Star's Theory

Broken Silence

I'm a strong believe of fate, not because I was pressured and not because of religion, but just by pure random choice.

When I was six years old, like any other rebellious child, I went to the playground without my parents' permission. There's a broken wooden swing hanging on a long tree branch that they had always forbidden me from touching. But something about it's cracked seat and moss covered strings attaching it to the branch drew me in. I ran up to the tree, panting, and the guilt of disobeying my parents started to settle in.

I quickly made a promise to myself that if I could swing on the swing, just once, without it breaking, I wouldn't have to tell my parents about this little trip and they wouldn't be mad. If they were right after all and I did break it, I would confess everything. Looking back, it was a deadly risky decision, but seemed completely fair at the time. So I swung my legs over the wooden board, feeling the aged, ratty rope in my hands and swung back and forth.

Back and forth, back and forth. It creaked and rattled, staining my clothes and hands but even after about 10 swings it remained strong and sturdy. I ran all the way back home, delighted with myself, and climbed back in through the doggy door, never to tell my parents.

From then on, I believed fate not only existed, but was the core of every action: everything positive and negative. Every once in a while, I tested fate on the most random things. I'd be eating expired yogurt, thinking, 'if this yogurt makes me sick, I will study for my test tomorrow. Otherwise, I'll probably be fine.' I followed these little rules that I set for myself and it gave me the feeling that I had some control of my life, but that if things didn't turn out exactly as I wanted it wasn't all my fault either.

So right now, I'm sitting on the floor, the papers still scattered around, making a silent promise to myself.

In the next hour, if I get a notification from my phone from someone I know, even if it's just asking about homework, or if  someone comes into this room, specifically looking for me, this life is worth living. Otherwise, I'm simply a waste.

I have to admit, I sort of created this promise in favor of myself. Clara is not only on her phone practically 24/7 but I know she would never leave something like this unresolved for more than a few minutes. I'm surprised she isn't knocking on my door already. I guess this should mean that I truly do want to live, that dying isn't exactly favorable, but I can't seem to come to that point, not really.

So, not wanting to leave any loose ends untied, I send a simple heart to my mom and dad and I do this fairly frequently so they wouldn't find it strange. Then, almost as an afterthought I shoot a quick email to Star, trying to sound as normal as possible.

To: starstheoryprevails

From: aworkinprogress

Subject: A Work In Progress

Alright, so maybe not the devil but I wouldn't call it an angel either. And I was thinking, since I had you explain your username, I might as well tell you mine. There's not much behind it, to be honest, just that everyone you talk to, every living breathing person is a work in progress. Their life is still ahead of them which leaves much room for change. Even if they're dying of terminal cancer, they still have the chance to talk to someone, maybe it's you, and change something, so their work is not done yet. We're all just in progress, aren't we? And life will take up on a journey and lead us to our destination, whatever it is meant to be.

- A

ps. Yes please, movies are much better

pps. No, that is not cliché

I'm pretty proud of the email. If it was published in one of those books recording the last words (or texts, I guess) of a famous person, I'd be pretty pleased with that. And so, I sit back and wait, starting a timer on my phone for one hour. The countdown ticks to 59 minutes, then to 58 and 57. I watch it as it possibly ticks down the minutes of my life, and I wait.

When it's down to 10 minutes, I've grown restless, but remain in the same position. Clara, where are you? If she doesn't appear, then what? Am I really going to do it? Off myself? End my work even though it should be in progress? Is my story really supposed to be over? I wonder these questions repeatedly until the timer reaches three minutes.

Ding.

I jump up, willing myself not to be too excited because it's very possibly just my professor assigning a new item of homework, which doesn't count. But then, I turn on my phone and read the notification.

New email from: starstheoryprevails