Stabber

You get to the gas station. You walk up to the doors. The doors slide open and this frightens you. You shake your shoulders and briefly, you look around yourself. You dive your head downward and stare at your feet. You zoom your way around the aisles, heading steadfast to the coolers. When you arrive at the coolers you stare at a tiny row of metal green cans — you read the message, in the bold, yellow font, that says: “Power Blast! Extreme!”

There is a woman standing to your left. She stands six feet apart from you. You hardly notice her presence. She says something into a cell phone. What you hear is: “That’s Pathetic.” You wonder if that’s what she said. She’d said only one thing, you asses to yourself. It had sounded like, “That’s pathetic,” you think to yourself. You turn your head toward her. The woman has vanished. “Whatever, like a give a fuck,” you say in your head. You open the cooler door and you grab two cans of Power Blast Extreme.

You walk up to the counter, and there is no one standing, waiting in line. You place your two cans of Power Blast extreme down onto the counter. The man behind it is staring at you, seemingly with a look of either disgust, or dismay — you cannot discern which of these it is that the man holds for you. “I know you’re reading my thoughts,” you say to yourself, and “Fuck you,“ you add sharply. The man stares at you. He sighs, and pulls out a green binder. He opens it up. He picks up one of your cans and searches for a code of some sort. He corresponds this code to a list of codes spread on a page that’s inside the green binder. You look around yourself inside the gas station. You see an advertisement, posted on one of the window panes of the front facade. The poster is big and black and translucent. It reads: “I got it, and I know it!”

You cannot stop staring at this. You hear a voice from behind your eyes’ direction. It’s the man behind the counter. He’s talking to you. You turn around. Slowly. He says something again. You can’t understand it, though. You hand the man a five dollar bill. He says something again. You don’t hear it. You just stare at his mouth. It opens and closes and then again and so quickly. Then its pace slows considerably, and the mouth opens wider and wider each time it does. The man’s head jolts and snaps back into place.

The student closed the door and hurried down the stairway of the stoop. He looked around him and observed the day. People were outside, the day was still young. He looked at his watch. He still had forty minutes. He had plenty of time. Which was good, because the student was still high. He’d tried convincing his mind, though, that it wasn’t. He ignored how heavy his head had felt. He read to himself the words of paper that he wrote inside his mind. He had caught himself reading these thoughts with a British accent, which had struck him weirdly, as the student was not British. He then promptly switched back to reading his thoughts with the natural voice as he knows it.

In short time he had gotten to the building. He walked inside it. There, inside the foyer, he spotted a nook, that was furnished with a few armchairs and a coffee table. He looked at his watch. He still had twenty minutes. He took a seat, and pulled out his laptop. He looked his paper over, and read his work a few times. Coming his way, from a distance of around thirty feet, he had noticed a large woman. He returned his attention back to his laptop. When the woman reached the nook, the student looked up and glanced at her. She glanced at him, too. She let out a belch, and scratched her stomach. The student blinked. The woman kept walking. “Maybe I am high,” The student thought to himself.

He continued to work on his paper until his time was up. He packed up his things and walked to the elevator. He stepped inside and pushed for the third floor. When he arrived, at the professors office, he saw that the door had been kept propped open. He walked up to it but halted. He thought to knock on the door, to alert the professor, but inexplicably, although he’d thought to knock, his body had coughed. But all the same, the objective was achieved.

“Hey, come on in–we gotta do this quick, I’m short on time,” the professor said. The student walked inside and took a seat. He looked around the professor’s room. He observed it to be plain and without decor — entirely functional, was the office, the student observed. “So, in your email, you say that you plan to write your story in the second-person, like Stabber,” the professor said. The student nodded, “Yeah, kind of like StabberStabber is my favorite one that we read.”

The professor nodded, “Stabber is interesting, and certainly the most recent of the books in this course. You know, you’re the only student so far with plans to write their story using the second-person. I won’t ask you what it is that you’ll be writing about — although you can tell me if you’d like — but I am curious to know, why the second-person?”

The student thought about this, and looked to his left, and spoke, he said, “I think it’s the best way to convey honesty.”

The professor nodded, “I see,” he said. “We hadn’t talked very much about Stabber in class — we had unfortunately needed to rush it through — But you do remember of course, that Johnson had wrote Stabber while he was in Prison,” The professor said, searching his thoughts, trying to find his point. “My point is that, the second-person narrative is a, very, uh, personalized narrative — of course, naturally, and — there is plenty good reason for why it’s used as seldom as it is — have you ever tried writing in the second person?”

The student nodded, partially, “Only with my draft — but I like it,” He said. The professor nodded at this with enthusiasm, “Good–that’s all that matters,” he said, with a smile. The student had been mirroring the professor’s movements, though unintentionally. They were both seated in their chairs, leaning to one side, with their hands holding their heads. The professor noticed this. He straightened his posture. The student did as well. The professor pulled on his chin with his left hand, “Are you alright,” he asked.

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