Nobody is ever remembered past the fourth generation. There may be mentions of your name at a family event; hushed voices, keeping quiet as they describe the person that they thought you were, from pictures. But every single person has an expiry date.
Even the history books that recount the lives of the famous, they miss some points. Like the way you felt when you imagined the world, or how the universe makes you miniscule.
People are nothing, in the bigger scheme of things.
Cutting her throat, this is what I tell myself to help me sleep at night. Because it didn’t matter to Her, my Holy Mother, when she burned me with a match.
“Nobody will remember what I do; I am less than an ant.
You’re a particle in a world of Giants. “

“No one will listen. “

I'm writing this to track what happened. Because, in the end of it, we all want a way to explain our side of the story. Think of this as a way out; think of it as redemption.
Because, in the end? We're never insane for no reason.

‘Sociopath’ is such a strong word…

Arrival: Stanford Airport, 9:56am. Eastern Standard Time.
You wake up at an airport, in the terminal, on a bus, and the world’s as if it’s budding around you.
Development.
Everything is timed, here; three-minute passport check, twenty-second race to the terminal, five hours queued up in a line, waiting.
“Your plane is departing in three, two, now–“
If only real life was this methodical.
I live my life in transit.

Sitting patiently in my too-small chair, I mentally categorize the people around me, one by one. ‘Single Mother’, ‘Total Junkie’, ‘Terrorist’…
Because this passes the time when you have nothing better to do.
I invent scenarios in my head; ‘Serial Killer’, seat 34, will obsess over ‘Single Mother’, 48. He will ask her where she’s headed – maybe follow her home, crawl silent through her window and slit her throat while she’s sleeping.
After all, her hair was brown…
Or maybe ‘High-School Dropout’, seat 11, would ask ‘Total Junkie’ where to score some meth.
End up on the streets with a needle hanging from his too-still vein, dying slow and ignored by those elite.
“He’s just another street rat.”
He could have done so much…

“Hi”.

Jolted from my thoughts, this temporary static, I turn to face ‘Obvious University Student’, seat right-next-to-mine.

“H-hello?” I stammer, brushing those not-quite-presumptuous thoughts out of my mind.
This one must be a prostitute on the side, though. With clothes like that.
“What’s your name? Where are you flying to?”
Too many questions, of course I lie.
“I’m Stanley.”
That was easy.
“And I’m going to a business meeting.”
A curious pause.
“So?”
Taken aback, the girl stares me down; making me wonder how she’d look without eyes. “So what?”
Smirking, I look upward, just to avoid staring at her oh-so-eloquent breasts.
“So where are you going?”
“Oh” (do I sense disinterest?) “I’m just going home.”
“Well, that’s not quite an answer-“
She turns away.

Lifting a complimentary newspaper from the seat-pocket facing me, I let out an elongated, rehearsed sigh. The girl (as of yet nameless) glances back with curiosity as I pretend to read about the recent floods on the other side of the world, read about so-and-so’s disappearance and suspected murder. Suddenly sheepish (*Why?) she says “I’m sorry. My name’s-“
The plane jolts with turbulence, cutting off her words.
“Pardon?” I ask, ever patient.
“-Amanda” she responds, tentatively holding out her hand as a civil gesture of greeting.
Calmly, I take her hand and gently kiss it, making her blush.
“The pleasure’s all mine.”.

Considering the conversation to be over for now, I stand and reach into the dusty overhead compartment, retrieving my bag.
As I unzip it, Amanda’s eyes fall onto a gold-varnished urn.
Unable to help herself (of course) she spouts “So, what’s in there?”
Not quite taken aback, I answer bluntly: “My mother’s ashes”.
Her eyes widen; Golden-brown and white on the edges.
Just how I like them.
“So I think you mean ‘Who’s in th-‘”
“Oh! I’m…I’m sorry that I asked. I was just curious and-“
A vacant stare. “That’s fine. She’ll forgive you.”
“Was her…um, was her passing recent?”
This girl and her awkward questions.
“No; I just like to keep her close.”
Amanda is finally silent.

I smooth my hair backwards, across my scalp and go back to searching through my luggage. Success! I remove the book I was seeking and turn to an often dog-eared page.
Again, she glances over, the sounds of intermediate turbulence once more muffling her words.
“Wh–“
Artificial thunder crashes. People hold their seats in anticipation.
“–eading?”
Piecing together the sounds, I absentmindedly turn the cover toward her, not warranting her question worthy of response.
“‘I Have No Mouth & I Must Scream’…That’s a bit macabre.”
With a frustrated huff, I look upward to greet her eyes. “It’s a brilliant story, really. One of my favourites.”
Breaking our eye contact, I open the book to page 34.
Frustrated, I glance toward her, defiant.
“Ellison is a fantastic novelist. His descriptions are tantalizing; he really makes you feel as if you’re part of the story.”

As I sink into the narrative, a trolley loaded with an excuse for food drifts past.
“Dinner!” – The air-hostess, booming, announces the new arrival.
“No thankyou”, I brush them away without a thought.

Airline food often makes me sick.

“Hey, come back!” Of course she woke up.
“I want something, come back!”
As the trolley’s wheels grind to a halt, turning the wrong way, Amanda glares at me; mocking.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
*Because I was finally getting some peace…*
“You looked so peaceful.”

She stares at me curiously for a moment, then shrugs and retrieves some food from the trolley. The air hostess, hostile, glares at me with her squinted eyes before turning away.
“She shouldn’t squint”, I say absentmindedly, not caring whether she hears.
“She’ll get wrinkles.”

Again lifting my novel, I become numb to the surrounding area; though I can still hear Amanda chewing on something unappealing.
“What are you actually eating?” I ask, impatient.
“Right now? Sliced carrots.”
“Oh.” And I’m curious.
“So what do you study?”
She looks at me with her eyes. “Architecture. Why?”
How dull.
“Just wondering.”

In this awkward aftermath, I glance to the side, just wondering how her face would look covered in glass. Feeling the plane jolt again, I’m composing myself by imagining everything crashing to the ground; a faulty engine, turbulence shaking the wings, crowds collapsing off their seats, plummeting downwards.
Screaming.

“What are you thinking about?”
Her voice again.
“You look so at peace!”
“Oh, just landing.”
Of sorts, I suppose.
“Well…” She pauses. “When we get out of here, do you have somewhere to be? I’ll just be kicking around for a while, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
Perfect.
“Oh, I’m not doing much until tomorrow; so that sounds like a lovely idea.”
Relieved, I settle back into my seat, contemplating what to do next.
I was concerned I’d have to drag her.

”Do you love your Mother?”
“Yes! I do, I do!”
“Then why won’t you do what I ask you?”
“It’s going to hurt…”
Thunderclaps sound as she slaps me across the face, leaving a print of her hand, making my eyes well.
“Eat your meal!”
Slowly, terrified, I lift a shard of glass to my lips, shaking before I bite down.
“Now, was that so hard?”
“No, Mother.” I spit blood. “I love you.”