A few months ago, I was really scraping the trenches of what life had to offer, and thought that the best way to deal with it is to invest myself in some writing project. I wrote a prompt, printed it, pasted it on the 50+ doors in my dormitory, and collected their responses below in italics. This is a collective fictional story I wrote by threading together the almost nonsensical and varied prompts from the students who were referencing many Harvard events that occupied their lives.
It is strange that such a mood should capture me now, especially when all around me is a thick layer of fog. This must be another dream, with its featureless, blank enviornment waiting for me to imbue it with the day’s activity. For a while, I had stopped being able to fill my dreams with anything – the days had blended together from one white ceiling to the next.
I wonder if people can tell that I play rugby. The past two days had been like a rugby game, impacting the bland dullness of life with a sharp shoulder. The bracing and the waiting, loitering by the sidelines, and then without warning the world is spinning with effort and my ribs vibrate with my laboured breathing or the touch of the warm ground.
Through the fog of memory, I tried to examine what had happened, hoping it would be more objective. I am usually not one for superstition, but that day had warranted a change in pace because of the unsettling omen of a black cat.
The usual Tabby cat is not sprawled upon the steps waiting to be loved and adored – instead, a dark, watchful shape is staring back at me. I’m thankful that no one is out tonight. It might be because everyone is at the Adams’ drag show. It is happening in the student dining hall, and I probably should be there for my friends who organised it. The cat stared at me as I approached, then scowled, and leapt away in a hissing fit. Voices are approaching from behind me – perhaps that was what scared the cat away. The cat had left something behind, and, overcome with an uncharacteristic sense of boldness, I picked it up quickly and stuffed it into my pockets. In my hands, it feels like a key.
Someone called out to me. It was too late to drop what I had in my hands, so I tried not to look worried as I turned around to see but all my fears came true. It was everything I anticipated. My four friends, Joseph in particular, in all their drag glory, makeup, hair, and an extra set of cheap costumes in his hands.
“You missed the main show, but we should go for the afterparty … in proper uniform of course.” The extra wig spilled out from the bag Yara was holding.
I wonder if they knew how terrified I am. To be perceived and understood without a chance to defend myself, to be read like a book full of pages I didn’t write; I’ve never felt so helpless. Joseph had sensed that I was more pensive, and for a while now he talked about knowing the one thing that would do me some good – getting me in drag. What a careless joke. They pounce upon me, haphazardly slinging on the costumes. I struggle against their hold. Someone gripped my bag pack, and I feel the straps tighten around my arms, binding me to the makeover. I slipped the straps off my shoulders, tore away from their grasps, and dashed down the road.
“Come on! Don’t be a spoilsport!” Joseph and Fred’s taunts trailed behind me.
Once I got to safety, I realised I have my diary, my whole life, left behind just like that. It was all in that bag, in the hands of my friends who would only be delighted to uncover my secrets of why I was spiralling into myself. Maybe I should head back and surrender myself to their whims, in exchange for safeguarding my diary.
I brace myself for what was to come, and turned back where I came from. Something brushed against my legs. It was the same black cat that had dropped the key-like object. I felt around in my pockets to confirm it was still there. The cat plopped down my heavy school bag at my feet and seemed to smile.
“Be careful, don’t let that happen again.” A high-pitched, semi-formed voice came out from the cat’s sharp pink mouth.
That did not just happen. I stared at the cat longer, expecting some sort of circus trick, to affirm or deny the hallucination. The cat simply turned around and disappeared into the bushes. I had to be losing it.
Back in the safety of my room, I made sure I still had my diary. And then I checked what I had pocketed out of instinct. It was a thumb-drive. Who still used these things nowadays? I went to the study room, hoping that the desktop they kept in the musky corner still had a USB port. Sometimes, I count my blessings that technological relics are best preserved in forgotten corners of a school.
The thumb-drive contained a huge folder of photos. They were all photos of one man, caught with a strangely voyeuristic quality as the camera peeped on all aspects of his life. Him eating, him sitting by his bed, him walking by what seemed like Adams’ courtyard. Who was he? What did he have to do with the talking cat? I downloaded a few photos that seemed less like a secret paparazzi shot and sent it to my friends with an apology.
“Hey, sorry for running away just now, didn’t feel too good for the afterparty. I promise I’m fine. Hope u guys enjoy. BTW, anyone seen this man before? It’s for my assassin’s game.”
“U owe us, we’ll get u next time.”
“Damn, you take the assassin’s game so seriously. Do you know this guy’s name? Does he live in the same house as you?”
“U cld sneak up and tap him w the spoon the next time u c him.”
Sometimes I doubt whether I even remembered that night’s events correctly. I was glad that my friends accepted the feeble apology and took up my excuse of the assassin’s game. It was the biggest thing happening on campus after all. We were all assigned a stranger as our target, who we must eliminate with the odd tradition of tapping them with a spoon, and whoever stays alive till the end of the week wins a prize. Last year, Fred had emerged victorious from this game, and he had an upgraded meal plan for a year at the dining hall.
Yara later told me that they saw a man who fit the description on their way to a datamatch date. Yara was sure it had to be someone in our grade. However, I never ran into the man again, and I am certain that he was my brother who had run away years prior to meeting his wife (who our parents despised). This man was just as ridiculous a caricature, and I didn’t believe he existed.
I wanted to tell someone about what had happened that night. Someone who has yet to be habituated into the climate of mutual suspicion, someone willing to believe the truth. I decided that of all my friends, Joseph was my most likely bet. He would not make fun of me (probably) as long as he does not stay angry at me for missing his drag show.
As with most of our routine, we are habituated into mediocrity. The meals we have consists of sheep brain and almond milk. I hate waking up at 5am to milk the almonds. It is no wonder that Fred’s upgraded dining plan was much coveted this year – not eating at the dining hall meant that he was excused from the mandatory labour to prepare the day’s food. Over our breakfast, which thankfully it was not my turn to help with the preparations, I tried broaching the topic with Joseph.
“Hey, so about this assassin’s game,” I began awkwardly, “I need your help. Yara’s tip on the datamatch guy didn’t go anywhere.” Joseph looked up from his bowl, “Of course it didn’t. Do you really believe that some student-coded dating algorithm would really connect you to everyone in school?”
“Didn’t you still help Ellie with the code though? You can’t diss it like that.”
Joseph rolled his eyes, as he always does when Ellie is mentioned, “So what help do you need for the assassin’s game?”
“What do we do if we get caught?” I asked. He shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant, “They kill you, literally murder you.”
“It’s just a game. It’s just a spoon. It’s not that serious.”
Joseph seemed confused, “You take it awfully seriously for just a game. How’d you even get those photos?”
“Joseph,” I struggled to start, “With so many of us onboard, there must be a way to learn to trust one another. That is one of the fundamental principles of leadership. As our group’s de facto leader…”
“Dude what are you on? Spit it out.” Joseph was running out of patience.
And so, I told him about that night of the drag show, and the talking cat, and even showed him the thumb drive. He simply listened to me, with an expression of polite suspension of disbelief. After my story, he paused for a long time before shoving his breakfast to the side and leaning in, “Has your insomnia gotten that bad?”
I blinked. It was an unexpected question that needed an honest reply. Joseph continued, “I know it’s been rough on you this semester. But maybe you’re losing it a little because taking out your revenge on her boyfriend…”
“It’s not about revenge! And whatever do you mean by that?” I was bewildered.
“That’s her current boyfriend. In the photos you sent.” Joseph raised his eyebrows as though he was surprised that I was surprised.
My mind was reeling trying to find some explanation. Was this all a setup? Maybe it really was all a rumour after all. We were destined to wander in circles, seeking a truth waiting to be made rather than found.
“It’s not about Anne…” I paused. This was the first time I’ve been able to talk about the breakup and the endless fog of despair that ate up my dreams. “I…I think I’m getting better. I haven’t been dreaming about her lately. Not about anything at all, really. Not like in the first few months. But this, it really was the work of a talking cat.”
Joseph blinked at the moment of vulnerability, then slowly smiled, “You know what, I will believe you. Maybe in some parallel worlds, cats do talk, and maybe in that world everything is just slightly mad and off-kilter, and we don’t eat shitty breakfast, and the assassin’s game is quite literally a murder game, and you come do drag with me.”
The first question we both had then: why did the cat have this in its possession? What was it planning to do with it? We decided that it should be used for the better. Joseph thought that it was a bad sign that the cat had come to me with such intimate photos of Anne’s boyfriend. “It feels like someone is setting you up to take revenge,” he mused, “Maybe you should just destroy it and pretend nothing happened.”
“What if I reported it as a harassment case to the deans?”
Joseph shook his head, “That’s too drastic. Before undertaking any big decisions, I must always first sleep on the decision and ask my tarot cards. You too, go rest up first. And don’t do anything with the photos yet.”
The cat showed up that night, resting on my table, tail curling towards the open window. I had not noticed it at first when I entered my room after practice. I was also rostered to prepare tomorrow’s breakfast – pig’s heart with cereal – and was ready for an early morning.
“You’re not going to let your friends get in the way, are you?” The cat’s strange voice startled me.
“You really do talk. I’m not going crazy!” I held eye contact with the strange cat, groping for the door handle behind me, “What do you want. Why did you give me those photos?”
The cat smiled again, “Don’t run away. I know who you are – I’ve read your diaries every night. I know the lies you tell your friends to disguise the darkness and anger that has been stewing within you for the past few months. You’ve been waiting for this.”
I stilled. I cannot get away now that this strange creature knows my secret. It felt comforting, knowing that I was so nakedly perceived, that I could not lie, that this was the first time I could trust someone.
“You have been waiting for the assassin’s game, haven’t you? A little accident, just to make the game more real, and none of your friends seem to know that.” The cat leapt off the desk and purred by my ankles. “You want Anne to suffer the same way you did, don’t you? You sick, twisted man. You’ve prepared the cover story, your alibi, your weapons, and I simply supplied you with the target.”
I sank to the floor and clutched my bag pack with my diary close. How can I go back to the rest of my friends now? What was I supposed to tell them? This whole thing turned out exciting, life-changing, but quite confusing. I cannot keep up with the lies of how I’m coping better without Anne. I need them to know who I really am. But if I did it, if I really followed through…
The cat snuggled in my laps, sensing some internal struggle. “I gave you everything. What would you use it to do?” I think back to the folder of photographs. Anne in the corner with the man. Anne in bed with him, blissful, happier than me. Anne walking side by side, hand in hand, not with me, but with him. I knew exactly what I would use it to do, but I was curious what the cat wanted the most out of this opportunity. It looked at me and said quietly, “You can do it! You are the best. I believe you will do the right thing.”
I wondered what I was supposed to say to that, now that so much of this life that I knew it had changed. Honestly, I couldn’t lie to anyone anymore.
It is strange that such a mood should capture me now. The fog has cleared up. A chilly breeze came through the cracked window, but my hands are warm. The dullness of life was cut with a sharp blade and my ribs vibrate with my laboured breathing. Anne is warm in her place by the bed. I am kept warm by the blood gurgling out of the man who does not exist, who sprawls in my shadow and looks at me with a frozen gasp of terror.
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