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Catholic High School Blues [short story] by narodnikkki

Catholic High School Blues [short story] by narodnikkki

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Published by narodnikkki
But the boy, callous and indecisive, would just shrug off her hand she has placed on his shoulder. She could not tell her parents. She could not tell her teachers. She could not tell her ultra-religious friends. But she could have confided in me. I would have understood and given her some rational advice. Looking at her beautiful corpse, I would say why, and ask the heavens as to the absurdity of such a tragic thing happening in a world supposedly supervised by an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God.
But the boy, callous and indecisive, would just shrug off her hand she has placed on his shoulder. She could not tell her parents. She could not tell her teachers. She could not tell her ultra-religious friends. But she could have confided in me. I would have understood and given her some rational advice. Looking at her beautiful corpse, I would say why, and ask the heavens as to the absurdity of such a tragic thing happening in a world supposedly supervised by an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God.

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Published by: narodnikkki on Feb 10, 2012
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02/10/2012

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CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL BLUES
narodnikkkihttp://www.scribd.com/narodnikkkiIt was by the middle of the religion class that some of the girls started crying. The teacher was gettingoff, saying “Spill your heart to the lord” and “the lord hears us and answers our prayers” and “JesusChrist we praise you and ask for forgiveness.” I looked around, everybody’s eyes were closed. I keptmy head bowed, thinking fuck, muttering in my head goddammit, silently saying this better be oversoon.There is this girl silently sobbing, she has the heart of a saint. If someone were to surgically remove it,place it inside a cube-shaped glass chamber with gilded sides, it would remain fresh for as long asmankind lives. Everyone would kneel before it, kiss the glass, wipe their plain white handkerchiefs onthe smooth glass surface. Even I would visit.This other girl, on the seat to my right, always with her boyfriend, talking about her boyfriend, as ifsuch a thing is a cause for much happiness in the world. I can see her now, falling to her death fourfloors down onto the hard cement. She was just a sweet-hearted girl, albeit a little irresponsible andbored with her sheltered life, who fell in love.“You must take responsibility,” she would plead to the boy.But the boy, callous and indecisive, would just shrug off her hand she has placed on his shoulder. Shecould not tell her parents. She could not tell her teachers. She could not tell her ultra-religious friends.But she could have confided in me. I would have understood and given her some rational advice.Looking at her beautiful corpse, I would say why, and ask the heavens as to the absurdity of such atragic thing happening in a world supposedly supervised by an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-lovingGod.Recess time, Mr. Ego is assaulting his acoustic guitar, strumming and singing. He’s walking around theroom, no one seems to mind. He’s the kind of bully you’d hate to see beaten, simply because it wouldbe so tragic even those who hated the guy would grow some pity in their heart. Oh how the mightyhave fallen, they would say. We should help him up, they would say. Fuck you guys, I would say. I takea bite out of my sandwich.I looked at all the students, standing outside their classrooms, standing side by side behind thehorizontal safety iron bars of the corridors of each floor, clutching their rosaries, muttering theincantations, saying something about Mary, the lord is with her, how she is blessed among all women. Iwanted to shout go home, every one of you, start living, instead of being a bunch of preserved, pickledbrainlings of these other older preserved robotic overlords you call teachers. But was I here to savethem? What the fuck am I, some sort of messiah?One day, the Ego asks me, why do I not do the sign of the cross as well? Before the first class of theday, we stand and we pray, the homeroom teacher leads the incantations. I keep silent, sometimes I bowmy head, sometimes I don’t, sometimes I look at the single decaying branch of the tree outside thewindow to my right. Prayer’s over, everyone makes the sign of the cross, the first thing Mr. Ego noticesis of me not making the sign. I look at him, I shrug, I take my seat.

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