2 Allowing Degeneracy

The next day, I woke up like shit, and I'm in the mood to do something stupid.

As the president and a member of the student council, I have obligations to give out pamphlets. By this, I mean, we spread the useless junk the faculty wanted to dispense. The students would only put those in the trash, making this entire thing a colossal waste of time. Don't ask me why they're still doing this! Fuck if I know.

I refuse to take part in anything related to handing out the garbage to other people. It's too tedious and so pointless. Having me here is a gift none of these fuck-ups deserve! Public speaking, I can handle, but this, no fucking way! I always come up with dumb excuses to avoid doing this, but I made an exception today.

"Please be aware of your trash," I say in a robust feminine tone that would make Joan Crawford gasp. "Please be aware of yourselves," I whispered under my breath.

"Global warming is real, and it deeply worries your student leaders," I exclaimed with Marilyn Monroe's poise.

"And so should you," I speak as if I'm Florence Nightingale even though I don't know this shit. I'm not sure what's written inside these pamphlets, anyway. Is it even about global warming? Eh, I don't care, nobody reads these anyway.

All of them went straight to the trash or came crashing down the floor. I would chuckle in silence as I observe my schoolmates throw the pamphlets all over the place. Mind you that there's a trash can five feet away from me. Seeing all these dumb people in action doesn't bother me, though. I had already expected this outcome by the time I took these things on my hands. It's pretty funny, too. None among the student council members I'm with seems to be appalled by this. Knowing the pamphlets we're handing out is not being read appears to be the norm around here. I even saw one member gasp when someone actually reads them.

However, what's not funny to see is the way the boys laugh and tease at each other after taking the pamphlets from me. A catcall is something I had long expected from them, but when they speak in secrecy among themselves after looking at me is something I do not wish to see.

One boy took one of the leaflets from my hands as he discreetly tries to graze his fingertips to mine. He squirmed the lower half of his body a little bit as he pulls his hands away. I caught a glimpse of him trying to whiff behind me as subtle as he possibly could, but the loud noises of air entering his nostrils blew his cover.

"Dude, holy shit, you can smell a bit of the president's perfume if you sniff the papers she's passing around!"

"For real? I wanna smell it too!"

"No way, man!" He whispered, but it comes off similar to a raspy shout instead. "This one is mine! If you want it so bad, you should pick one on the floor."

I can hear their laughter echo all around me while they're out there, muttering with their depressing group of even sadder-looking friends. Seeing them be batshit pathetic felt as if the devil himself has come from down under to embrace me with a bit of what his home feels like in a summer afternoon. I could see the way the boys' eyes widened as they looked at me with their bloodshot eyes and how the grease on their faces got thicker and thicker as their sweat dripped from their forehead. The way they snicker is so disgusting it feels as if their cackles are gaining life and taking a physical form into floating biles on the air. The way they grin is just, gah, it's making me want to off myself right here, right now! Their yellowed teeth are making their grins impossible to ignore, especially when their gums show as their mouth protrude a more prominent arch on their faces. I can't believe I am managing to survive while surrounded by countless of them. I secretly wish their spit won't drop on my skin for even their saliva tries to escape their mouth, raining down out of them while they speak.

Vile and disgusting.

"Are you sure you'd tolerate that sort of behavior, miss president?"

I looked at the person talking to me. Another student council member, this one's not as annoying as the secretary at least.

"It's fine; they'll get over it."

"That's what you said, but you have this nasty expression in your face ever since you came here in the hallway with us."

I chuckled. Perhaps it's because I'm trying to look for John among the near-identical boys walking past us.

"It's nothing, I swear. I can manage, I think? Besides, I've been neglecting this job for far too long. It's time for your president to step up her league."

"Come on, Steph. All of us on the committee know about the letters. They've been harassing you haven't they? Claire is the only one who thinks the letters are sweet because she's stupid! But we all know what's inside those. We can't understand why you're allowing them to degrade you like that, but we know how to sympathize. There's no need to force yourself." What a heartfelt thing to say, how passionate.

"How much do you know about the letters?"

"I'm so sorry this is none of my business, but..." The concerned member tried looking away, shoulders dropped, and a soft breath escaped with the reply. "Last month, I took a peek on one of the letters you've received because well, to tell you the truth, I'm curious about your private life. I idolize you so much and all. I didn't expect that..."

"It's okay. I'm okay. The letters are not bothering me. They're just a bunch of thirsty boys writing about nasty things." I smiled as I placed my hand on top of the shoulder of this junior in front of me. "Thank you. Were you guys worried about me?"

Finally, the young student council member took the courage to look straight back at my eyes, "Yes. We've been very concerned, president. We don't want you having these... people following you around with such disgusting letters sent to your desk!"

"I'm sorry; don't take offense on this question, but what's your name again?"

"You can call me Lex, that's the nickname my mom calls me."

"Right," I said, nodding my head, a smile painted all over my face. "Lex, Lex, ahhh… Lex, I'll remember that name. What year are you?"

"This is my first year here, president; I hope you don't mind."

"Really? You're a freshman, and you're already participating in student council related matters?"

"Yes, I just feel like I can make our campus better by lending a hand."

My eyes dimmed, and my smile fades as I hear those words.

That made me remember the days when I was a young student council member as well. I was a freshman once too. I was as jolly and enthusiastic as any first year. Remembering such days reminded me of when I became a part of the council. The first thing I did for the community is to pass leaflets like these. Nothing much, I did it to help out, I had a genuine care for our campus back then, believe it or not.

The night of that same day, someone messaged me on Twitter and told me in full detail as to how he used the pamphlet to masturbate. He said he was thinking about me. This guy told me he wrapped it around his dick and jerked off. He even described how warm it felt in his shaft, and how amazing it felt when the edge of the pamphlet hits the head of his penis. He said it feels like I'm doing it to him because I touched the paper with my own hands.

The next morning I can feel the men around me shoot their gazes right through my chest as I walk about the large hallway; oddly enough, that same hallway felt like it's as cramped as a dark alley. All of these disgusting, sweaty, unhygienic, smelly motherfuckers lust over my then petite and small body. Remembering how vivid they sounded when they wrote those messages to me made me feel like I'm a rabbit running about the jungle, trying to escape a group of anaconda.

They are all in cahoots together. All of them use their rough hands to stroke their small cuck dicks and scream my name while watching porn about twice to thrice a day. They project all sorts of messed up sexual fantasies unto me even though they don't know me. In their heads, I am their slave, and they had always entrapped my mind in the cage they put me in.

Do you know how I found out about this? The fucking letters. When I blocked all male students of our school from my social media, the letters started to pour out. I told a few of my teachers about this. I even rang the police for as many as I can remember. I think about twelve times? And well, they didn't take me seriously. "Jesus Christ," I'd imagine them say in the back of their head, "it's just a few boys being boys."

I just told myself "enough with the pamphlets. They'll never see me hand these out again!"

It feels like I'm getting ahead of myself while thinking about this. I'm sorry about that, I'm not supposed to get too emotional about this; I warned myself every day how doing that makes me look like a bootleg Picasso painting. Being stressed is not suitable for my complexion, after all. When I snapped back to reality, everyone was already busy tending on their responsibilities of handing out pamphlets around that no one seems to have noticed me spacing out. Why was I here again?

Ah, yes, the plan for John Smith. I can't promise you anything breathtaking, but it's a plan that could work; it's a start! It's simple: I'll give a copy of these pamphlets to John in person. I underlined eight words in it to serve as a makeshift hidden message.

Meet. Me. Bathroom. After. Class. Tell. Me. Everything.

It was a punch in the moon. There is no way he'll notice it; I bet he'd crumple it and shoot it in the trash like a basketball. However, a part of me hopes he's smart enough to get it, bored enough to read it, and dumb enough to do it.

I am not the monster you think I am. John and I are not on good terms with each other, but he's facing an adversary. And I don't believe for a second that that something is not sinister. He needs somebody now more than ever. I do not wish to be that somebody, but I'm willing to listen. Besides, by then, he would classify me as a friend, and that is all there is to this. Classic me, killing two birds with one stone.

A light gust of wind passes through me as I see a man with a sizable black headset and a familiar worn-out black bag pass through my peripheral vision. I took the particular piece of paper I've explained earlier from the bottom of the pile of articles I'm carrying.

"Take this, John Smith," I said, extending my arms forward in front of him. The other is extending towards him, paper in hand. It might seem nothing in a typical school setting, but if the president of the student council herself is the one who blocked the path, then there is no way anyone would be able to pass. A social blockade is far stronger than any massive boulders.

John Smith stared for a moment at the piece of glossy paper stuck between my fingertips. He slowly pulled it away from me; I can feel the smooth surface of the paper slide through my skin. And as the paper reached the edge, I squeezed my fingers hard enough to prevent John's gentle pulls. It seems John understood my implications well when he averts his gaze towards me.

"What?" He said, confused.

"You better read whatever is inside this darn thing, John Smith." I took a step forward. "Every single letter or figure and absolutely no letters should be left unread. Do not skim it, and don't you dare scan it. Read it. Read the entire thing." And as if I'm not obvious enough, I took two steps further towards him, ensuring that there are a mere two inches of space dividing us. He instinctively pulled the upper part of his body away from me, but his hands remained clinging on the pamphlet.

"Okay." He said calmly but with a hint of nervousness that I can detect for some reason.

"I'd be very disappointed with you if you throw this, John. Very, very disappointed." I squinted my eyes and leaned my shoulders a bit forward as I whisper, "I hope you know what will happen if you disappoint me, John."

He gulped his saliva as he looked around us. People are already starting to take notice of our compromising position, and John seems to be the first person to feel uneasy about this situation that I forced himself into again.

"I understand." He whispered in a raspy tone.

"Good." I let the paper go from the shackles of my fingers, and as an extension, I let John go as well. He hurriedly cowered out to his class while I continued to give papers away as if nothing happened.

Afterschool. John left in a hurry when the bell rang. After some necessary socializing, I ran straight to the comfort room. No one will be able to see us there. But I remember the capabilities of this stalker. And to be honest, I don't buy what I said earlier either. A part of me is saying that this motherfucker can still see us. Perhaps he's looking at me now.

I am already waiting for an hour, yet there's still no sign of John. Not even a hint of his shadow, or his shadow's shadow. I think he didn't get the message. Well, it was worth the shot. I'll go home now.

"Hey." A familiar whisper made me shriek. He covered my lips in time before I could say a word.

I looked at him. It's John. He seemed level-headed now, and the fire in his eyes says we can talk. He put his forefinger to his lips, a visible sign: I should shut the fuck up and stay still. I nodded. He lets go of his hands. I gasp as I let the airflow back into me.

"He's not here?" I asked while panting.

"I'm not sure." He whispered with the same indifference he always had.

"Am I safe?" As I said as I took a step towards him.

"Does it matter?" He replied with a bit of shock painted on his face as he took a step back.

"Yes."

No. It doesn't matter; I want to know. John doesn't seem to care about whatever my answer is, though. He started searching for an item in his bag even before I said 'yes.' He took a smaller bag from within it. He gestured for me to take it. I grabbed it. Then I opened it. And I took what's inside.

John Smith frightened the living shit out of me again.

The first thing I saw inside are pictures of John. He is the only one in it. It's a picture of him sleeping. I looked at the number of photos I took inside the bag. There's so many; it's like I'm looking at the pages of my English textbooks.

Is this just a bunch of pictures of John sleeping in his room? That's what I thought until I saw the twelfth photo.

It's a shirtless photo of John in his room.

The photos after it are just him shirtless again. The one after it is John coming out of the bathroom, shirtless with a towel on his head.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, shocked. I should run away now. Whatever this is, it's not right. Seeing this revelation unfold is not a part of my plan. I'm getting too involved.

"I always find those on my table every day. He leaves them there."

"Wait. This man has a way to enter your room?"

"Man?" He asked before diverting his gaze as he continued.

"What do you mean 'looks like it'? Isn't that dangerous? That's trespassing!"

"It bothered me. But this is happening for a long time now, and I'm tired of it. I also did a lot of things to shoo him away. I am also tired of doing that."

What did he mean 'for a long time'? Shoo him away? I don't understand what he's trying to say. What does he mean by 'tired of it'?

"How long is this happening?" You don't mean to tell me he's able to endure this shit 'for a long time'?

He remained quiet. So he's giving me the silent treatment again, huh? And here I thought we finally have something going on. I looked for more photos when I heard John sigh.

He hesitated. "Do you have questions?"

"You can try answering the one I asked," I said with no hesitation.

"Anything but that please."

"Then I still have a lot," I grunted. Today is a tiring day. I can't even pull out an award-winning performance to hide the real me. However, at his point, concealing my real personality is not of my concern. "How is he able to take these photos? Don't tell me he has superpowers. Believe me, if you say that, I will kick your nuts."

John Smith took his backpack off of his shoulder to cover the lower half of his body.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm as clueless as you, but how else can I explain this aside from superpowers? The only thing I knew of is that he took the photos from outside the window of my room. I don't understand it either. That's why I asked my dad to make my windows tinted."

That means no more photos of him from outside the window, but I'm not even halfway through the pile of photographs he gave me. There's more; there's so much more!

I turn from one photo to another with great haste. So far all the shots are taken from the window, taken from the window, taken from the window, then black, black, black, black, black. Five black photos!

The sixth photo, however, is not black anymore. And my god, I wished it was instead. I dropped all the images I'm holding after seeing that specific image.

It's a close-up photo of John in the bathroom showering.

When all the photos dropped on the floor, I saw that there's more of it. A photo of John naked in the bathroom. A photo of John nude on his bed. A photo of John naked on the bathtub. A photo of John without any clothes on inside his closet while crying. A photo of John's face with his tears all over his face.

All of them are close-up shots taken in his room.

He knelt and took all the scattered photos on the floor. He looked up at me with much sadness in his eyes.

Still, after showing that saddened state of his, he still had that same smile on his face. However, with the tear in his eyes, I can see that his smile is false. "At first I thought someone was trying to sing me a song from the window. At first, I thought the snaps were somewhat nice. I thought it sounded great."

"Trying to sing you a song? I didn't realize your stalker's camera is a singer!" I made a sarcastic snort expressing my disbelief. "It's just... I don't understand! Someone is taking a picture of you, and you think there's something good about that? Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind?"

He pauses for a moment. Since he's kneeling as he tries to collect the scattered photos on the ground, I can't see his face. I can't decipher the look on his face, but I can guess it's not a pleasant one.

"Tell me, John. Why are they doing this to you? I know someone who can help you!"

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "I deserve this."

"Why?" I shouted. The stillness of our surroundings echoed my voice, and it sent shivers through my body. "Did you do something, John?" I said, retaining my calmness.

"No," The mild shaking of his voice gives me a hint that the crybaby is at it again.

"Are you a part of any criminal association—"

"What, jeez, no! I'm innocent."

"Then, why? I don't understand!"

He chuckles. "No one understands." He laughed with tears bursting like a faucet from his eyes. "I should burn these photos."

I stomped on the last picture on the floor that John is about to take. The noise of my stilettos startled him. "Then explain it! Make me understand you!" I crunch my heel on the photo of John looking directly at the camera.

He directs his soft gaze up at me. I stare down at him with reddened eyes. We both stopped moving for a moment. The water in his eyes is no more. Sadness is absent from him. Conviction is what I see in the man kneeling in front of me.

"Help!" He said, almost like a whisper.

"I will," I said with confidence. "I promise."

Laugh at me even though I can't understand myself anymore. It's not my style to risk myself for such a small reward. I should abandon John. I'd do that if the circumstances were not as weird as this. Why am I keeping this thing up? I'm so confused. Of all the people in the world, it has to be John Smith who would make me rally up my mind like this.

John texted me after we spoke; it was a quiet night, way too modest for our neighborhood. Don't ask me how he knew my number; I'm as surprised as you! What bugged me more is what that guy specified in his message. He told me he caught the perpetrator. And he's standing in front of him. Attached to the message is a photograph of a bizarre-looking man. It's so fucking ugly that it's disgusting, inhuman even, face almost made me puke!

In the photo, the man John believed to be his stalker is naked. He's crouching, but the way his feet blurs means it's in motion. Compared to John's lean body, the person in question covers himself with repulsive imperfections. Hair envelops his body, yet his small genital dangling between his feet is hairless. He's crouching with a camera in his arms, so it's easy to see the thick veins in his wispy limbs. He is thin, but his stomach is so bloated, I thought it's about to burst! His eyes are so deep beneath the dark circles around it that I mistook it for a horrible make-up.

Then there's his smile, holy shit, his smile.

His saliva is dripping from his mouth, and his teeth are like the fangs of sharks! The length of his smile is from ear to ear. That's right; his mouth starts from one ear to another, turning his bald head into something like a scary Easter egg attached to a deformed human body. I can't explain it, but among everything hideous in his body, the one I noticed the most is his smile. Something about it bothered me.

Ah, I get it now; I know why his face looks so wrong.

He's not smiling. The corners of his mouth are being stretched up, forcing a smile to form. As if there is an invisible hook somewhere pulling his cheeks, forcing a smile. I can't see his cheeks anymore because of how stretched his mouth is. His lips are dry, specifically his upper-lip, which is already bleeding. As I look into his eyes, I can see, I am sure: Those eyes aren't smiling.

Those eyes possess no life, no light, no soul. Those eyes felt like it would pop off the screen to caress my skin. Those eyes look so bloated that it's inhuman. Yes, exactly. Inhuman. There's no way those eyes are human's.

His body hair had covered a significant portion of his body. I also noticed that his dick was out, which instantly made me look away from the photo. His hands covered in veins. His mouth stretched wide. His eyes are that of dolls forcefully inserted into his eye sockets.

I had realized that I found it hard to breathe. Whatever this thing is, it's not John's stalker. That horrible-looking creature is a monster!

I replied to the text, "WTF!" I did that to show my apparent disbelief in the photo. I'll think of this as a joke.

After seven minutes with no reply from John, I attempted to rest for the night. No good. After seeing that horrible image, it's unlikely for me to get a good night's sleep. I turned from left to right, but there's no position possible that could lessen my discomfort. Or at least remove the memory of the picture from my brain.

Then I heard my phone ring; it's a call from John's number. What kind of deranged shit is he going to pull out now?

"Hello?"

What answers me is panting, "What is it, John? It's late, what are you calling me for?" I asked, but he replied with more panting. What the fuck does he want?

I noticed that he sounded like he's running? "John, stop joking around, or I swear I'll... I'll hang up." I was about to say I will bash his head if he continues doing this, but that's not cute. "John?"

"Help!"

The call ended with that whisper. I can already hear the beeping of my phone, but I still shouted John's name. I tried calling back, but nobody answered. I tried texting him. Nobody replied even after I sent about a hundred messages. I was so mad when a classmate called my number because I thought it was John. With both fear and anger in me, I threw my phone on the wall. I instantly regretted that decision when my phone stopped working after the shock. I stood up from the bed. Fidgeting with my arms on my forehead, I walked about trying to calm myself down. I shouldn't have thrown my phone. I could've asked someone where John lives. There is so much bullshit in my head; I can't find the time to relax.

John Smith's voice rings all over me, and it feels as if on the dark corners of the room, John's monster lurks, prowling around me. I wasn't able to sleep that night.