My eyes met darkness; its sudden appearance left me disconcerted for a moment.

I soon focused, however. After a few additional moments, occupied with the action of throwing my arms about in a flurry and kicking the bed-sheets from my legs, I was able to ease myself into a relaxed state of mind, a skill I have had the fortune to practice regularly over the years; I still, however, felt somewhat ill, although I was not in pain.

With interest, I took note of the numbers to my left that filled the room with its glowing account of this epoch. I ingested the familiar, odorous scent of my bed-sheets. I felt the air entering from behind my head, through the window located just behind my pillow, and felt it play about my ears. I was in my bedroom; it was early in the morning and I had been dreaming.

I noticed how the moisture of surprise had saturated my skin, as I squirmed about in my bed. Each time I moved my leg the slightest degree, my nerves would be met with the sensation of dampness. This puzzled me, for the night was cold and my window was opened wide.

I must have been frightened.

Perspiration that had previously been beaded upon my forehead now began to stream down my right temple, merciless to my sensitivity. I shuddered and then resolved to ignore these physicalities. Instead, I attempted to recall what exactly it was that caused my body to amass the dampness that I was presently soaking in. Just as each previous attempt, however, the effort proved fruitless. It seemed that I would once again play victim to the blankness that always remained after these frequent bursts from blurred images into darkness.

The uncertainty and mystery surrounding my dreams had always left me drained. The feeling of sickness I had acquired diminished in this instance, however, enabling me to entertain lighter thoughts; I noted this with interest before drifting off to sleep once again.

I awoke a few hours later, at the usual time. The glow of the numbers indicated that I was to begin my day performing the usual routine if I was inclined to make the bus on time. Accordingly, I arose from my sheets and began to dress.

In an hour, I was outside, near the highway, awaiting the arrival of the bus. The morning made my ears red. The low temperature prompted motion in my arms and legs--and encouraged that this motion be maintained. Still, it was with appreciation that I noted both the surrounding sun-light and melodious sounds that the birds, flying far above all that I would be forced to reckon with on any day, exhibited for purposes I would not begin to fathom. The air was too cold to detect any sort of scent; in fact, my nose was met with irritation each time I made the effort to determine the fragrant quality of the surrounding oxygen. Thus, I resorted to breathing through my mouth and experienced a much more tolerable irritation, which left me momentarily satisfied.

Eventually, the bus arrived. The yellow trap pulled to a stop, its brakes piercing the tranquil morning air with a shrill squeak, and opened its doors for me. Without a look behind, I climbed the steps, greeted the driver and placed myself in the very last seat. Promptly, I closed my eyes and attempted to prepare myself for the next seven hours I would have to endure at school. This, however, was made impossible by the children.

The children on the bus went round and round within my head. Every morning they did so, without mercy, without exception. One would think that a person could adapt to such an atmosphere. I was, however, still very much a victim of their yelps, yells and unconscionable verbal attacks against their peers. The reprimands and threats from the driver are too idle to be of any consequence.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bus pulled alongside the high school in the usual slow and steady manner. Several moments later, I was able to make my way past the throes of squirming children to the front of the transit vehicle, almost inadvertently knocking several of them unconscious with my book-bag over the course of the procession. I then proceeded to dive out of the door, landing hard onto the pavement. I noted with curiosity--as I seemed to do each time I took the bus--that I felt as if I had accomplished a great task, just by managing to survive the ride.

I shook out the tiny, embedded stones from my hands and advanced upon the school building.

I passed several students on the way to my locker. It was interesting to see that I seemed to represent some sort of threat to the general passerby. I once computed that only twelve percent of those individuals actually looked at me in the eye as we passed in the hall. On this morning, three of the four avoided me; the eyes of the fourth darted from my eyes to the ground before the he let out a hurried yelp and muttered an apology. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing in response.

My locker was broken. Conveniently, it did not require an intricate combination to open it; rather, it usually gave way on the third wrench, if one was to use the halfway-protruding door as a handle. One might worry that belongings would be unsafe in such a broken locker, and that assumption would undoubtedly be valid. I, however, had nothing of importance to clutter the box up with, so I cared little whether or not it was tampered with.

It took me a few moments to shift my weight accordingly. I placed my left leg against the wall, my right leg behind me and my fingers within the crack of the door, all with great deliberation. With all of my strength, I wrenched it a total of four times before it swung open with a loud crack. With satisfaction, I took note of the result and wiped sweat from the small of my back.

I stuffed my book-bag inside and rammed my shoulder into the door, a maneuver that seemed to bring about more glances from passersby than the previous action. With this burden absent from my back, I briskly strode to the entrance of the library, paused to prepare myself for the encounter I was sure to face, and opened the door.

The library was one single room. It was enormous.

I entered slowly, and saw, as usual, the several hurried bodies that moved about in a frenzy, grabbing at the books that lined the shelves and at the magazines that were strewn across the assorted plywood tables. Voices meshed into one single buzz, pencils scratched and tapped, and--much to the dismay of the hissing, wild-haired librarian that scurried around, as frantic as the students--they could not become quiet. As I walked about, observing and occasionally jumping aside to narrowly miss a passing student, my ears began to throb. It was interesting how quickly this occurred each morning I came to the library, almost without exception.

Suddenly, a finger tapped my shoulder. I turned around to find Iris staring shyly at my feet.

"Hello, Smith," she stammered with effort.

I muttered a cordial response and proceeded to walk over to an unoccupied computer. I sat down, hoping to be left alone. This, however, was not meant to be.

"Don't you like me, Smith?" Iris demanded shyly, creeping up behind me. With a small voice, she seemed to mumble, "You hardly ever speak three words to me, Smith."

I attempted to explain to her that it was not anything personal. It was simply that I did not have the time to form a relationship with anyone at the moment.

"But what are you so busy with, Smith?" she inquired.

I was shaken by this question. I really had not expected her to ask. I stuttered a quick, blatantly false excuse and scurried away from the computer, making haste for the exit and taking pains to avoid knocking anyone aside.

It was interesting to note how glad I was to leave the swollen room.

The first period bell rang and I retrieved my book-bag from my broken locker without any further confrontations. I made my way to class, dodging the mass of students coming from the opposite direction and maintaining my balance as I was pushed from behind several times throughout the journey. It was with great skill that I was able to slide into class without any bruises.

The first half of class focused on typical rhetoric. My interest was held together by the billowy clouds hanging against the soft, blue backdrop that was visible through the set of windows, as well as by the possibility that I would be able to survive the next six and one quarter hours of school. To my surprise, the observations and mental computations I was occupied with were interrupted by an interesting question that the teacher posed, the point, I surmised, being to allow the students to delve into a thoughtful discussion.

"What would it be like to suddenly find yourself completely ignored by society?" asked the teacher, setting the thesis.

I raised an eyebrow. The students yawned.

"What emotions would you encounter? What questions would arise? Would you be afraid? Would you pose, to the general public, the question: 'What have I done to deserve this treatment?'" the teacher continued.

With an encompassing glance, I surveyed the class from my position. A few students sat hunched over, chins resting on their hands (they stared blankly ahead). Others sat a little straighter, with their backs against their chairs, arms crossed (they also stared blankly ahead). One or two lay sleeping, their heads cradled in their folded arms (it was impossible to see which direction their eyes were).

The silence was deafening.

Before I was able to manage an adjustment to my posture, the sound of a throat being cleared smashed the air. I moved my eyes about and saw that it came from the teacher, who was now walking around the room, staring intently at each individual face with a roving pair of eyes. Everyone had lunged in shock at the sound of the throat. Each student was now quite aware of their role in the proposition of the teacher and several began to speak at once, in response.

I, however, was suddenly preoccupied by the appearance of two young boys--whom I had never seen before--making their way past the windows.

At first, I could not be sure if the peculiar colors they consisted of were what drew my attention to them; they both had blond hair and dressed in yellow, which, for some reason struck me as odd--as if their alignment suggested that the two were identical, even though they were obviously unrelated and one was much taller than the other. After a moment, I was unsure if the attraction was due to the fact that they walked with such slow countenance. Eventually, and in conclusion, I was convinced that it was their completely blank facial expressions which caught my interest so completely, and the fact that their eyes focused on mine the entire time they made their way past the window. I was obliged to reflect that those eyes--both sets--did not lack any sort of emotion; indeed, they both seemed to be afire with the utmost of intensity, in complete contrast to the lack of expression upon their faces. I could not understand why such eyes had been directed toward myself. I felt a sharp sweat produce at the small of my back.

After what seemed like several minutes, the boys had appeared and disappeared in a matter of seconds. I sat at my desk, lost in thought. I hardly noticed the excited chatter of the students and nearly missed the statement that the teacher made, with the same level of excitement exhibited by the pupils.

"We'll continue this discussion the next time we have class," the teacher shouted.

The excitement of the students, however, was now irrelevant to me.

The bell rang.

I rushed from the classroom, ahead of everyone.

I am certain that I dreamt of those eyes that night.

Upon awakening, however, I was unable to recall precisely what the dream entailed; it seemed doubtful that it was of anything but those eyes.

Without surprise, I noted how damp my sheets were. Without interest, I ignored the glow of the clock. Instead, I strained my memory and attempted to uncover any further details of the dream. I broke off the attempt in disgust shortly after commencing--why should I be making such an effort to recall those eyes? They were distressing.

What was it about them that bothered me so greatly? That was a mystery I felt bound to uncover. I spent the rest of the night examining the question but drifted off to sleep before making any progress.

I awoke in the morning with a nauseating headache. I found it difficult to dress with any measure of excitement and cared very little whether or not I was to eat oatmeal or hamburger stew (even though the latter had once made me vomit for hours; the mere thought of it made my stomach turn). It was interesting to note that I did, however, anticipate reading the local newspaper; equally interesting was the fact that once it actually came into my possession, its smell revolted me.

It seemed as if the day would prove interesting.

I finished my bowl of oatmeal without taking so much a glance at the nauseating newspaper. I passed my yawning parents in the hall, acknowledged them with a respectful nod, had one returned correspondingly, and went back into my bedroom; once there, I fell backwards onto my bed, laid the back of my head upon my hands, and noted that the cold, sterile air in my room hurt my throat and nose. I turned over and closed the window in an effort to stifle the chilling effect. As I returned to my former position, my thoughts began to turn over an interesting thought that I had been recently exploring in my head.

The thought had plagued me for some time, but only recently had I molded it into something resembling a coherent rationale; it was more of a theory, really. This theory was, quite simply, that human beings have the necessity to hate without remorse.

It must be stressed that the necessity to hate without remorse occured only among fellow human beings. The direction of hatred toward anything that was not human was completely superficial and unnatural. For instance, when a person claimed to despise a political system, the hatred may be sincere but it was also inadequate. Thus, it became inevitable that this person would cite an official representing that political system, in some form, to espouse their hatred. If that political system had not been manifested--if said official did not, in fact, exist--then that person will accordingly hate whomever derived the mechanics of that system.

This hatred of human beings was by no means exclusive to individuals, but could be manifested as organizations, governments, and so on.

Looking back upon history, it was obvious that war and violence both stemmed from hatred of fellow man. It could be assumed--and it seemed only natural--that hatred would one day lead to the extinction or wholesale slaughter of humanity as a whole, turning citizen against citizen, neighbor against neighbor, and--inevitably--friend against friend.

If one was to observe the present-day society, it was clear that human beings promote the idea of hatred. Division was the most common-place manifestation of this policy. In the United States, diversity was applauded. How else could diversity end but in blood-shed? Because it is natural for human beings to hate, would this diversity not encourage individuals to take arms against one another--ultimately in disgust?

"Love" seemed, quite obviously, to be a lie; or perhaps, a mere abstraction. Or perhaps it did exist. In that case, it was nothing like that which is professed to be "love" in society, but some sort of strange, obscure, emotional phenomenon. It was most definitely lacking definition.

I had no solution to my theory. I did not believe that anything can be done to prevent the inevitable. It was merely what I believed would happen, in light of my thoughts and observations.

Now, as for the matter of remorse...

Much to my vexation, I drifted off to sleep sometime during the examination of my theory. My mother woke me in an excited manner and informed me of the impending arrival of the bus, which only intensified my annoyance. I grabbed my book-bag and lunch, hurried out the door, ran down the steps, noticed the dark clouds beginning to enter the sky above me, and managed to stop the bus before it passed on by. I boarded the yellow trap, huffing and puffing, and, in accordance with routine, seated myself in the very back and prepared myself for another day of school. This time, however, I was short of breath and even more irritated with the burgeoning hate-mongers than usual.

The rain began to pour down heavily outside.

My social studies class immediately followed lunch, and provided an interesting--albeit perplexing--experience that afternoon.

The regular teacher was absent and had been replaced by an unfamiliar substitute. The bell rang and the students casually sauntered into the class-room. I sat in the usual desk, away from the others. All of the students were louder and more insipid than usual, due to their valid, collective expectation that they would be subject to less restraint with the regular teacher gone.

The substitute was an individual of average height and rather non-descript in appearance. He wore the typical outfit and had an unremarkably modest hair-cut. He was not particularly handsome, although he was not ugly, either. To his credit, he was not an easy target of mischief--his features were difficult to make fun of, and, thus, he was bound to receive little harassment from the students regarding this aspect of his personality.

What struck me as interesting was his voice. In a matter of moments, it would be observed that the other students felt likewise. For, in utter contrast to the usual, meek vocal capacity of all other substitutes I have encountered, this man had a throat of thunder.

"May I please have your attention," he rumbled.

It was a surprise that the walls did not shake. Several students did fall from their desks in astonishment, however. Many let out unimaginative cries of terror and then muttered an utterance of distress as either their heads hit the wall or their feet kicked painfully at the desk in front of them. A few moments later, after the disturbances had abated, all attention was focused on the unfamiliar substitute. I could not help but raise an eyebrow.

"Thank you," he said, apparently somewhat surprised at the response he had received, as the following, awkward pause indicated. "My name is Mr. Mason. Your regular teacher has come down with an ailment and can't be with you for the remainder of the week, in all likelihood. Thus, I will be the replacement until his recovery and return. In light of this, I have something I like to call an 'alternative assignment' for you all."

He braced himself for the collective groan that both he and I were expecting. We were both surprised to find, however, that the class remained quite intent upon his discourse. My eyebrow remained raised.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to keep all that we discuss from reaching the ears of your usual social studies teacher, I will inform you of the details," Mr. Mason continued. A strange grin began to form upon his face.

I was quite interested in this seemingly non-descript man. His humor, however, fell rather flat with me. The students, on the other hand, all tittered in amusement. Many sat up straight in their chairs, interest then prompting them to lean forward, as if to maintain such a position would help them to soak up the initial magnificence of the exotic sage they had coincidentally encountered.

"I have always longed for the opportunity to face a class-room of this size and form what is called a 'debate club'--an organization that, if formulated properly, will help to spur students on to explore their opinions of certain matters in society. I hope to one day become an actual, " and the supposed sage paused at this, widening his grin, "social studies teacher. With your cooperation, I can slake that present thirst until that glorious time when I have achieved such a position!"

At this, the students all burst out in laughter. It was baffling. Tears ran rampant from their eyes and the sound of knees being slapped hard by the palms of hands was nearly deafening. I was astonished and rather confused. What left me increasingly bewildered was the attitude of Mr. Mason; indeed, he was laughing hardest of all. Both of my eyebrows were raised painfully high. I believe my mouth may have even been slightly agape, although I could not be sure. I was hardly paying attention to it, anyhow.

I raised my hand. Several moments later--after Mr. Mason had gotten up from the floor he had fallen onto and the class had regained its composure--I was called upon to speak. In silence, I stood and cleared my throat. In a respectful tone, I requested that I be excused from the class-room to use to the rest-room. The students resumed their cacophony of laughter. My eyebrows remained raised. Over the tumult, Mr. Mason waved his hand for me to go and then fell from his seat, howling. His tumble into the garbage-can only intensified the chortles exuding from the students, but I was not surprised at that point. I quickly made my way out of the room and into the quiet sanctuary of sinks and toilets.

When I returned to the class-room, I was surprised to find that everything was completely in order and that the students were just pulling their discussion to a close. Even the overcast sky had cleared up a bit, allowing a modest measure of sunlight to play upon the desktops. Mr. Mason ignored my entrance, but asked me a few moments later, in front of the entire group of staring students, "Mr. Smith, I have been informed, by many of your fellow students, that you fancy yourself to be an intellectual. How interesting!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with excitement, as well as something else I had difficulty identifying.

"My question to you, Mr. Smith," he said, suddenly pointing his index finger to the ceiling, "is this: what exactly does that mean?"

I was shaken at this question. I had not expected him to ask. Still, I was interested at this challenging inquiry and told him so.

"Go on," was his response.

Clearing my throat, I suggested to Mr. Mason that being an intellectual entailed various aspects reflecting the intellect of an individual mind--which was, perhaps, quite obvious.

"Interesting. Go on," he replied.

From that point I spewed forth blather that struck me as inanely humorous (although I kept a straight face the entire time, out of necessity), but held the rigid attention of the students. The latter did not particularly surprise me. After several minutes of speaking words and concepts that made several of the students gasp and squirm within their seats, I was stopped by Mr. Mason.

"That's enough, Smith. I believe we all got the message," he said, his mouth breaking into a grin again.

I nodded my head. Our eyes broke contact and mine could not help but wander to the window. The sun was beginning to dim outside--clouds were passing overhead, directly below it. I could no longer see its light upon the desk-tops. It appeared that the sky would become overcast--once again--very shortly.

Mr. Mason interrupted my respite.

"Now, Mr. Smith, it must logically follow that, owing to your gift of intellect, you have formulated some interesting theories in your spare time," and here he gave a small laugh. His eyes quickly scanned the students, to which they responded with laughs of their own. "Would you be so kind as to share one or two of these potentially-revolutionizing concepts?"

I experienced a series of curious sensations after my brain had finished taking his words fully into account. This stimulation was unlike anything I had ever felt before. My throat seemed to swell, my ears seemed to burn, and my arms suddenly felt quite awkward behind my back. The strangest occurrence of all was the sudden appearance of cool perspiration, which beaded at the top of my forehead and quickly proceeded to stream down over my right temple. Despite its attempt at rectifying the sudden shock my mind had encountered, I could not utter a word. My arms hung loosely at my side.

"Look at him--he's sweating!" exclaimed a student, quite unnecessarily.

"Indeed," noted Mr. Mason, his face bereft of the grin. It was interesting to note, in fact, that it almost resembled a look of pain, although I could not understand what I had done to make him feel so. He began to say something but was cut off by the bell. The students burst from the room without a word.

I quickly regained my composure. As I began to gather my belongings, Mr. Mason called out my name. I looked up at him.

"Smith," he repeated, slightly opening his arms as he walked toward me, "I'm sorry I said all that. I didn't realize you'd take it the way you did. I was just curious and I guess I got a bit out of hand. Would you accept my apology?"

He held out his hand. I shook it, and said that I would. It was interesting how loudly my words echoed in that room, once nearly everyone had left.

"Gee, that's great," he said, placing his hands within his pockets. His voice sounded frail. He attempted to grin once more.

I nodded and then promptly burst from the room without another word.