I didn't mean to hop after the fly! Take me back to the pond!
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"Murray Glastonburg: Inside the Mind of a Psycho" I am Murray Angus Glastonburg, son of William and Elizabeth Glastonburg. Not that that means anything.
This story is not about my relationship with them. This is a farewell gift to my beloved Alexandra. My death began three years ago on a typical afternoon at Harwood high school. Social classes may not be very
distinct in the world's society today, but everyone associates with certain groups of people in high school. I was
at the lower end of the social chain, the very end, because I had no friends. Staying up surfing the net would
have fit me in the group of people into Internet stuff. The bookworms of the junior class would take me if I were
studious. By participating in sports, I would have been accepted by the athletes and most likely as popular as
most teenagers feel they need to be. However, I had no extra-curricular activities, no goals, no friends, and I
thought I enjoyed being a loner. That day when I died during lunch was the end of that miserable life and the
beginning of a more gruesome one. As usual, the hall echoed as I stacked my tattered books from the "lost and found" in the top locker assigned to me.
It really wasn't mine seeing how nothing of "me" was in it. I gently placed the meatloaf lunch that Alexandra
prepared for me under my forearm, closed the locker door, and headed to the excited cafeteria. Head hanging
low trying to be as discreet as possible, I walked to the farthest corner of the lunchroom. I wouldn't even eat with
the rest of the school if I had a choice, but Mr. Morrison's eyes were following me once again. When he, my
physics teacher who always made others' business his, found me sitting in a bathroom stall munching on half of
a piece of bread, he grabbed me by the arm and vowed to keep an eye on me for the rest of the school year,
especially at lunchtime. He also reported the incident to the rest of my teachers, so I went about the school
feigning the appearance of a quiet, but cooperative straight-B student. I ignored his routine inspection and the
noise of my peers who had a mutual ignorance of me, and silently finished my lunch at the shadowed table.
My eyes followed the ground as I moved toward the trashcan, a few feet away from my corner. Just as I crossed
those few feet to discard my plastic knife and tinfoil, who had to be facetiously chatting with his friends while
throwing a cup of soda away, but Jake Randolph, esteemed player on the baseball team and straight-A student.
In a few seconds, the collision occurred and somehow all eyes turned to the scene; I stood gazing at my oxford
shirt soaked by a cold drink. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" Jake sneered. "Heh, heh, you look great with all that Slice on you!" His jock
friends smirked at the comment and soon giggles rippled through the room. My head was frozen to my chest.
Jake snickered, "I don't know your name but from the look of it, you oughta be called Slice!" "Slice, Slice, Slice, Slice..." Jake's partners chanted. A roar of laughter rolled from our side to the opposite end
of the room. My head jerked slightly upward towards Jake who was holding a buddy's shoulder to keep from
falling from the hilarity. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Morrison and two other teachers approaching to
investigate the event. My face grew as red as my fist, which did not feel the pain that should have occurred when
my knife's jagged edges pierced my skin. A girl nearby noticed drops of blood from my hand, and, apparently
deathly fearful of blood, screamed before fainting. The room quickly hushed and the teachers' footsteps grew closer. "What is all this commotion about?" Mr. Morrison demanded. "Mr. Glastonburg? Mr Randolph?" Jake had to
maintain his reputation and promptly replied, "Having some fun with Slice over here. We just bumped into one
another and, seeing how he seems like a cool guy, we gave him a nickname to initiate him into our group. No
harm done." The teachers nodded their heads in agreement, considering Jake's often pleasant and honest
personality, and then left, not even bothering with me. However, I didn't care since I only half heard Mr. Morrison
though my head, swollen with anger. Slice, huh. That's my new name. I thought. I'd better live up to it. I gripped
the knife harder and left the cafeteria that resumed its chattering when the teachers departed as if nothing
happened. Jake and his friends returned to their tables too. I walked out the school doors with my head hanging
down to my chest and a treacherous grin creeping onto my face.
Continue: Part 2: Voice or First Part 3: Another
*Note: I am not sure whether or not I should make Part 2a the second chapter and Part 2b the third chapter now, due to
the material I composed recently. A decision will be made upon by a consensus of comments by the story's readers.

No copying allowed. All places and characters in this story are purely fictional. Any relation to them is purely coincidental. Isn't this a purely annoying statement?