The Anticipated Serendipity

The Anticipated Serendipity

Collection of random short stories. Hope you enjoy :D

Disclaimer: most of these stories are based on real-life situations, so they may not make any sense :D

Chapter 1

Kinda Dead- Nate

by: FerSure
"You told Carissa?" I ask Thessalia, indignant. She continues stuffing her books into her locker, without even bothering to turn her head.

"I said," I tell her, pulling her earphones off, "did you tell Carissa?"

"Tell Carissa about what?" she asks, batting her eyelashes innocently, as if she were unaware of all the damage she has done.

And that's the main problem. Thessalia Christopoulou gets away with just about everything, for being delicate, cute and a dying girl. Anything she does is rapidly applauded or 'forgotten' by the entire school, for it seems that everyone has made it their personal goal to keep her happy during her 'final' months- which also seem to be interminable.

"That I liked her," I say, pulling her apart.

She acts like she's taken aback, but then regains her composure and replies:

"So what?" she answers, unashamed and guilt-free.

"No, I'd be perfectly fine with it- had you not told her that I'm a 'player.'"

"I can't lie," she shrugs.

"We both know that's a lie."

"So you're friends with me for a trimester and you think you know me? Bless your soul, Nate. That's very cute."

Just for a second, I'm the one that's baffled- of course, she knew what would happen. Her mind's a calculator: always analyzing different outcomes and the nature of human behaviour. I have never believed much in destiny, or divine beings, but in her case, I make an exception. Although it sounds cruel, sometimes I think she's sick for a reason, and that is, that she's not made for this world. Her mind has exceeded the limits of human reasoning, and she gets bored because of it, so she resorts to dark methods in order to entertain herself.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, a tad calmer now.

"I felt bad for Carissa."

"You?" I laugh, "but you have no conscience! Say it: you were jealous."

"Me? Jealous? You flatter yourself, Tree Boy."

"Real original, Tessa, real original. You can't bring yourself to admit that you like me."

"I don't like you, never did, and never will. You have greasy hair and smell like ketchup, and I have important things to get done before the year ends," she tells me, turning to walk back to her locker and leave.

"Then why do you have a problem with me flirting with Carissa?" I ask, as I follow her.

"I may not have a conscience, but unlike you, I can distinguish right from wrong. This is terribly wrong," she says.

"And telling her was not?"

"You were going to text her for the first week. You'd make out by the second week, and then by the third week, you'd start avoiding her... don't you think I did her a favor?"

She finally leaves, and I stop in the middle of the hallway like an idiot. I watch her walk, paying close attention to the way her emanciated legs tremble when she steps, how she sways her arm back and forth, and the length of her strides... For a moment, I begin to think like her. I see everything in ones and zeroes, black and white, x and y, and suddenly, the world seems so simple: every problem seems small, and humans so ephimerable, easy to replace, vulnerable- no, I shake it off. It must be a burden to think like that every living second.

In the span of what feels like a few moments later, I find myself at my friend Jay's house, at a party where everyone is grossly drunk and acting like idiots. I stare at my phone blankly, waiting for Carissa's text. She must be horrified by whatever barbarity Tessa told her, and I cannot bring myself to text her. I grab a can and push it down in two or three seconds.

And the second one follows, and then after that, a third one, a fourth one... a sixth. When I regain consciousness and realize I have drunk six cans of beer, I rush to the restroom, only to find the Devil crouching over the toilet bowl.

"I thought you were against underage drinking," I laugh.

"I am. I'm also not drunk," she coughs out.

At first, I'm confused, but then it hits me, and as soon as it does, I throw myself on top of her by instinct, or maybe by the influence of alcohol. She does not move.

"Tessa- why?" I slur.

"I ate too much," she says, almost hypnotized, "I'm sorry, I can't do anything right. I forgot to lock the door."

"Don't purge- don't. You're already too thin."

"No, I'm a failure. I can't do anything right. I can't even stay alive," she chuckles.

"It's not your fault. You didn't ask to die," I reassure her.


"Yeah?" I reply, holding her arms back.

"Are you sure you like Carissa?"

I sigh, "Maybe. I mean, I'm just so confused-"

"No, if you like her, then go for it. Just be ready to commit: don't just use her."

"Tessa, if you want me to-" she cuts me off again.

"I know why you don't do relationships. You're afraid of commitment, but not so much because of having to settle, but because you're scared of getting hurt."

"I thought you considered four months too little time to get to know someone."

"You're transparent, Nate," she whispers, "you're just like me."

"Commitment is a big thing," she continued, "it hurts sometimes, I'm not going to lie, but in a very strange way."

"How so?" I enquire.

She turns around, so I can see her bloodshot blue eyes, run-down makeup, and smiles at me, like she's never done before, and says: "he hit me and it felt like a kiss."

I feel like telling her that what she talks about is not commitment, but abuse, but then I decide against it. Knowing Tessa, she's probably perfectly aware of it, but refuses to acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry," I apologize.

And suddenly, I feel the strange urge to make out with her, no matter how much her breath stinks, how much mine reeks- I just have the overwhelmind desire to make out with her right there in the almost-dark restroom. I get close to her face, but she pushes me away.

"Not so fast, playboy," she stops me.

"I don't want to play games anymore. Tessa, help. Help me."

"I can't help you," she begins laughing, hysterically, "darling, I can only bring you trouble. I'm the dying girl."

As soon as she's done, she stands up, and leaves me sitting on the floor, dumbfounded, just like hours earlier in the hallway at school. At least I made some progress, I tell myself: first time I leave a party without hooking up with a girl.

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