Herring

Death comes swiftly to all. To me, tis this overpass that shall bid me farewell. To put into simpler terms, this crazy b***h is about to drive us off a bridge and kill us both. Deia: “What the f**k are you doing?! We’re gonna die!” Varietta: “Didn’t know you spoke French, oui.” Deia: “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Varietta: “Haven’t been more sane my entire life.” Deia: “I don’t even f*****g know you!” Varietta: “A bit late for introductions no?” Deia: “f**k YOU!” After tasting ungodly speeds, the pick‑up takes flight as it kisses the bridge’s rim, leaving behind the innumerable police vehicles that had swarmed for the pursuit. Looking as if it had gained wings but for a moment, time had stopped for the airborne Ford. Gravity pulls with a brutish but gentle force, bringing the vehicle to dance with the gods of the unforgiving blue sea. Deciding to leave the dance floor that is the pick‑up for greater heights, Varietta decides to take flight as well, preparing to leap through the window. With a gaze so intense it could burn through walls, Deia turns over to her forcefully imposed partner in crime, seeing her prepare to exit the vehicle mid‑air. Varietta: “See ya.” Deia: “WHAT THE FU‑” Taking a leap of faith, Varietta soars, leaving behind the vehicle. In an instant, the pick‑up enters the unforgiving embrace of the sea with the same gusto as it would a brick wall. The impact, unforgiving, the implications even more so. For this to be my final moment, hilariously enough I am not even the author of my own demise. Tis but a mad woman driven by her plight to insanity. I have only now been tangled in her web of destruction whilst being a mere onlooker. Must my end be so meaningless and bleak. I am yet to have lived, but I am here to die? Life owes no one, and yet it feels as though I have been robbed of my own fate. I refuse! I refuse to die here! And if this is what my fate was to be, I will take the life of fate with my very hands. Its intestines I shall pull and twist till it is a dishevelled mess. Its blood must satisfy my thirst. This is not how my story ends. I shall not die here… Well you might be wondering how I ended up in this situation. Let’s go back a little shall we. 48 hours ago. Soft sunshine peers through the window of the studio apartment, barely lifting the mood of the grey skies. The apartment was just as grey, the way good apartments are grey—intentionally, comfortably. White walls that the lights treated differently depending on its mood. The bed pushed against this one wall with sheets that were made maybe three days out of seven. There were bookshelves that had long abandoned the pretense of organization. No one would miss the few books that didn’t make the shelves and lived in a small honest pile on the floor. The wind chimes echo faintly, the birds chirp ever so slightly. Cold morning winds seep through the sweeps of the doors, the vents and ever so slightly open windows. Tis the first day of the resumption of the college year. The morning alarm blares, ringing throughout the apartment. Groans echo through the room. Without hesitation, the alarm is flung across the room and the noise stops. Do I really have to do this… I drag myself upright, and the sheets fall away from shoulders that are too sharp, too angular—the kind of frame that looks delicate but isn’t. My hair’s a mess, a black spill of ink‑dark tangles that has never once cooperated with morning. Some days it hangs straight and obedient to my shoulders. Most days it doesn’t. Today, it’s a rebellion, strands escaping whatever half‑hearted confinement I attempted last night, a small chaos framing my face like I’ve been caught in a wind that only touches me. I catch my reflection in the dark screen of my dead phone. Beneath the mess of hair, two black eyes stare back—the truest black, not dark brown, but the color of wet ink, of volcanic glass, of a sky with no moon and no stars and no promise of either. And under them, riding the delicate architecture of my face like an afterthought that had become essential, are the shadows. Eyebags that shouldn’t work. On anyone else they’d be a flaw. On me, they look like bruises from a fight I won. I stop looking. There’s never been a point to it. Most people don’t see any of this anyway. They see the oversized clothes, the downward tilt of my chin, and they move on. Their loss. Dragging myself across the room, I enter the bathroom and descend onto the lavatory. Sitting there, my thoughts begin to unravel. Must I really continue living like this. It’s so tiring. I miss grandma. I’m so tired. I don’t want to go to school. Can’t I just stay here like this. Fighting the ever‑present feeling of nothingness, I get up and clean myself. My toothbrush moves sluggishly between my teeth, and I catch another glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror—those same ink‑black eyes, the slender dark brows arched in a way that makes me look perpetually amused, even when I’m not. My cheekbones catch the shadow, sharp but not harsh, as if someone sketched me with a confident hand and then, at the last moment, decided to be gentle. My lashes are thick and dark, casting small shadows when I look down—which I do often, because watching has always been safer than being watched. I drag my feet into the shower. “It’s cold.” Refusing to turn the knob, I bathe in the warmth only a freezing cold shower can provide. The water plasters my hair to my scalp and runs down a body I’ve never quite known how to inhabit—petite but not slight, curves that exist but that I bury beneath clothes that belong to someone else’s life. The splashes stop and the towel kisses my skin, stealing any moisture I once held. Choosing from a reasonable assortment of clothes in my wardrobe, I decide on comfort, the usual. An oversized t‑shirt with a stretched collar swallows my frame, hiding the shape I’d rather not advertise. I’m five foot nine—tall enough to be noticed if I ever stopped slouching. I don’t. The jeans are just as baggy, and I roll the cuffs because my legs are too long for most things made for women my size. Adorning the camouflage of the unremarkable, I prepare myself mentally for the outside world. ~ Hey, I’ll be taking it from here. This isn’t your story, it’s mine. I’ll be the one to tell it however I like. Stop narrating my story to them, I’ll do it myself. Oh, I apologize. Good boy. No one’s allowed to tell my misery but me. Yes ma’am. Alright readers, you heard her. She’ll be taking it from here. I hope you enjoy the story she tells you. You’re in for one hell of a show. You’ve got that right. Alright, scurry along now. Farewell readers. We shall meet again. Yeah f**k off. Now where were we? Ahem. ~ I never liked the damn weather. Autumn always sucked. The cold, the occasional rain, the hurt. It always stuck, and your body never forgets it. All the memories return with the cold. They always do. I just wish I knew how much more hurt the cold would bring. Not that it would’ve helped, but maybe things would’ve been different. Who am I kidding? I just wish things were different. Well enough of the small talk, back to business. Packing my bags in preparation to leave for the very first day, the very first chapter of my road to hell, I decided to carry a small box of fish. Yes they were alive and swimming. In hindsight it was probably definitely a bad idea but I had no idea how bad. My grandma had told me once when I was 8 that she cast a spell of goodluck on that box, and whichever cute little fishy that would be in there would amplify the luck. I thought I would need it. I put it in my bag and went to school. Big mistake. Performed a quick sweep of the house one last time, checking everything was in place, and really, just looking at my safe space one last time before having to step into the real world. Ensuring nothing was amiss, I departed for school. Oh God help me, this story ain’t cute. Arriving at school on my bike, the scenery wasn’t breathtaking enough to distract me from my persistent gloom eating away at my soul. Maple leaves kissed the concrete leaving a brownish hue vibrance all across the campus. The eerie chilling wind that still held some sort of comfort to others was nothing but a nuisance to my obstructed nostrils. Restless swarms of adolescents frolicked the field, further feeding my uneasiness. This isn’t gonna go well is it. It never does. Hope was all but present as I recall all my first days. From middle school leaving me with a sprained ankle before first period and detention before the end of the very first day, to my first day at high school having my clothes ripped by the door upon my entry into class. I had nothing but dread for what was to come. School was to resume immediately as I had skipped the convocation made for new students to avoid meeting people as much as possible. You never want to put yourself in the midst of people because you never know what could happen. 9am drew close and the masses had begun to scurry to their respective classes, beginning my journey to those fuckass halls. Oh lord that hallway. Attempting to navigate my way through the halls and the suffocating crowd— ~ I wish to narrate this part of the story, thank you for your time, I will be returning narrating power to you shortly. But I would like to tell this part. You bastard, you wouldn’t dare. See you soon Deia. NO, STOP RIGHT THIS INSTA— *silenced* Now then, shall we continue. ~ Navigating through the winding mess and suffocating corridors while brushing past the multitude of students, one of the many moving bodies collides with her. She’s tall enough to stand out, but she slouches, and the oversized clothes make her a shape that eyes slide off. No one sees the delicate bone structure, the ink‑black hair whipping as she stumbles, the truest black eyes going wide with panic. They see a girl who doesn’t matter, and they move through her like she isn’t there. In the midst of an attempt to regain her footing, another moving swarm collides again, and so does another. She is ragdolled in between the moving mass. Her bag’s strap snaps with the continuous forces tugging at its strings. Reaching out amidst the crowd in an attempt to retrieve the bag, she’s shoved and teeters to a freefall. In an instant, she plummets to the floor, landing posterior first on the baggage. A loud crack echoes throughout the hallway bringing the congregating swarm to a halt. Water seeps through and leaks onto the floor. A tint of red stains the puddle. Shards of the broken tank have embedded themselves into her thigh. The delicate architecture of her face twists in pain, the sharp cheekbones and pointed jaw tightening as she looks down at the wound, her ink‑dark lashes casting shadows. Flopping sounds trickle down the ears of the bystanders. A circle forms around the mess. Laying there sat, in a pool of blood and marine life, Deia. She thinks to herself; Fuck. This is exactly what I meant by s**t always goes wrong. I’m gonna f*****g kill myself.