CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL BLUES narodnikkki http://www.scribd.

com/narodnikkki It was by the middle of the religion class that some of the girls started crying. The teacher was getting off, saying “Spill your heart to the lord” and “the lord hears us and answers our prayers” and “Jesus Christ we praise you and ask for forgiveness.” I looked around, everybody’s eyes were closed. I kept my head bowed, thinking fuck, muttering in my head goddammit, silently saying this better be over soon. 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 as mankind lives. Everyone would kneel before it, kiss the glass, wipe their plain white handkerchiefs on the 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 if such a thing is a cause for much happiness in the world. I can see her now, falling to her death four floors down onto the hard cement. She was just a sweet-hearted girl, albeit a little irresponsible and bored 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. 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. Recess time, Mr. Ego is assaulting his acoustic guitar, strumming and singing. He’s walking around the room, no one seems to mind. He’s the kind of bully you’d hate to see beaten, simply because it would be so tragic even those who hated the guy would grow some pity in their heart. Oh how the mighty have fallen, they would say. We should help him up, they would say. Fuck you guys, I would say. I take a bite out of my sandwich. I looked at all the students, standing outside their classrooms, standing side by side behind the horizontal safety iron bars of the corridors of each floor, clutching their rosaries, muttering the incantations, saying something about Mary, the lord is with her, how she is blessed among all women. I wanted to shout go home, every one of you, start living, instead of being a bunch of preserved, pickled brainlings of these other older preserved robotic overlords you call teachers. But was I here to save them? 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 the day, we stand and we pray, the homeroom teacher leads the incantations. I keep silent, sometimes I bow my head, sometimes I don’t, sometimes I look at the single decaying branch of the tree outside the window to my right. Prayer’s over, everyone makes the sign of the cross, the first thing Mr. Ego notices is of me not making the sign. I look at him, I shrug, I take my seat.

The next day I did the same thing. And every time the Ego would be annoyed. He points a finger at me, then shoots, making the sound with his mouth. The daily commute back home I look at the scenery outside. I look at the blur of trees and houses and the cars and the people we pass by. Sometimes it rains and I stare harder. The trees are wet and the houses are wet, the people walk around carrying their umbrellas. The piles of garbage keep growing everyday, the number of street children keep growing everyday, the old, the abandoned. The puddles seem to be growing larger.

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