She was crazy. It should have been obvious. Yet it slipped past us, like a stray cat in the night. The darkness, cunning and mischievous, with a sense of direction, a harmful drive. Constantly seeking out destruction in an attempt to provide purpose and strength, as if to mask the fragility of their broken and tormented life. Now that darkness is ripping away at the fabric. The threads pull and warp our existence so that we are no longer able to recognize the pattern that once was.

I imagined it would feel like my world was crumbling down around me, or caving in, crushing myself under the weight. However it didn't. It was if the strands of everything I knew were rapidly pulled in every direction, creating an empty, hollowing and oddly freeing sensation.

I watched as the blood slowly dripped from the lampshade. The crimson handprint smudged across the shade. Another handprint stained the arm of the lounge. The stain so clear you could read the fortune on her palms. One more was found on the bathroom door, perfectly placed. Even the spray seemed artistically splashed throughout the room. It was loathsome. It was meticulous. It was perfect.

Perfectly psychotic.

Robert

We met in the usual way- university, horribly cliché yet practical. It had been my 6th straight year of university, having undergone a number of degree changes. There was just something so definitive about obtaining a degree. As if from that point onwards your life was chosen for you and you would fall into the mundane routine of career and the expectations of time. Though I had always been one to believe in never being tied down and always having a choice in changing the paths of life. I couldn't help but feel resentment towards the system, which of resulted in my indecision.

I don't remember when I first saw her. Did I even notice her? Perhaps I did. To quote Ted Hughes maybe I noticed you.

Maybe I weighed you up, feeling unlikely.

We had shared a class or two together, and had thought nothing of it. However, on this day I was completely taken by her.

We were at the bar discussing the upcoming assignment on non-traditional theatre. A few others, and myself mostly art students, but each bringing an intellectual quality to the floor. It was a typical day other than Faith had brought a friend to the bar with her. This wasn't unusual, people came and went as they pleased and to be honest we were fairly popular amongst peers, our popularity stemming manly for quirky performances and need to argue with our professors.

Her name was Lucy. She stood barely over 5" ft tall. She wasn't overly beautiful or breath taking in anyway. In many ways she was very average. Average weight, not overly tan or pale, no overly striking features, but here too, she had no features that could be seen as undesirable. It was as if her array of common or average attributes were assembled in such away that made her desirable, or at the very least pleasant.

I studied her. I noted her brown hair, falling at shoulder height. The evidence of a previous, short hair cut could be seen through the odd array of layers and flicks. I hypothesized that she were growing her hair out. Perhaps she looked too boyish when her hair was short. This thought didn't surprise me as she wore jeans and a simple black and white striped shirt, nothing overly feminine. She seemed to be trying to achieve that Girl Next Door image. I began to wonder how much was an act and what was unintentional. There was still something different about her. Something out of the norm that made her captivating in a way I could not describe.

When she spoke, her voice was sweet and lyrical. She portrayed a great sense of confidence, which I suppose is normal for drama students. However I found there was something about her, which led me to believe there was underlying insecurity. Perhaps in was the way she glanced at the floor before she spoke or that her eyes opened slightly more than usual when someone spoke to her. I glance around to see if anyone else sensed this. I struggled to put my finger on it. I had always considered myself to be exceptional at reading people, especially if I knew them well. I gained no reason to believe that anyone else might have considered her insecure. There were ways of telling. Peter instantly gave someone more attention if he thought they were insecure, and not in a nurturing kind of way. It was the kind of attention you would give someone you suspected was on the rebound. In all honesty I don't even think he realized he were doing so. I suppose that says a lot about his own self-confidence. Though he was paying Lucy attention, it seemed within the normal bonds of casual interest rather than a vulture assessing how dead the pray was. I mean she was pretty, in a plain kind of way, so there was bound to be some interest.

She stayed with us for an hour, having had a break from tutorials at the same time as the majority of us. We all shared stories and talked about the usual topics. The thing with arts students, particularly performing arts students, is that everyone loves the limelight. Chaos is quickly ensued when a topic of interesting nature is brought forth. Each person talking over the other in an attempt to have his or her voice heard. Often their stories were of not much importance or even stimulating, yet people feel that need to be heard and known. I guess that's why many of us are drawn to the arts, in an attempt to validate our existence and importance in the world. It's also what makes us incredibly annoying, at least to those outside of our world. Though even within our own world we find ourselves short fused with our peers and coworkers. However, this is seemly consistent across all fields, except maybe I.T or software engineering. We each become so focused on what it is we want to say and when we'll have the chance to say it that people end up, not truly listening to the conversation. Too absorbed with ourselves that we can't recite what was just said by another. 

Due to this, of recent times, I have been conscious of the frequency of my input. I'd been making an effort to listen to others input and only speak when I thought it was really worthwhile. Since then I have learnt more about the people around me. I am slowly gaining more and more understanding of everyone. Coming to realize we are not so different from each other. Nothing surprised me anymore, which is cliché in itself. There just isn't much in life that doesn't follow a pattern or can't be deconstructed to its raw form.

On this day I didn't feel particularly talkative and I was interested in how the new girl would interact. I spent most of the hour assessing her. Not in a predator way but I was curious as to know the type of person she was. She didn't say much over the hour. Part of it, I suspected, was because she may be shyer than she seemed, then I noticed something. When she did speak it was usually informative and relevant. More often than not she was witty and also clearly intelligent. I noticed the way she looked at people. She looked at them as if she studying them. To the average observer, she'd appear sincerely interested in what each person had to contribute, but there was more than that. I saw the way her eyes moved and flicked across the room, either to other members or as if she were making mental observations. It was so quick and subtle I surprised myself that I noticed. I wonder what she was thinking?

After the hour she bid her farewell, and went to her next class. I stayed at the bar another hour before attending my Linguistics class. I shouldn't have wasted my time attending, all I could think about was her, and what she was thinking.

Lucy

I was in The Modern Era Literature course when I met Faith. God the course was dry; I mean wasn't expecting anything extraordinary. I enjoyed most of my literature courses but this one was just too long and bland. Perhaps it was because it wasn't the era I was out interested in, or that the class was three hours long, or that the texts chosen where either incredibly long or had a dull narrator. If I had to name one thing though that probably influenced my dislike for the subject the most was that fact that the class had an unusually large number of people doing a primary school teaching degree. At this point in my life primary school degree goers where the bane of my existence, well, at least just the ones in my degree. The outspoken, opinionated and naive individuals who seem to constantly give the degree a bad wrap. 

So there we were, in class discussing the notion of race within "Heart of Darkness" (which was actually the text I liked most in the end), when one of the primary teachers piped up.

"I just find it so disgusting that a modern novel should have such bad treatment of black people. You'd think in modern times people wouldn't think like this let alone write a book like that." Remarked the anonymous primary teacher.

At that, I turned wide-eyed to the person next to me, an expression of being utterly gob smacked. To which they replied with a knowing smile.

"$10 says they teach primary", I whispered.

She then leaned in and said softly, "oh the horror, the horror of primary."

We spent the rest of the lesson exchanging glances and quietly commenting on the input of others. It wasn't all judgmental and mean in nature, we complimented also (just not as often).

Once the torture of Modern Lit had finished sucking the life out of me for the week, I packed and headed to the Shortland building to get lunch, or more accurately energy drinks and confectionary. I had barely made it out the door before I heard someone shout, "Hey wait up".

I turned to find my newfound friend running up to me, "have I seen you around?" She said, almost tripping on the last step of the podium.

"Possibly, I'm secondary. Major in English, minor in Drama. I take it your secondary too, or are you the full blown, I have no direction in life Arts student." I responded, instantly wanting to rephrase what I had just said. Please don't be an Arts students, I thought over and during the eternity it took her to respond.

"Can't I be both?" She laughed, "doing the Arts degree first, then a Masters of Teaching afterwards. That way I am qualified to teach more subjects, plus you look cool with a Masters."

"What subjects you doing?" I asked suddenly feeling inferior.

"Major's in English, History, and Drama. Oh and a minor in Latin. But that's not important, I'm Faith by the way" She said shrugging off the list of subjects that was more than twice as long as the average student.

"Damn girl, do you know how to have fun?" I laughed instantly regretting my use of the phrase 'damn girl'.

"It's Lucy, by the way." I said once I managed to internalize, how out of place the previous phrases was.

"Well girl, if you aren't doing anything for lunch. Come hangs with some of the Drama people. You'll probably recognize a few of them." Faith said, grabbing my arm and leading me towards the bar. I wondered if she used the phrase 'girl' in amusement of my awkwardness.

Faith was possibly the coolest person I had ever met. My earliest conversations with her firmly set the groundwork for my admiration. She was the type of person you would find, at a coffee shop reading Margret Atwood or George Orwell. Not just reading, but absorbing it all. Like a sponge thrown into the ocean. Thinking about life and social injustice with every sip of her long black. I didn't even know if she drank long black, but seeing as she were vegan I couldn't imagine it any other way. Besides, a latte seemed far too pretentious when accompanied by George Orwell. I always felt like an imposter when I read at cafe. I felt as if I wasn't really there, like I was a picture of someone reading. As if I were in a movie, sitting alone reading Sylvia Plath, when someone sits and strikes up a conversation about literature and a lasting relationship is forever forged from that moment. However, no one ever sits, no one even notices. Instead I sit in a cafe, outside of myself, analyzing everything about the entire situation. At no point do I enjoy myself, half the time I have to re-read what I had tried to read whilst there. I envied people like Faith who could be inside herself rather than an observer constantly looking in on the pathetic fragments of chaotic life.

I wish I could describe Faith as edgy, but she didn't dress edgy with dyed hair, or punk rocker accessories. Instead she was far more interesting than that. Her hair was cut just above shoulder length and she wore jeans with t-shirts from various fan fictions. However she still had an overwhelming sense of edge to her, this essence of confidence and allure beyond physical appearance. She was very slender and nearing 6 foot tall, which I imagined to be a right pain for most females. Though Faith didn't seem the type to adhere to gender stereotypes.

"Have you noticed the overwhelming number of primary teachers in this class?" I asked, strolling to the bar.

"Yeah! What's with that?" She laughed, "it's as if they thought current literature and Modernist literature were the same thing."

"Hey there, the 1950's were pretty current. I can't think of any major changes that have occurred since then." I jest.

"I swear if I hear anyone share what their 'impression' of a text is when we look at Impressionism, I will kill somebody." She groaned.

"I'd be impressed if they called it a text rather than a book or a story." I sighed.

We continued to chat as we arrived at the bar. The bar had a typical university student atmosphere to it. There were students far to drunk for the time of day; others tip toeing across the line of being too high to be socially acceptable and not high enough to function. The pool tables hosted the main source of entertainment. Coins decorated the length of each side as people, not so patiently, waited for their turn to impress their peers. Students slung over the couches, some chatting enthusiastically about social events, others slumped over themselves as if defeated by life, a few could be found sound asleep. Outside the air was a haze of smoke, students smoking and laughing, their cigarette smoke dancing from the stick as if mimicking the excitement and buzz of student life. Above the music you could hear the sound of laugher and shouts of "you're wrong" as students argued over meaningless details. An academic buzz filled the air, the closer you reached the bar, the clearer the conversation became. Discussion of literature and commentary to social constructs dubbed over the rhythm of folk music.

Faith led me to the bar and I was introduced to a group of both familiar and unfamiliar strangers.

Robert

Friday night, slumped over at my computer, I scrolled aimlessly through Facebook feeds. I leaned back into my chair to see Ferguson stroll across the room before jumping onto the computer desk. The ginger cat sat himself down on my keyboard, glaring at me as he flicked his tail, as if mocking the excitement of my Friday. Jerk cat. I attempted to push the fat cat off the desk but he latched his claws into my arms. After a heated stare off I resort to Facebook on my phone. I rolled onto my bed as I spied a photo of Jasmine and I, taken at the prom about 2 years ago.

“I really should take that down,” I mutter. Reluctantly I began to type her name in the search bar. Jasmine Porter. I let my finger hover or the search button, desperately trying to convince myself it’ll make things worse, till I sighed the sigh of defeat and searched away. My ex stood there, frozen and hugging my replacement. She had upgraded to an athletic army type. Though, on second, thought are there any non-athletic army types? They’d been together awhile now. I proceeded to wade through the photos and statuses, trying to gauge the underlying truth to the perfect lives they presented to the world. Those snap shots that let us create the perfect versions of ourselves. Not created to convince ourselves that we are of any worth but to mask our real selves to everyone else around us. You either paint a picture as a mask or don’t post anything at all, either way our true selves are invisible.

I spent an hour stalking over her photos and comments. Over and over I searched her life, through the same moments I had read many times before. I could feel my heart sinking. I didn’t want to be with her anymore, of that I was certain. I just hated seeing her life progress so quickly and full of bliss. Plus I missed the sex.

To distract myself from jerking off, I decide to stalk some other people for a while. I browsed through Peter’s Facebook. The same mundane posts met my eyes. Self-promoting music videos and demos, of the beyond ridiculous music he’d created during a moment of ‘inspirational clarity’. To which he’d describe the use and function of each of the 18 pedals he’d used in the production.

Status upon status of his views being pushed upon anyone who dare log into social media at said time.

“Turns out death statistics from the recent worldly studies show more people died of obesity than lack of food. Good job Earth.” He’d written last week. To which I questioned what studies, or what statistics and how were they measured or used? I gave up on reading Peter’s posts after I came across his educational views.

“After discovering that "text speech" is an acceptable form of writing for entrance exams and that it is not penalised, I am now a serious supporter of education reform in the form of a national syllabus and a return to literacy (both written and read), maths, and critical thinking skills as the focus of an education. Computer skills are easy to teach. Lets try to teach students to think and collaborate together,” he had stated.

Below I spied a response by Lucy McLaughlin, “Are you not concerned of the congestion of content required to be covered when this new reform takes place?”

I clicked on her profile. It was set to private, but I studied her profile picture. She still wasn’t wearing make up. Her hair was messy and she was covered in sweat, she looked as if she were growling, her perfect teeth showing as she gave the devil horns sign to the camera. I didn’t expect the sweet and lyrical voiced girl from yesterday to be a metal fan.

Fergus finally jumped from the keyboard and wondered into the next room. I decided to quickly send a friend request before returning to my computer to watch some porn before bed.

Lucy

The sweat rolled from my face. I brushed wiped my eyebrows in exhaustion. I swear my eyebrows were like sponges. Every time I touched them it was like a waterfall met my fingers. I walked to the bathroom to fix up my make up. The music dulled behind me as I joined the eternal line for the ladies room.

Once finished I looked for Sky on the dance floor. I suddenly realized how full the club had gotten. Sky was on the prowl as she usually was. She’d flick her head and run her fingers through her hair, smiling as she dances towards whom ever took her fancy. She had the perfect, happy go lightly attitude. Her green eyes bright against her pale skin, her make up were perfectly crafted to accentuate each flattering aspect. My make up looked like a child playing dress up.

The night moved around me. I watched as the waves of intoxicated groups flowed through the room, guided by their sober guardians. I became increasingly aware of quantity of male suitors watching Sky, as she smiled and flirted effortlessly. I began to fade away. We danced within the mob of bodies till I lost feeling in my feet. I go to signal to Sky that I’d be getting this round of drinks, but when I turned towards her, I found her in the arms of a heavily tattooed surfer (at least I assumed he surfed).

I stood at the bar, feeling the desperation wash through me. She made everything look so effortless, as if it was easy for her to captivate the world with a smile. It was becoming that time of night where everyone begins to pair off. I watched as countless females approached the bar and were served almost instantaneously. However was left with the male population and the other wallflowers, climbing over each other and fighting for service like a scene from an old school stockbroker movie.

The wave of bodies swam around me, the wave synchronizing with rhythm and beat of the music. I imagined placing high-powered speakers under a waterbed. I claimed my place on the wall as the desperation grew. I realized the desirable suitors were quickly being claimed. Frantically I searched the facility; I locked eyes with the first person that was somewhat reasonable. I smiled and he turned away. I moved on to another, dancing a little this time, but my efforts were again wasted. As hours passed I could feel tears begin to swell as my insecurity sat in my throat. I played with some near by coasters as if they were dominoes waiting to be stacked and pushed over. I slowly shaded the KENO bubbles drafting a new blog:

“I don't feel like a whole person. I balance between red and blue. I feel as if my soul is separate from my person and it floats in and out my body. As if I'm a 3D hologram of my self, everyone can see the person but the red and blue glasses must be removed to see the broken and fragmented version that is myself.

I'm not like everyone else, a CGI projection that can be seen from all angles. The projection a likeness of their very self. I'm but a primary school's shark week book. A discoloured smudge upon the pages, unlike the living and vibrant versions of everyone else. I'm flat, hollow and desperate to appear the same. When in reality the coloured glasses hold nothing to the modern and functional quality all other possess.”