Burning Desire

She looked static. A picture placed onto this world to appear and exist, but otherwise do nothing. Her hand was still on the desk in front of her. The lights were off in the dimly lit classroom, light pouring in from the outside world and the flimsy blinds. Everyone outside was playing, but she was here in a box designed to teach and constrict.

She stared at her hand, soft and long on the beige desk. It was still a different colour from her hand. It seemed more mechanical, worn and tired. Her finger lazed around it, drawing short strokes on the rim of the desk. Nobody’s words stained it’s fragile body. She stared at the desk for a long time.

The people outside were loud. Lunch was almost over, a few more minutes ticked by. The bell would ring, and she would have to sit down. An uncomfortable weight rested in her pocket. Four minutes until lunch ended. Three. The clock ticked by in the quiet room. No teacher had shown up before class, no early students with nothing to do.

Finally, she heard people outside the classroom, tapping down the hall. She left the weight inside the desk, and tried to look out the window. She tried to look normal, her insides melting into a hot pot for her organs. More people shuffled in through the open doors, until finally it looked normal enough to sit at her desk. Her stomach burned.

Everybody was here, he was here. He sat in his desk, feeling his own skin with his hand. She bet it wasn’t on fire like hers, boiling a mess inside of her. It wasn’t fair. She tried not to stare, but did it anyways. It was easy, being stuck behind him. Her hands clenched her own off-colour desk, fighting the urge to get up and puke fire.

Finally, five minutes into the lesson, he noticed. He was scanning his desk for a pencil, he reached in with masculine hands and grabbed it instead. A light weight, almost a pill capsule. Would he open it? Her heart ticked to the sound of the clock while it melted away altogether.

He did. He did, and she almost cried. Her insides hurt that much, she hadn’t lowered her gaze to look in fear that there would be a hole in her chest. No, her shirt stared back at her. She lifted a part of her shirt and saw skin. Then, she poked at herself irritably to make sure it was real and felt it give more than it should have. Where was the inside? It felt like paper against air.

She checked the back, and found it the same way. The burning was still there, but so was the message. Her gaze traveled back to the message and his eyes carefully reading the small amount she could fit on the paper. Then he put it in his bag. She gagged, what did that mean? Just as she was about to jump out of her chair to ask, she really did puke fire.

Her small reflex triggered an eruption. She forced herself to stand out of her seat, facing the ceiling as her vomit erupted like a carnival act. Fire strained itself past her throat, effectively burning a bit of the lights above her. Maybe she looked like a volcano. Her insides hurt more than before. She could feel the breeze of her shirt against an open wound.

Everyone had jumped out of their seat or scooted it two paces back. She didn’t blame them. Hesitantly, she lifted the stomach of her shirt, at least expecting the skin. No. It was just a hole, where most of her organs should be. Everyone watched while her heart dripped through into her lower intestines.