Reborn Quest

Starman sat still and re-read the message. It was sent at exactly 1:41AM. His neck hair prickled. Who sent this? How did they know about his mother's garden? Starman stood up. He carefully unlocked the door to his room and tiptoed through the kitchen. He went for a glass of water and filled it up. He didn't drink it, it was a pretense in case he was caught. He quietly put on his sandals and slipped out into the backyard. There was no breeze that day. The air was summer hot and without moisture.or wind. Starman stopped and looked at his phone. Was he really doing this? This was probably a prank of some kind. The phone clock showed 1:43. He sped to the back of the garden, put his back against the garage, walked two steps forward and started to dig at the ground below him. Within 30 seconds he found a black and white composition notebook. It was college-ruled and sealed in a large ziplock bag. Starman pulled the bag out and refilled the hole, then he pulled the notebook out and crumpled up the bag. It was too dark to read. He went back inside, being careful to avoid making any noise. He threw the bag in the trash, drank his water and then went back to his room and locked the door. He checked his phone again. 1:46. Exactly 5 minutes. There were no new messages. He stared at the notebook. It showed signs of wear, the corners were bent and the cover was cracked. He casually flipped through the book. It was too dark to read, but he could tell that the book was filled up, beginning to end. Suddenly the reality of the moment clashed with its impossibility and Starman
>Promptly put the notebook aside and went to sleep
>Turned on his desk lamp and studied the notebook

>>331962
>Studied the notebook, if nothing else it's a well executed hoax

>>331962
>Turned on his desk lamp and studied the notebook

Put a blanket on self and lamp with book underneath lamp. If not possible put blanket on door to make sure no light escapes.

Starman turned on his desk lamp. It was bright, so he braced a pillow against the bottom of his door. He flipped through the book again. It was filled up, every page and every line, even the margins. Starman’s neck hairs prickled again. This was his handwriting. All of it. He flipped back to the front with such force that the book flew out of his hands and landed on the floor with a solid smack. His parents were a wall away. He waited for signs of their stirring. None came. He picked up the book and scanned the first page, it was a piece of looseleaf carefully taped to the inside of the cover:
Starman, that is, me, if you’re reading this, that means you got my text and everything has been set into motion. I need you to read what follows very carefully and obey my instructions as close as you can.

Starman, in three years, on July 3rd, 2019, at exactly 1:41AM you’re going to kill yourself. There are many reasons for this and you’ll come to know them soon enough, but probably you know them already. It doesn’t get better Starman. If anything, it gets worse. But if you’re reading this, then there is a chance. In this journal I wrote down everything that happened to me, to us, since July 4th, 2016 to the night of our death, July 3rd, 2019. Starman, you might not believe me, that’s ok. Once you read through this you’ll come to believe me anyway. But, and this part is important Starman, tomorrow you’ll need to go to the 99cents store, you know, the one owned by that old Chinese couple, and you’ll need to buy a college ruled composition notebook. Exactly like this one. You need to do this tomorrow, Starman. Don’t forget. And then you’ll need to write in the events of each day into the notebook. Try to be sparing and conserve space. Try to fit everything inside the book. Don’t force yourself to write every day, but make sure you cover all the important stuff that happens.

And Starman, if you don’t believe me, let me say this: the mole under your left nipple is benign, so stop worrying.

He re-read the page a second time. Then a third. He touched the mole under his left nipple. How was this possible? Many things came to his mind. This book can tell the future. He would die in three years. He could commit suicide. It would get that bad. This was a joke. This was an elaborate prank. This was his handwriting. This was the holy grail. And then he knew it, he knew it so deep that it became memory, as if he had known it all along and was only remembering it now. This book was true. He accepted it, because to not accept it was to return to his mediocre life and suffer away in silence. Yes, he had thought about it. Yes, the curtain bar was the way he’d wanted to do it. But no, it had never gotten quite that bad. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Starman turned off the desk lamp and
>Returned to bed and went to sleep
>Turned the desk lamp back on and continued reading

>>332191
>Turned the desk lamp back on and continued reading

>>332191
Cont. Reading

>>332191
>Returned to bed and went to sleep

>>332191
Keep reading

>>332229
>>332243
>>332441
Starman turned the desk lamp back on. He couldn’t sleep now. His eyes were drooping but the rest of him stood up with intense attention. It was 1:52AM. Because he was sleep drunk and because dawn and daylight were still far off, Starman suspended logical thought and believed absolutely in the notebook. He flipped to the first page. There were occasional comments, in red ink, on the margins. Starman concluded that they were added at a later time:


July 4th, 2016

I’m starting this journal today because, I don’t know, as way to chronicle my life or maybe cope with it. I hope the me who reads this in many years can look back with something like embarrassment or nostalgia, but not regret or sadness. I am Starman. I am 16, male, a sophomore student (in the fall) at the prestigious (meaning expensive) Crunnoose Academy. I attend there on a scholarship because I am not rich and because I received a high grade on the entrance examination and because my parents are zealous and petty and care only about advancing their own status.This isn’t true, your parents only want the best for you. They love you deeply because you’re their only son. It’s only because they care about you that they are so overbearing.

Psh, what bullshit. His parents were greedy assholes always looking out for their own skin. There wasn’t any secondary aim in their life, and nothing of secondary importance, their lives were consumed by the single desire to get ahead. He wanted to attend the same school as his best friend. It wasn’t even a bad school. But his parents refused, they forced him take the entrance exam for Crunnoose, and when he passed the exam, they forced him to attend the school and when he told them that he hated the school, hated its teachers, hated the students, they forced him to remain. They spoke of opportunity and hardship; of difficulty. And this was how they guilted him. In reality, they wanted a talking point at dinner parties, they wanted another laurel to stack on their heads. Love? No. Maybe at one time, when he was still young and his potential, unknown, maybe they loved the fragility of him then. But now love was only an instrument by which they drove him, a tool for their cruel science.

>>332900

I hate that school. I hate everyone and everything in it. The teachers, the students, even the building itself. The fact of it is that a poor kid like me doesn’t belong there. It’s a small school, maybe 400 kids in total, 100 in each year. And of those, only 5 or 10, I forget how many exactly, but it can’t be more than 10, are there on a full scholarship. Those are the poor kids. Those are the smartest kids. And those are the kids that get bullied, that get shoved down the stairs, that get ridiculed for the way they dress and speak and carry their books, that have gum and spit and erasers thrown at them, that fear to use the bathroom at school because they know if they are caught there, they will be hurt, that are hated because they are poor and different yet excellent despite it. I am sorry that I’m ranting here, but then, this is the place for it. And the worst thing is that I am not among the smartest. My grades for the first year were mediocre, slightly below average. My parents were furious. Maybe you won’t remember any of this, and I hope you don’t because it means I’ve moved on to better things, but I am hurting. I’m not athletic, I’m not social. I don’t attend any clubs or activities. I don’t even have friends. My life is a single vibrating string -- no music, nothing interesting, just routine.

I spend my free time (and I have a lot of it right now) between mindless self-gratification (i.e masturbation) and equally mindless self-education (i.e mental masturbation). I have a part-time job cleaning the bathrooms at a local restaurant. I get paid minimum wage and half of what I earn is given to my parents. The rest, I save. I’ve been saving for about 2 years now, to buy a new laptop and I almost have enough -- maybe by the end of this summer. I’m not really interested in money. I don’t really know what I want. A friend, maybe. But all my friends have gone away, or maybe they never were friends to begin with. Yes, I’m lonely. The job and the meaningless efforts for betterment and pleasure distract, but they cannot cure. Maybe this journal is a kind of compensation for that.

I wish things were different. I wish I could be different. I guess I don’t really have much to complain about, I eat three meals a day, I have a roof over my head and clothing on my body, I attend a good school, and, although I’m not particularly bright, I know how to work hard (though I haven’t been doing so lately). But everyday just seems dreary and sunless. I live the world in monotone. Sometimes II wonder if I’m even alive.

Something sounds in the other room. Starman quickly shuts of his desk lamp. He can hear his mother get up. He gets up from the desk and picks up the pillow wedged underneath the door, standing still in the middle of the room. He hears his mother use the bathroom and then return to bed. It’s 2:14AM now. He has work in the morning.

>But he keeps reading the journal
>So, he goes to sleep

>>332902
>>But he keeps reading the journal

>>332902
>>So, he goes to sleep
Gotta make sure we get a decent amount of sleep. 'Sides, wouldn't want to get caught still awake at this time.

>>332902
>But he keeps reading the journal

>>332919
>>332963
He turns the desk lamp back on. The returning quiet and the suspension of good sense that comes with it, compel him to continue reading:

I’m missing something. I don’t know what it is but I feel it. Maybe you, you who reads me in the future, don’t know it anymore, maybe you don’t remember it, but it’s like a missing jigsaw piece. I mean, you know what the whole puzzle looks like; it’s right there on the box, and really, you can convince yourself that one missing piece doesn’t matter, but even so the gap disturbs you. The incompletion can be terrifying.

Maybe I just need a girlfriend. No you don’t. I’ll skip the pretense, this is why you kill yourself. Don’t get a girlfriend. Did that he mean he actually gets one? His blood beats faster in his temples. He kills himself over a girl? And Starman thought, “How pathetic!”

But I’ve never been good with girls. Fear of failure has guided everything I’ve ever done and for that reason I’ve succeeded in everything I’ve ever attempted. But each success has been hollow and unfulfilling, unchallenging and therefore unsatisfying and because my abilities are limited, and because I am a coward, I have not attempted much. I have no dreams and no goals beyond the immediate. I don’t know how to spend my time but I know that it is being spent and my youth with it. Maybe I’m writing this as an impetus to change, but maybe I already know that change won’t happen and that this is only a record of broken self-promises. Sorry, you who reads me from the future, I don’t mean to be a downer. Really. Believe me. The entry ends there. It’s 2:24AM.

>He reads the next entry
>He goes to sleep
>He reads a random entry

>>333236
>>He goes to sleep

>>333236
Sleep. Set clock to loudest setting so you wake up on time.

Sleep

>>333250
>>333252
>>333351

Starman felt his eyes close of their own accord and in a sleep haze he shut off the lamp-light and went back to bed. He realized that he had forgotten to put the pillow back at the door, but nothing had happened so he wasn’t worried. When he awoke, he bolted up in panic. He had overslept. He checked his phone. It was 11AM. His work started at 9AM. Starman cursed. He rushed to the bathroom and swept through his morning routine. There was no time for breakfast. He jammed his clothes over his head and legs and grabbed his keys and phone. He called the restaurant as he ran for the bus station.
“Yeah? Starman, where the fuck are you man? Piggy is throwing a fucking fit.” It was Turtle, one of the waitresses in the restaurant, she was your age or a little older. She didn’t attend Crunnoose. Actually, Starman didn’t know what high school she attended. But he was interested. She had nice eyes and puffy lips and her hair was curly. But he was also afraid because she was too confident, too self-assured. Guys in the restaurant hit on her all the time, even older guys, but she was never fazed or embarrassed. For that reason Starman admired her and for that reason he feared her.
“Yeah. S-sorry. I’ll be there in like half an hour. Could you please --”
“Yeah, yeah I’ll let Piggy know, just get here as fast as you can.”
“Yeah.” She hangs up first. Starman boarded the bus. In the summer the buses were less packed, and in the afternoon, they were empty. He sat down by the window and watched the road, checking his phone every few minutes for a call from Piggy, the restaurant manager. The roads were clear and Starman got to the restaurant in 20 minutes. Record time, but still too late. He quietly slipped to the back to grab the mop and bucket. The place was half-full, but Staman knew it would be busy in a few minutes, once lunchtime rolled around. He found the mop and bucket in a corner by the kitchen. Piggy was there. Starman tried to escape eye-contact but it was impossible. Piggy had seen him and was rumbling to him in great strides.

(1/2)

>>333414

“Starman! Wait there.” He waited as Piggy rolled forward. “Do have any idea how late you are?”
“I-I’m sorry sir, I -”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses Starman! You have only one job! You have to get here at 9AM and clean the toilets so the customers can use a clean bathroom. Getting here on time is the entire job!” He was screaming now. Starman’s heart wavered. Then he remembered the journal. The journal didn’t say anything about this. So it was a hoax afterall? Impossible, those were his words, his handwriting, his -- “ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?” Starman jumped up in surprise. “Yes sir I was -- I am.”
“Why are you so useless Starman? God, you and everyone your age, just a generation of idiots and USELESS TRASH..”
“I’m sorry sir.”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry. Just do your damn job!” And Starman thought, “I’m trying to you fat fuck, you’re the one keeping me here.” But he said nothing. Piggy stormed off, rolls of fat jiggling from his legs. Starman grabbed the mop and bucket and wandered into the bathroom. He spotted Turtle staring at him as he walked out of the kitchen. He felt ashamed. He locked the door to the bathroom and despite all efforts to the contrary, he wept. And he thought. “This is the lowest point of my life. Crying alone in a restaurant bathroom because I got chewed out by a beached whale.” Then he washed his face and mopped the bathroom. He could never get used to the scent of urine mixed with soap. It was almost an allergy. He spent the rest of the day managing the counter and thinking about the journal. When closing time came, he found Turtle and a few of the other waitresses and line cooks waiting and chatting outside. Starman paid them no mind and approached the door with indifference.
“Starman! Wait up!” It was Turtle, which was strange. Starman stopped. Turtle was wearing her regular clothes. She looked good.
“Oh hey. I already put everything away so --”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks…so listen everybody’s going out to the beach to watch the fireworks.” He’d forgotten, it was a holiday. “Wanna come with?” Why the sudden hospitality? He had never been invited to anything of theirs before.
“Turtle, he obviously doesn’t wanna come. Just leave him and lets go.” Said one of the line cooks.
“Yeah, Turtle leave the four-eyes and lets go.” Said another.
“Would you guys shut the fuck up?” Said Turtle. She turned back to Starman. “So? You wanna go? I mean I know you got chewed out by Piggy and all, fucking asshole, but this’ll get your mind off it.” So it was pity. Starman tasted bile. Then he remembered that he still had to buy that notebook and that the 99cents store would close within the hour.

>He went with Turtle to watch the fireworks
>He excused himself and went home to buy the notebook

>>333420
>>He excused himself and went home to buy the notebook

>>333420
>He excused himself and went home to buy the notebook
Starman is hesitant and cautious after what the Journal has said

>>333420
>>He excused himself and went home to buy the notebook

"No thanks. Your friends obviously do not want me to go. I would not want to intrude."

>>333420
Starman? Triple K Mafia Starman? Even if not, our destiny is clear, we must go to McDonalds, find Moonman, and become the commie killing celestial body we were always meant to be.

>>333432
>>333441
>>333446
The journal was more important than some pity party.
“Sorry...I have to go. Thanks, though.” And Starman shuffled away. As he passed, one of the line cooks, Burly, stuck out his foot to trip Starman and Starman fell hard on to the pavement.
“Burly what the fuck!” said Turtle. But Burly and his friends blew smoke and laughed and jeered. Turtle rushed forward to help Starman. Starman felt wet. His elbows were skinned. He stood up. He brushed away the dust from his pants and quietly walked away. Burly and his friends laughed harder. Starman got on the bus and inspected his elbows and wept for the second time in one day.

He forced his legs to walk to the 99cents store. It was a small shop, only two blocks away but it carried everything. It was owned by an old chinese couple. They were grandparent-age with grandparent-wrinkles and grandparent-smiles and grandparent-smells. The husband maintained the stock of items and did the shelving, the wife managed the counter. When Starman arrived, the shop was already closing. He begged them to be let in, and, perhaps because of the state of his elbows or perhaps because of the desperation in his eyes and mouth, they allowed him. And he bought his college-ruled composition notebook, the same brand as the one he had dug up in his backyard, and he went home.

His parents were still out. He made himself dinner and this was a routine thing for him because his parents did not cook, and he hated takeout. And because it had become routine, he had grown skilled in it and because he was skilled in it, he had grown to love it. He showered while his water boiled and his vegetables brewed. He cleaned his wounds and dressed them. He ate in front of the television because he was afraid of silence and because he was lonely. He washed his dishes and went into his room and locked the doors and wrote in his new composition notebook, the events of that day. Then he masturbated. It was 8:26PM when he was finished. He felt tired and there was work tomorrow.

>He read the next entry in the other journal
>He read a random entry in the other journal
>He browsed the internet
>He went to sleep

>>335491
>>He read the next entry in the other journal
We already masturbated, no need for the internet.

>>335491
>He read the next entry in the other journal

>>335654
>>335744
He felt tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Starman flipped to the next entry in the other journal:


July 5th, 2016

Keeping this journal is a revelation. I never realized just how empty the hours in my life are, how utterly vapid and mundane is my own existence. How do I know this to be true? I tried to remember that happened today, to write it down in the journal. But I couldn’t think of anything. It’s not that I have a bad memory; rather, I couldn’t differentiate today from any other day. It’s all just a blur of the same routine broken only by dates on a calendar.

One thing did happen though, that I can remember, that was out of the way -- a blind man got on the bus begging for change. I normally give whatever change I have, to these kinds of solicitors, if only as a matter of convenience, but I had no change on me. As the blind man passed through the bus and past my seat, he suddenly turned and faced me. He looked at me for a good two minutes before getting off at the next stop. I think there’s some significance to this old man but I can’t figure out what it is Anyway, nothing happened after that, he just left. But it left an impression on my mind. It really felt as if he was watching me, despite his blindness. Ah, it was probably my imagination.

Turtle looked really good today. She was wearing that pink lipstick with the gloss that makes her lower lip shiny under the lights. Maybe I should ask her out.Under no circumstances should you do thisBut it’s impossible for a guy like me to go out with a girl like her. Where would I begin? Where would I take her? How would I act? No. No sense in embarrassing myself. . The next entry is a few weeks later:

>>337596


July 28th, 2016

I haven’t been writing in the journal, not because of a lack of time but because motivation and maybe material, were lacking. There’s no sense in mindlessly recording every repetitive aspect of my mediocrity.

I started reading The Iliad a few weeks agoMake sure you do this too, Starman[/red[. Some questions came to me as I read. Why does Achilles persist in the war when he knows he’ll die? In the beginning, he refused to fight over a petty reason (some priest’s daughter he wanted to bang) but was that cowardice? In the end he does fight and he dies. But why? I thought about this for a while and I realized that we all know that we are going to die. We know it. But it’s relegated to the background and we persist in living anyway. All life is like that. At least Achilles had something, glory, honor, revenge, purpose. What am I living toward? What is my purpose?

I’ve finally saved up enough money to buy the new laptop but I overheard today that Turtle’s birthday was coming up. I want to buy something for her. It’s a meaningless gesture and it won’t accomplish anything, I know that. But still, I want to see her smile.Do not do this, it’s a waste of money, get the laptop instead. She’s not going to go out with you..Is it too much to ask? I want to ask her.Don’t..



August 3rd, 2016

I gave the gift to Turtle. It was a bracelet or something, I can’t really even remember it anymore. There was a birthday party at the restaurant after we closed up. Piggy gave her something and everyone else and even Burly gave her a present. I didn’t stay for the festivities. Somehow I felt out of place, disjointed, like an unset bone. I hope she liked my present. I had dip into the savings for the laptop. I guess I’ll have to wait till the end of August to buy it.

I didn’t even get to see her smile.

August 4th, 2016

Turtle definitely liked the present. She was wearing it today and she came over to personally thank me and tell me that she loved it. I got my smile. I’m feeling better than I have in many days. Maybe things are finally going my way? No. They are not. Do not pursue this woman Starman.By the end of this summer, I’m going to ask her. She’ll say no. I already know. But the way she smiled today, gives me some small hope. She’ll say no and I’ll move on from this silliness.

>>337600


August 3rd, 2016

I gave the gift to Turtle. It was a bracelet or something, I can’t really even remember it anymore. There was a birthday party at the restaurant after we closed up. Piggy gave her something and everyone else and even Burly gave her a present. I didn’t stay for the festivities. Somehow I felt out of place, disjointed, like an unset bone. I hope she liked my present. I had dip into the savings for the laptop. I guess I’ll have to wait till the end of August to buy it.

I didn’t even get to see her smile.

August 4th, 2016

Turtle definitely liked the present. She was wearing it today and she came over to personally thank me and tell me that she loved it. I got my smile. I’m feeling better than I have in many days. Maybe things are finally going my way? No. They are not. Do not pursue this woman Starman.By the end of this summer, I’m going to ask her. She’ll say no. I already know. But the way she smiled today, gives me some small hope. She’ll say no and I’ll move on from this silliness.

August 22nd, 2016

Nothing much has happened since Turtle’s birthday. I finished reading the Iliad and am now reading the Odyssey. Somehow it just doesn't have as much punch to it, it feels more like a fairytale. Make sure you read this too, Starman.. I finally saved up enough money (again) to buy the new laptop.

Next week is the fated date. I’m going to ask her next week. Definitely. Really, what’s the worse that could happen?

August 29th, 2016

Damn, I can’t even sleep, I’m so nervous. Tomorrow is the day I ask her. It’s my last chance before the break ends. She’ll say no. But I have to do it. No regrets. No regrets. Isn’t that why I started the journal? Wasn’t that the promise? Don’t ask her out Starman, whatever you do, do not ask her out..

Starman heard his parents at the front door, he checked his phone. It was 9PM, give or take a few minutes. He felt tired again, he need to catch up on lost sleep.

>He turned off the lights and went to bed
>He flipped to a random entry and continued reading
>He continued on to the next journal entry

>>337602
>He turned off the lights and went to bed

>>337602
>>He continued on to the next journal entry
Who the hell goes to sleep at 9? Lets stay up a bit longer and hope we don't just fall asleep.

>>337602
>He flipped to a random entry and continued reading

>>337898
>>337949

But it was only 9PM. There was time. Starman grabbed the journal again and flipped to the next entry:



August 30th, 2016

I don’t get it. I don’t understand it. I’m human right? I’m a human being like everyone else? I get hurt and I feel joy and fear and pain and I bleed just like other people. Why am I treated like scum all the time? What did I do wrong? Who did I offend? Am I not even allowed to dream?

I asked Turtle out today. She was already going out with Burly. Since when. Since, her birthday. Sorry. It’s ok. Sorry. It’s fine. And then Burly came out from the kitchen and Turtle told him and Burly laughed and Burly got angry. I left them alone. But Burly had a cold anger, a killer’s anger, and after work Burly and his gang met me by the bus stop. Sorry. No, you fucked up, you went after my girl. Sorry. Nope, you have to pay. Sorry. Hold him. The blows were quick and hard. They were careful. They were meticulous. They hit only places where bruises wouldn’t be seen. I threw up. I fell down. They picked me up. They hit me harder. And if I tell anyone they’ll come after me again and again. And if I so much as look at Turtle again they’ll come after me. And if I act funny or give any hint of anything, they’ll come.

I just don’t get it. Am I just trash? So I can’t even aspire to these small things without reprisal. I don’t know what to do anymore. It just hurts. I wish weren’t so weak. I wouldn’t hurt other people if I was strong. I wouldn’t be like Burly, who takes pleasure in the violence, who fucking enjoys it like a psychopath. Why did Turtle fall for a guy like him? Why does it come down to good-looks and muscles in the end? Fuck Turtle. Fucking whore.



Starman felt his throat squeeze and his stomach tighten. He held back. He flipped to a random page in the journal:

July 24th, 2017

Moleman and Newgirl have been going out a lot in these days. I haven’t seen much of either of them. I thought I was lonely before, when I didn’t know anyone or speak to anyone, but that’s not loneliness, that’s only the shade, the surface. The root of loneliness can only come after knowing companionship and love and friendship. The polarity is what makes it brutal. I have never been more alone in my life than this moment, writing in the dark, by the windowsill. I want to text to them or message them, but I’m afraid of how they might respond. If they say the wrong word, if they misstep because they are unhindered by their happiness, I don’t know if I can handle it. So I live out slow days in carefully monitored pain, instead of bearing a final lightning strike and going out in glory. Glory isn’t for me. I’ll die in ignominy and I want to say ‘quiet dignity’ but I know it’ll be more quiet than dignified.

I haven’t told either of them about Mom. They’re happy right now. Like I was happy once. I don’t want to ruin that with my problems, they might hate me for doing that and that would redouble my own self-hate.

I need to write this down. I need to make this concrete. I love Newgirl. It’s not just affection, it’s not emotional or spiritual, or even physical, except maybe in the sense that it is a natural law, like gravity. Mass attracts mass, Like repels Like, Starman loves Newgirl. It’s the kind of love which is already a memory, the kind that exists as history, that always was. It’s the forever kind of love. The desire to fuse and assimilate every particle of each other’s soul and flesh, the intense attachment, yes, the feeling of incompleteness festering forever, living on half a life with half a lung and half a heart and half a soul. Where heartbeats hurt and breaths are only countdowns to the next meeting.

Perhaps part of it is guilt, I try to tell myself this, but at once I know that it isn’t so, that this love is the kind that washes away the past, a cancerous kind of love, the brain tumor kind, that eats away and engulfs all memory and process. The kind that usurps every sensation and every cranny and crevice of neural fiber, until you wish you could really love, just love, because this isn’t love. It’s poison.

I want to hate them. I want to hate both of them. But how can I? I let this happen. Yes. I wanted to be a noble martyr. I wanted to suffer for their sake, to let them be happy because I was a coward. Because as potent as this love is, it is still lesser than my fear. Why am I like this?

But it’s too late now.Unfortunately no, it isn’t. Stay away from Newgirl, Starman. They are getting along well. And when they hold hands I want to cut my own off. Maybe I should run away, just go far away, where it doesn’t matter anymore. But these are stupid fantasies, stupider than the reality I’ve made for myself. Why didn’t I just hold her then? Why didn’t I bring my lips to her lips? Why didn’t I grab her shoulders and shake her and tell her that I loved her, tell her simply, without embellishment or poetry or even words?

I’ll do what I can. Love at a distance, I’ll stick by her at school, I’ll take the double beatings. Let it be penance for my stupidity.



Starman wondered who this Newgirl was, and why he was, or will be, so deeply in love with her. Was she the reason he would kill himself? All at once he was sure of it. She was. But he was excited to meet her. He would not make the same mistakes as this version of him, he would not be a coward and let Newgirl be taken. And yet Newgirl was the reason for his suicide, shouldn’t he steer clear? Could he, even if he wanted to?

>He continued reading from this entry
>He flipped back and continued reading from the last entry
>He went to sleep

>>338863
>>He flipped back and continued reading from the last entry
Why would you read something out of order? We'll get there eventually and we got the gist of staying away from Newgirl so we're good for now.

>>338863
>He flipped back and continued reading from the last entry

>>338863
>He flipped back and continued reading from the last entry

Starman flipped back to the last entry. No sense in going out of order, everything had its time. But he was afraid now, because if the journal were true he would kill himself but if it were false he would not meet this Newgirl, he would not fall in love, he would not have a friend who he cared for so much that he would let him take away who he loved. He didn’t want to die. He had no philosophical preconceptions. He bluntly feared death. And yet...what was his life now? How did he know that he wouldn’t kill himself anyway? That the loneliness wouldn’t get to him or something else, maybe something worse? And if he followed his own tracks, wouldn’t he be guaranteed some happiness? And then to die...but to have lived at least, to have loved someone. To have died in grief or maybe in anger -- some emotion, something strong and full of blood. Not empty. Not as he was now. He grabbed the notebook and lay back on his bed. His parents chatted quietly in the kitchen. He continued reading:


August 31st, 2016

Burly gave me looks all day today. I am black and blue all over, except the face and the arms. They were meticulous. They were careful. Because I am scared of them, I won’t tell anyone. But I don’t think they’ll bother me anymore. Turtle asked if I was ok, and I knew Burly was watching us, listening. So, I said I was fine and Turtle went back into her shell of ignorance and all was right with the world.

I ordered the laptop today and a few books on Artificial Intelligence. I tell myself it’s preparation for the future. But really, I can’t stay here, where I am. I can’t be this person anymore. I’ll devote myself to something, purpose, yes. Like Achilles. Then even if I march to certain death or failure, even then, I have amounted to something. Some small glory.

School starts next week.

September 7th, 2016

There was a new transfer student in our class today. Newgirl. The others don’t like her because of her stutter. She couldn’t even introduce herself properly, it was so bad. But she didn’t look like a bad person; no, in a way she was similar to me. Quiet. Reserved, yes. Shyness that was enforced. She never smiled. She never looked at anyone or displayed any emotion at all.

She sat next to me because, I don’t know, just because.

I know she’s going to be bullied. I know it, already, the way they look at her and the way they smack their lips and curl their eyebrows. I want to tell her to get away from this place. But I know if I make any contact with her, they will come for me. And I can’t let this happen now because,now, I have purpose. I have plans. I can’t be distracted by these things. I won’t help her.

>>346850

September 9th, 2016

I can’t concentrate in class. Snowface is the problem. She’s pretty. She sits in front of me in math class and I have to observe her. It’s a compulsion, an unhealthy one. I don’t even think she knows my name. And I have learned my lessons from Burly and Turtle. But I like to watch her, from a distance. The way she moves her hands, the way she tilts her head to watch the windows or hang her boredom on her hand or the slight parting of her teeth when gets called on by the teacher. An unhealthy understanding of her habits and routines.

Maybe this is enough for me. She has a boyfriend, I think. And even if not, she can get one without much trouble and it won’t be me. It’s enough to just watch her and be thrilled.

September 11th, 2016

I’ve finished working through the book on machine learning. The natural language processing stuff looks like it has the greatest potential. Most of the programs I’ve built so far are only toy programs but I don’t know yet what I should build. Maybe it’s better to just keep reading and amassing more information.

When the time is right I’ll know what to do.

September 16th, 2016

I was right. Newgirl gets bullied every day. Maybe worse than me. Actually I and the other ‘scholarshits’ have been relatively bully-free for the past few weeks. All the attention is being focused on Newgirl, the ‘stutterbug’. They do the usual stuff, pin notes on her back. Call her names in the hallways, trip her, knock down her books, put gum in her hair.

I do pity her. But I have a purpose now. I can’t deal with the backlash I know will come if I help her. I get a stomache when I think about it. But guilt is useless to me. I have goals.

September 22nd, 2016

I came very close to saying something today. It’s getting worse and worse for Newgirl. Everyone treats her like shit, everyday, as a matter of course. Somehow it’s already become normal, almost tradition-like. I don’t do it myself, of course, but I don’t help her either.

Isn’t it her own fault for not leaving? She can’t even say anything in protest. She takes it all in silence. Stupid bitch.



Starman felt sleep slip under his eyelids. He rubbed his eyes. His mother knocked on his door and told him to go to bed. He turned off the light in the room.

>He waited until his parents fell asleep, then turned on his desk lamp to continue reading
>He went to sleep, there was work in the morning

>>346855
>>He went to sleep, there was work in the morning
Today is July 4th right? We should make sure we have some extra change for tomorrow.

>>346855
>>He went to sleep, there was work in the morning
Starman has a purpose, he can move his goals forward with his laptop and programming, and get to know Newgirl and maybe find himself some solace.
I really like the concept and presentation of this so far OP. Thank you, and keep it up please :)

>>355686
New thread in case anyone is still hanging around here.