincerely yours,

Conrad Dover Smith

Shiny Clock

My sister and I recently had a conversation about the pros and cons of studying, which reminded me of this story.  I wrote it back in high school, at a time when I was forced by evil bureaucrats to take math classes for four years.  Ah high school, how I (don't) miss you...

See, there’s this clock in my math class. Well, obviously there’s a clock, since there’s a clock in every single classroom at the school- but this is a special clock. It reflects light about ten times more than any other glass surface I have ever seen. Well, you might say that mirrors reflect light better, but in mirrors it’s the metal not the glass that reflects, so there. But seriously, I have never seen a shinier clock.

I cannot stop staring at that clock in math class.

I know I need to listen to the lecture. Math has always been shaky. Impossible stuff. Frankly, I have no idea why people get so into it- you know, rocket scientists and geeks and all them. Which is exactly why I should be paying attention, because I don’t understand. All those numbers just go whoosh! over my head. So today, like every single freaking day of my life, I open my notebook, grab my pencil with my own unique grip (which my mom calls my “fun grip” in a sarcastic, teasing sort of way) and I get ready to learn.

And somehow, I am now staring at that ridiculously shiny clock.

The gods are out to get me. I have decided. Why else would they polish that damn clock to such a degree of brilliancy that my eyes- always prone to follow the shiny distractions of the moment- cannot for the life of me look away? And why else would they put this absurdly shiny distraction in the one class where it would make a difference if I let my eyes wander for the smallest instant? Out to get me, like I said.

I can’t stop staring at that circle of doom, ticking, shinily, ever closer to that terrible moment tomorrow when I have to sit in this very seat and actually put to practice what I’ve learned this chapter. A “fun sized,” “mini” quiz. AKA, the test from hell.

Bad Student

She sits in the bedroom.  An ordinary bedroom, the bed unmade and the desk cluttered.  She hasn’t been here long enough to call it hers.  The posters sit in the corner, waiting to be hung,  to give the room some color- it has none now.

She watches the clock.

It’s an odd clock for this colorless, ordinary bedroom.  It hangs on the wall, unlike the posters she hasn’t had time to deal with.  An old-fashioned clock with hands and gears that tick on the second.  Its timelessness contrasts with the shining computer on the desk beneath it.

Her eyes don’t follow the hands.  They remain fixed on a number- the number twelve to be exact.  She watches the twelve as the minute hand inches closer.

A knock on the door.  She doesn’t turn from the clock.  But it doesn’t matter, the door opens anyway.

“Are you coming to class?” Sean asks.

Slowly she turns her head.  Her eyes only part from the clock once they reach the limits of their rotation.  Finally they snap to her friend.

“I don’t... feel well,” she says.