Identical

[The Skiller]

Hey guys, this is an intro to a story I am debating about writing. Thought I would share it with you, it's sort of a very demented, twisted "school society".

 

Let me know what you think!

 

P.S. I am not depressed or weird, please don't think that from the story. :)

 

 

Identical

Through the classroom door I preceded, veering left towards the bathrooms about twenty yards away. I walked slowly, not of my own intention, but an inner switch thrown the moment my presence had escaped the classroom. I looked up, gazing at the storm clouds that never dropped rain, the grey, depressing sky that never changed, never altered, never revealed a difference from one day to the next. My vision descended as I stared at the row of cars, all short, compact, and black, lined up perfectly parallel to one another, silently watching us like prison guards, yet, more dehumanizing. I arrived at the bathroom and entered with the slightest creak of the swinging door. The same creak would be heard on every swinging door that was the entrance to every bathroom in this school, or in this world. The same door, green, dark green with no markings, but one blue triangle that occupied the space exactly one foot from the top of the door, adorning a small picture of either a white man or a white woman. We had tried to alter this reality. Marcus had scratched a door; the very one I had just entered moments ago, with a pen that had run out of ink. A small, white line appeared on the center of the door. We rejoiced; for an incision had been made on the flesh of a world we existed in but did not know. Our happiness was brief; the same day a small, white scratch appeared on every bathroom door, identical to the one Marcus had made. By the end of the day Marcus had disappeared, and the memorized events ran through every boys mind as if it were a recording: First, Marcus would be called from his classroom, asked to walk to the office, which he would do, aware of the consequences that awaited him, but knowing without a shred of doubt, that escape was impossible, that punishment was unavoidable. Marcus would open the office door, and three men, the Doctor and his assistants, would cover his head with a dark dag. Marcus would be led to a small room, bare but the exception of a single chair, raised to sit evenly in distance from the floor and the ceiling. Marcus would climb onto the chair, and sit all the way back, in perfected, accepted, taught fashion. Even at the moment of death our lessons do not abandon us. The Doctor would play Marcus the same message, a pre-recording that explained the predicament he was in: Marcus was seated precisely four feet from a drill angled straight at the middle of his head. There was one lever on the side of the chair. Marcus could choose either to pull this lever, activating the spring in his chair to drive his head into the drill, killing him instantly but by committing suicide, or he could wait as the floor automatically raised itself six inches every sixty seconds, killing him just short of nine minutes, slowly, but surely. The voice then told Marcus that the lever option would be available to him during the time the floor was raising, making him the master of his own death at anytime he chose. Marcus did choose. Identical to the nine children before him, Marcus pleaded, he begged, streams of tears flowed from his eyes as he promised never to break The Rules again. All in vain. The floor began to rise as the recorded clicked, signaling the end, of both the message and Marcus. Marcus screamed, he cried out, only to be heard by the whining of the floor rising towards the glistening drill. Like the nine children before him, Marcus entered a stage of hysterics, where he began to giggle, an evil, corrupt sound made by the mind of a child who has lost every sense of who he was or who is presently is. Marcus giggled, a dreadful sound that brought a smile to the Doctor’s lips, for this sound, this demented form of laughter, was music to his ears. He watched as Marcus slid his hand toward the lever, gave one last satanic giggle, and then pulled the lever with all the strength his twelve year old body could muster. The Doctor watched as the drill entered Marcus’s skull, penetrating what the doctor knew was six inches through his brain, murdering the boy in half of a second. We all knew these events. We knew, because the moment Marcus sat in the chair, we were forced to watch.

[cash money95]

This is totally messed up, but it's pretty good. :)