Latest Entry
He was in History and bored out of his mind. He'd finished the assignment already, even though it wasn't due till the end of next week. He'd done the homework for his other classes and now had nothing to do, but sit there and write.
And write he does.
He writes whatever came to his mind, every little thought, no matter how dark and morbid, or how scary it is to him. Nobody ever see what he write, he keeps them to himself and never lets anybody read them . . . They are his thoughts, after all.
What nobody realizes is that everytime he sits down and starts writing, his thoughts get more and more morbid, dark, and dangerous. And if somebody knew, and if somebody asks why, he wouldn't be able to say.
Nobody ever asks to read what he writes, and if they did so, he would hand them his latest 'entry'.
They are called 'entries' because he dates and titles each one, you see?
Nobody ever asks though, and the teachers don't question when he pulls away from the other students, as long as he does his work.
The bell rings, he grabs his things, goes to his next class, and sits down to write more.
He never misses a class. Never.
* * *
But his seat, he sits right there, is empty today. He hasn't been at school today, nobody has seen him. The few of us who've tried to get through to him, we fear the worst. We always have.
To us, it's that obvious.
He's not here today; he'll never be here again. He's finally given up. The four of us won't be too far behind, 'cause without him to make us smile and laugh, life isn't worth it. Two of our number were alive because of, and for, him.
There is no doubt in my mind that they'll be the next two to go.
The principal comes in and talks to our teacher, confirming what we already know to be true.
So, now we leave. And we leave behind those who were too blind to see, too deaf to hear, too incompetent to help stop the inevitable.
May his death be on their hands.
May ours be on their minds.
And may we join him, where ever he may be . . .
So tell him we're coming, we're on our way. Not to fear, we'll join him again. In death, as in life, we'll stand by each other . . .
* * *
Surreptitiously, Quatre wipes the tears from his light green eyes. Reading what he wrote, he thinks about what his friend gave up and what he's about to. Shooting a glance at the principal, then the other three, he looks back at his paper. A sad smile graces his lips as he puts his pen to the paper one last time. His pen moves as if it has its own free will, and his smile turns bitter as he reads the title given to his writing. "Latest Entry".