Death is Beautiful

When two polar points meet on the same axis, it means catastrophe—or the equation is wrong. But if two random people happen to be in a particular space and time, it means nothing.

However, humans tend to think that they are the center of the universe. They all like to believe that they are caught in the schemes of destiny, driven by patterns and purpose—but to me, everything is just merely determined by choice. The abundance of choices greatly outweighs the prospect of fate, brimming in all the given hours of a day and moments in a lifetime. There are more choices than happy people. And yet somehow, out of all the uncursed spots on campus, he chooses to spend lunch break on the haunted rooftop, which happens to be my territory.

I found him slumped against the tall, wired barriers. He sits like a depressed delinquent—elbows resting on tensed knees. But despite the distance and his posture, I came to recognize him in a heartbeat. He was the same person who saved a student falling from the third-floor juniors' building three years ago. I typically forget things that do not pose any personal concern, but that day was unforgettable, especially to me and the rest who merely watched in the background.

The student at the time was a freshman, a year below us. I believe she was pushed by one of her bullies, but this Achilles ran and caught her in his arms. The momentum was incredible. The surge of adrenaline that crossed the distance was a sharp dash of air. I felt it. He was beside me that day.

Though, at present, the world lies on his shoulders. There's heaviness in the way he raises his head like it's made out of uranium. Or layers of misery. Against the vibrant sunlight reveals his large shadow. Like spoiled dark paint splattered onto the unpolished concrete. When he notices my presence, he slowly turns, widens his eyes—sees me—and sighs in relief.

"For a second, I thought you were the ghost everyone talks about." He says.

I take a breath. For the past days, I have been working on myself to be nicer around people. But in ancient times, going beyond one's territory was a wage of war. Over the years, I've done extreme measures to keep the rooftop to myself. This has been my sanctuary from all the drama and catastrophes high schoolers like to make for themselves. And since homo sapiens failed to evolve fangs and claws, I just raise an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?" I demand.

He ignores my attitude and looks down at the lunch bag I'm holding. "Well, to eat lunch, of course."

No matter how different a person is, there would still be one common feature about him that links him to another. Many people may dislike this truth, but we will always be part of a social category, an archetype that makes us subconsciously familiar to other people. But surely Achilles is not the kind that eats alone in a deserted location. Ever since that incident, he's never without his friends and other people. As though there are lost sunrays following him every time he walks across my peripheries.

That's the common thing most popular people have: a pack. Or else they will cower and feel sorry for themselves. The school may see him as a hero. But I see him as the Everyman. The one who desires to wash out his authenticity just to blend himself in with everyone. The one who belongs to big circles and pretentiously accepts all kinds of people at whim. The worst of all.

And seeing him going against his character proves my claim that there's something wrong with him. "You don't eat lunch here. You eat lunch with Raven and your troublesome friends," I say.

"Troublesome, huh? Super smart ones like you really do have a weird way to describe people like me." He laughs.

Realizing that there's nothing to this conversation, I head over to the other side, where there's shade against the burning glares of the sun. I try to sit down gracefully, knowing that there's opposite sex right in front of me, tuck my skirt under my knees—in case a lost breeze would flutter it up, and open my lunch box. Today's menu is fish, stir-fried vegetables, and rice. I look up to see what he's having, but he doesn't have anything except his prying eyes. "What are you having?" He asks.

"Nothing fancy," I say. "How about you? I see that you're really digging into that lie of yours. I hope it's delicious."

Finally, he lets out an exasperated sigh; a personality glitch. "Look, June, I'm sorry I lied. But I'm really having a bad time right now." Then he sinks back again, his world returning to the shadow between his knees.

I begin to eat but grow more uncomfortable with his gloomy atmosphere. I may be good at studying interesting theories and memorizing them by heart, but I am an idiot at comforting people. I let a couple of minutes pass before I decide to test the waters. "You know, people who are having a bad time shouldn't dwell on haunted rooftops. They are the ones that attract paranormal entities." I say, hoping he gets the message and leaves. But surprisingly enough, he lifts up his head and waits for me to continue.

I instinctively roll my eyes. "Say, if the theory is true that ghosts are transparent beings, then our three-dimensional world must be unhabitable to them. And it's possible that one of the reasons they are haunting people is because they seek energy, life force. And in the worst case, a body, to remain in this world. And they're likely going to target miserable people since they resonate emotionally, and they are close to death."

"Close to death…" I hear him mumble.

After a few seconds, he surprisingly stands up and closes the gap between us. His shadow follows as he sits beside me—but not too close. There's a certain distance that rims us apart, implying that we are less than friends but more than strangers.

"What do you think of death?" He asks. And pierces his brown eyes into mine.

For a moment, I was consumed by the utter curiosity in his irises. The way they glisten reminds me of raindrops on shards of glass against the newborn sunlight. But when I get carried away into the depth of his pupils, I sense a hint of desperation—dilating and almost trembling.

And as I plunge in further, I see myself.

I look away and release a full deep breath. I took a few moments thinking to myself, wondering why he's asking such a question. I never saw someone with that kind of expression before, as though his life depends on it— but in hindsight, I was the one who brought up this kind of topic in the first place. One cannot begin a foolish reality without a foolish idea.

"Death is liberation," I say.

"Liberation?"

"Do you know Jean-Jacques Rousseau?"

"No."

"Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains," I look at the sky. Its blueness is somehow proving my point. "That's what he said to describe us."

Although Rousseau's context is particularly about hierarchy and inequality, his words still speak for a bigger truth: man is never free. "It may seem like we're allowed to do whatever we want, that we're born with rights and privileges, but really if you try to view things on the other side, these are the ones that bind us. We're attached to everything. Rules, pasts, dreams, emotions, habits, illness, people. It may not be obvious, but all of us are, unfortunately, attached to one another."

He takes everything seriously, nodding at my every word. "For example, despite having nothing to do with each other, we happen to be acquaintances because you're my roommate's boyfriend. That is another chain that binds a person to another."

"I understand." He says. "But Raven and I aren't together anymore."

"Since when?" This might be the reason of all this.

"I never thought of you as someone interested in other people, let alone their love life."

I clear my throat. "I'm sorry. Well then, let's take your separation as an example...despite its superficiality. So, how did you feel when you two broke up?"

"Sad

"And?"

"Lonely."

"And?"

He lets out a long breath. "A little relieved."

"Imagine death being like that, but a hundred times bigger. It's like detaching yourself from all the lightest and heaviest chains in this world—thus, having the ultimate freedom." I move closer. His response earlier tells me that something far deeper than a breakup is the root of his situation, and this mystery is enough to make me lean forward and look at him in the eye. "So why are you here, Achilles?"

"Stop calling me that." He turns away.

"That's what everyone calls you. After that incident in eighth grade." He's obviously evading my question.

"It was a long time ago. We're seniors now—and my name's Daire, in case you don't know."

"How could I not know? You and your friends come to our apartment all the time." I say, knowing too well that he's hiding something he cannot tell the world.

The proximity made me fathom how different he looks now from how I perceive him from afar. Before this day, he was nothing to me but a blur, a speck of radiance that I'd momentarily notice and forget. Back then, I couldn't see anything special about his appearance. He's good-looking (according to society's standards), sure, but there was no substance to it. It was like looking into a page of a magazine where everything seems to be perfect, manipulating the eye to project a fake reality it desires, from head to toe. But the ultimate flaw is the page itself. Its paper-thin body could never contain a soul, not even a fragment of personality. That was how Daire and most people looked like to me: two-dimensional beings.

But right now, he seems to continually materialize in front of me, as though he's coming into being for the very first time. I begin to notice the dark lines under his eyes. The small mole on his left temple. The sharpness of his nose. The paleness of his lips. He's starting to have dimension and identity. And I look away for the second time.

I settle my eyes on my phone instead and check the time. Lunch break is almost over: 12:58 pm. And today is Thursday, June 1, 2017. Something is telling me I should remember this day, especially the moments it encompasses.

"It's interesting that your parents named you June for a girl. Your birthday's in June?"

"No. My parents adopted me in June. I was named after it."

"Oh." I do not like the softness in his voice.

The bell rings. I only have finished half of my food, but I'll be alright, at least for a couple of hours. I stand up, but he remains seated. It looks to me that he's staying here for a while. I walk towards the door. But before heading downstairs, I turn to him for the last time and utter the words,

"death is beautiful."