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10/20/2005

there was never a fallen i

Her death made her an instant celebrity. She died in such an instant that she was never given the chance to contort her face in exaggerated distress like those of local horror movies. Her death was not as special as you would expect it to be.


What happened was people on the building saw her fell on the floor, mouth wide open, eyes half shut, her fist closed, and body slightly covered with bluebooks of her Math students. It was a very sudden incident that nobody on the faculty room made any noise after she fell. Most of the people there were frozen on their places as they watched her pale body on the floor being covered by flying bluebooks. They have lost their nerves to react on such situations after 3 consecutive deaths on their department.


Her death, by far, was the most insignificant and non-gory of all. She died as if God, or maybe Satan, suddenly snapped his fingers on her and summoned her on his kingdom. The first person who died in the department was a young Math teacher, who was rumored to be a class terror, had his body slashed 40 times by an unknown stranger din front of his class. The second casualty was poisoned to death by her students during their sem-ender party. Findings showed that she had a huge dose of hemlock; the same poison that killed Socrates. The third one was burned alive after his big bike exploded on spot because of chewing gums that blocked the exhaust outlet.


There was nothing special in her death, really. Maybe the fact that she’s fourth on the list made her death showbiz. Media people mushroomed on the place, constantly talking about the sudden deaths on the Math department, as if they can predict when the next killing would be. The police force can now be seen roaming around the campus to spot potential killers. Anyone can be a potential killer. But everyone appeared innocent. The police force will have a very hard time finding out who the killers are.


She was an instructor of Math11, a subject usually taken as an elective by other courses far from the spell of numbers. She was the typical instructor who as far as I knew, tried her best to teach her students ways of unlocking the puzzles of numbers. She always gave bonus exams for her students to cope up; she even devoted some of her time to tutor her Math 66 students (those students who took math1 for the 6th time). Unlike most instructors, she had high mortality rate of passers in class. In general, she had a good reputation with the students. So when her instant death occurred, the faculty, as well as most students was bothered.


It was lunch break. The faculty was quiet, contemplating about the recent deaths that occurred. Conversations were done in whispers. Everybody was vigilant, trying to be aware of their surroundings, afraid that an assassin might come their way and kill them all at once. But despite the tension inside the department, she remained calm, checking the final exam papers of her Math11 students. She had with her side a plastic of oranges she just bought from the market before coming to the department. She loved oranges. Most of her shirts were orange. The cover of her record book was orange. Her desk was orange, everything was orange. Her jovial personality was highlighted by her favorite orange color. Students could easily distinguish her from the rest of the faculty, whom they saw as zombies. So, having a positive disposition in mind, she was never afraid to be killed. She remained calm at all times and was always armed by her sweet smile.


The orange was peeled by her newly polished orange fingernails. Slowly, the citrus scent of the orange fruit diffused in the air as its sweet syrup traveled along her fingernails, giving it a natural orange glow. She gently placed each orange skin she tore apart on a small basket in her table. After peeling half of the orange fruit in her hand, she paused for a while and rubbed the lower un-peeled portion of the orange, feeling its sticky juice on her palm. She continued peeling, and in less than a minute, she finished opening her orange, her orange fruit that she treasured like gold.


She took the fruit and made it touch her lips coated with orange lip gloss. She was in no rush of swallowing the fit part, so she innocently played with it on her mouth. The sweet and sour blend of the orange syrup gave her a relaxing feeling as it slowly ran down her throat, tracing the path of thirst inside her. The fibers of the fruit tickled her gums, her jaws and her palette. The fruit part glided into her teeth and tongue, slowly mixing with her saliva, forming a bolus ready to run down her throat.


The already formed bolus slowly inched its way down her trachea, and then to her air passage, when suddenly, it was met by an unexpected force. It was met by a force so strong it caused traffic on her air passage. It caused traffic jam, no; it just jammed the air passage, instantly taking away all the remaining air in her system. The orange fruit was met by a burp.


Yes. A burp and an orange fruit caused her death. The suffocating feeling of having the forceful air of burp rising up her throat met by the fast gliding of the bolus down her esophagus took her life in an instant. Pretty simple death isn’t it? Far from the death that I’ve been preparing for my Math11 instructor in case he would fail me.


I managed to enter the faculty room despite the “No Students Allowed” sign on the door, and the seemingly endless queue of students coming in the building to check if they are going to take the final exam.


Surreptitiously, I entered the room, avoiding the glance of the suspicious faculty members around. Drops of sweat are racing down my forehead to my chest. I checked if my instructor was in his cubicle. I arranged my things first, my bulging backpack and my big long Fibrella umbrella.


Yes. He was there, waiting for his students like a lion waiting for his prey. No. He doesn’t have any resemblance to a lion. He looked more like an overgrown fetus having the features of Joe d’ Mango.


He gave me a menacing look accessorized with his insulting grin as I entered his cubicle. He worked his hand under a table, as if rummaging a gun under. He looked at me again and smiled. I saw that he got himself a pen, and at the same time took my class card from the side of is desk. Still grinning at me, he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could utter any word at me, I stuck my Fibrella inside his opened mouth.


He got shocked and held the body of my Fibrella but at that moment, I was stronger than him. I exerted an extra force to push my Fibrella inside his throat, giving him a deep throat penetration. At first, he struggled to fight, but nearly choked afterwards, so he just held on the edge of his seat. People around are still oblivious of what’s happening inside the cubicle. He never uttered any sound at all, he just simply can’t. I saw tears moistening his eyes, pleading to remove the forceful object in his throat. I saw his body shaking in pain, in helplessness. Blood started to rush out his nose. His eyes slowly bulged out of their sockets; oxygen was fast escaping from his body systems.


He tried to reach a hand on my direction, still not making any noise at all. I commended his effort with a more forceful thrust inside his throat. He couldn’t make any sound at all. I saw my class card. I remembered the days in our class. Everything flashed back in an instant; I wasn’t able to comprehend things at all. I pressed the button on my Fibrella. Its long and sharp support spikes stuck on his throat and came out piercing his neck. It was still a silent scenario until blood splattered and squirted around the place. Still, people around were oblivious, busy checking their students’ papers, enjoying their power trip.


I flashed my teeth on him. His face was now soaked in blood, His neck acted as a cushion for the long spikes of my Fibrella. I never imagined that it would be that gory and easy. When I saw that he was still moving, I turned the body of the umbrella around, instantly snapping his head from his body, slowly tearing the tendons and the ligaments that connected them together. The veins are slowly torn from his neck, squirting more blood on the floor. Now, the floor appeared to be washed by a liquid floor wax of blood.


I took his head with my right hand, and carried it outside the faculty room.





End of scenario.

My Fibrella was never washed with blood.

I passed math 11.

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