classystudentpartyslime

[classystudentpartyslime]

[classystudentpartyslime]

Found this in my notes app, it's a year old, let's go (⁠ノ⁠ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ⁠)⁠ノ

Hangout later

The fan in my bedroom hasn't been working for the past few days.

This isn't a problem– shouldn't be, atleast. It's winter.

Or that's how it may seem to others.

It has caused issues for me.

I mean, I find myself staring at it more often.

That in itself wouldn't be the problem, if I hadn't also been staring at the sturdy looking bedsheets, the calendar, the small ladder, a notepad, and a pen.

But I am. Way too often.

I think we often tend to miss things when they're in motion. Or we're in motion. Aren't we all in motion? The earth is spinning, after all. But it seems with the fan, I have stopped too. So now, with many thoughts behind my unoptimally functioning eyes, and from behind the sizeable lenses cased between the frame of my painfully dull black glasses, I stare.

I stare at many things, but the fan, mostly.

You see, it's not that cold yet. If the fan hadn't stopped, I'd be cozier in the night, with its regulator turned to the second last notch complimenting the weight of a thicker-than-usual blanket on my body in a way that lulls me into an easy sleep.

But, no. It had to stop. So I stare as sleep evades me, today of all days, when I felt I needed it most.

It's too warm with the blanket, suffocating. Just slightly too cold without it, in a way that stings only the back of my legs and my thighs. There is no peace either way.

My phone's ringing. I ignore the sound till it stops. I think of the days where I didn't, and how those conversations went. Tonight I don't feel like listening. Or speaking, for that matter. So I settle with staring at the fan. The phone finishes ringing and doesn't ring again.

I remember when I was younger, I used to get on top of the ladder and try to reach the blades. I'm sure I could now, if I tried, but I haven't in a while.

Maybe because that information would only cause me more unrest. Push me harder towards resting once and for all, maybe not flat on my back, but not on my feet, either.

Because I'm not that tall, so my feet wouldn't touch the floor, even if the fan hanged a little low.

The right earphone is working. The sound of chirping crickets replaces the music that's supposed to flow in from the left one. It's been broken for a while, now. So many things are, now that I think about it.

My right ear starts ringing, and suddenly I can't hear any music at all.

Usually, I'd hear the dull whirring of my fan, and the sound of air being whipped around. But there's none of that either. The sound of my thoughts occupies that silence.

I think the fan's staring at me, too. Wondering why I spend so much time decomposing on this bed. Why I'm thinking so hard, prolonging a decision that I know I will end up taking. Why I've been here so long, not even moving any part of my body except my eyelids and irises. I think the fan is tired of looking at my face. I feel sorry for my fan. Maybe things are easier for it when it's spinning, too. I feel it isn't happy with the way I'm planning to use it, at all.

What if it gives out from the ceiling, and we both fall?

My fan falls, and it says, "It's all your fault. Maybe I was a little flawed– maybe I stopped spinning for a while. For such a minor crime, did you really have to destroy me? Now I've left a hole where I was, and the ceiling misses me. I will be thrown out soon, and I'll end up in the dumpyard with the rest of the trash. Can't you have done something different?"

"Stupid girl. Look at what you did."

And I don't have an answer for my fan. Really, this was an inconsiderate decision. I never thought it would fall alongside me...but I'm not really sorry.

"So what if you didn't?" My fan says. "It's still your fault."

Still my fault. That sounds right. I've decided that most things are. I think about how I haven't heard an apology in very long.

I must really have gone insane, because fans don't speak, and I never even left my place on the bed. My fan still hangs from the ceiling, perfectly still, like it has been for days.

I think about what my fan said to me, when I realise that maybe sleep is upset with my eyes tonight for having paid no heed to it's gentle nudges throughout the day, and has decided to refrain from paying them its daily visit out of pettiness.

I think of asking my fan why it stopped.

My fan reads my mind, because it answers though I never end up asking. "Why are you always questioning me? Can't you be glad I chose a time where you don't need me as much? Atleast it's not summer, I worked hard for you this summer." my fan says.

"I gave you what you wanted, when you wanted it. What more do you want from me?"

And my fan sounds so upset, that I feel a little bad for asking in the first place. Even though I didn't really ask, and it never really answered. I'm going to stop asking if it's so sad all the time.

This whole back and forth that I just had with my fan, or didn't, sounds a little familiar to me. Or doesn't. Because I never had this conversation with someone else, but if I did, they would act out my part, and I'd be acting out the part of my fan.

I think I already do, to some extent.

"I don't know, have you thought about apologising?"

"Hello? But I'm not sorry?"

"Oh. Okay."

"..."

I think about how I don't exactly sympathize with my fan, and wonder whether it's the same for other people too. How exhausting it must be to have to badger me with questions even when I'm not causing them trouble.

"I gave you what you wanted, when you wanted it. What more do you want from me?"

"...I'm going to stop asking if you're so sad all the time."

Maybe my way of looking at this is wrong to begin with. Maybe my fan stopped moving because it died. Maybe what hangs above me now is its corpse. Such a morbid thought. We'd match if I hung my corpse from it, too. Just two hanging corpses, that were maybe friends.

"I don't know," my fan says. "Are we friends?"

"You're supposed to be dead," I say, or don't.

"Well, if you want me to be." My fan sounds upset again. "Do you want me to be?"

"That depends. Do you want to be?"

My fan doesn't answer that question. Maybe it realised that it's supposed to be dead, and shouldn't have been speaking in the first place, or it just now died, or it simply didn't feel like answering. Looking at my fan, it's not clear which one it is. Maybe it has no answer.

It's silent now, it occurs to me. It's a weird thought because it has been silent the entire time, but this silence feels more concentrated. Atleast now I'm thinking about a possible schizophrenia diagnosis instead of about killing myself. If I told someone about tonight, they'd probably laugh at me. I'd laugh with them, because it's funny, there's no denying that.

"What do you mean? I do tell you everything."

"That can't be true."

"Yes it is. It's not my fault my life's so uneventful."

"...."

"What? It is true."

Because my fan speaking to me, but not exactly, can't really be considered a real event. Right?

It's too quiet save for the ringing in my right ear, and that sound is not one that I'm fond of. So I ask my fan why it's speaking to me.

"I'm not," it says. Now that just makes matters worse.

It doesn't clear up whether my fan is dead or not. Can inanimate objects die? It doesn't even clear up whether or not it's speaking to me. I suppose if a fan can speak, a corpse should be able to speak too, since they're both inanimate. What about a fan-corpse then? Or a corpse-fan?

There's an obvious answer to all of this, of course. If inanimate things never lived in the first place, then they can't die. And by that logic they can't speak either.

"That's right." My fan confirms.

"You're going against what you're agreeing with," I say. Or think. I don't really know.

"No, that's you." My fan says, even more upset for some reason. "I haven't been speaking in the first place. It's all you."

Jesus Christ. Maybe I shouldn't have asked why it's speaking to me.

My fan doesn't respond any further, probably since my right ear stopped ringing and I can hear the music again.

I pick up my phone and turn off the song, but my fan doesn't speak anymore. This time I don't bother figuring out why. I'm not sleepy, but I don't have the energy to move more than my hands. My fan can't die, so it stays stuck between being alive and being dead, miserable in its own existence. There's no reason for me to exist that way, except for right now, when the reason is that I'm exhausted.

I don't know how much longer I can farm that excuse, because I'm growing increasingly frustrated with my own incompetence. Can't even get up to hang yourself? What a joke.

I'm miserable tonight, like I've been last night, and the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that, and many many nights before that. My body aches and so does my mind, especially my eyes as they stare at the fan.

I want my existence to end.

Was that me or the fan?

Whoever it was, it's now 2:32, so I have to wait till 3.

__________________________________________

My fan is fixed now btw