I wish I were dead.

Not in a suicide sense because although I may wish for my death, the bravery still isn't there. An accident perhaps. Or a natural disaster of some sort — preferably lightning. I'd even go as far as accidentally stepping into a wave of traffic.

Again, if I had the bravery.

But these things must not be intentional, they must be spontaneous. I won't actively seek out my own death. I only wish it under unforeseen circumstances, out of my own hands. Quick and easy.

This is not a product of depression; It is simply a lack of will to live. I was brought here against my will, out of pure selfishness. I don't breathe because I want to, I do so because twenty-one years ago, two adults who really had no business being together decided to forsake the one thing that would have kept me nonextant. A goddamn condom.

Now I'm slacking my way to a lecture hall because of that very mistake. If it weren't for my parents, there would be no lecture at 9 a.m., or a three-hour long class dedicated to the humanities. I have no idea what the course is truly about. Something about culture or the other. As if that has anything to do with a business major.

There's nothing truly fun about life if you aren't born with riches. One could argue that there are more ways to relish wealth — friendship and self-fulfillment, perhaps. But that's all bullshit. No amount of self-fulfillment will pay off my tuition.

I've been granted scholarships, of course, but I still have to make up the balance. Course materials, textbooks, housing. Forty hours of slave work a week to offset the cost. How ideal. Isn't life just great?

I'm early to class again today — Accounting 311. The beauty about being early is that you get to pick where you want to sit before lecture starts. I go for the back, the popular choice, and grab the seat closest to the edge. That's when the population begins filing in, after I've settled down.

It's become something of a habit observing the masses from above. You get to witness the polarity, the varying behaviors, or just unusual things in general. Like the girl who thinks she's doing a good job hiding the grease stain on the side of her shirt. Or the guy trying his best to mend his phone back together after carelessly dropping it.

Or, my personal favorite, the same group of giddy girls with too much drama on their hands than school supplies.

They're going on about some other girl who, apparently, has grown to be quite the bitch ever since dyeing her hair blond. Quite a thing to say about their supposed friend, but I don't fault or blame them. Such is a life of a college student.

There are other cliques of girls with their own two cents to share, and before I know it, I begin parroting them. "He's just sooo hot, isn't he?" "Last night was crazy, he definitely wanted to fuck me." "I'm telling you, he's cheating on you."

Then I see a couple, one of the last to make it into the lecture hall. All smiley and happy and content, arms linked and all. I frown at the sight. Must they flaunt their relationship so openly? Get fucked.

I see another couple as happy as the previous one. Except this one has the gall to kiss in front of me. Then they go their separate ways. The boy must have been there to drop his girlfriend off. How sweet.

I groan again, slamming my head down against the table. "I wish I were dead."

"You do?"

If it weren't for the metal rod securing the seat to the table, I would have fallen over. My heart beats as though it will give up on itself anytime soon, and my body will be forced to go into cardiac arrest. All because of this stranger next to me.

But lo and behold, this is no stranger. Perhaps in familiarity he is, but not in general. Joining the football team will do that to you, expand your popularity. So while I'm certain his name is Colt Bradshaw, I have no idea how he managed to sneak his way into this class. No offense, but I assumed everyone who played sports did so to make up for their academic failure.

"You wish you were dead?" he asks again.

"No, I was just . . . kidding."

"Are you sure?"

What kind of question is that? "Yes, I'm sure."

He looks at me a second too long, until he smiles — warm and yet sly. I don't have time to read into it because his eyes are staring into mine. I imagine that the gates to heaven are colored the same shade of green, and that the portal to hell must be as pitch black as his hair. It's common knowledge that the devil once used to be an angel. Perhaps the devil was also once this charming, perfect teeth and jawline and everything.

I despise good looking people. You could say it's out of jealousy, but I don't care. And the more I think about it, the more I realize how truly unfair it is. Good looks, popularity, smarts, and a valued member of the football team.

In a different lifetime, that could have been me.

What irks me most is the fact that he's likeable, as if those with good looks are supposed to start off evil and prove their geniality. Just look at the amount of people around him. Unfair.

There's a bubble between me and the chatter on Colt's side. He speaks with so much energy that it even begins rubbing off on me. Now I'm not so much as uptight as I was a second ago, but I am still judging him and his clique. And I have to say, I see why the masses love Colt Bradshaw.

He's funny — not in a jokey way, but in some way natural. He doesn't try too hard. In fact, he doesn't try at all. It's almost as if there's an invisible magnet tied to him, and all he has to do is smile for the magnet to activate — and his fans will all come running.

I wonder how it feels to be so effortlessly charming, so outgoing and beloved by all. It seems to come so naturally to him.

But that's all I'll ever do, wonder.

Sooner than later, class starts, and the space between Colt and I remains just that. A bubble.

___

For my work break today, I have a quick chat with Jenny before I'm forced to go back to taking orders. We usually sit by the window, taking in the aroma of the café that so generously employed me.

Well, employ is one way to say it. Capture would be another.

"Can you believe he wants me to see him at two in the morning?" Jenny asks, smashing her phone's keyboard. "Who does he think I am?"

It's almost the same conversation whenever we meet up. Some issue with boy toy number one or the other. I don't have enough expertise in the matter to truly give her any advice, but I suspect Jenny doesn't actually want a solution.

Th sun hits her brown hair through the window, highlighting the blonde roots. Her first trip to the salon was over some phenomenon called 'color theory', as in dark hair would do more for her features and hazel eyes than blonde ever would.

I've always thought about dyeing my hair something lighter. Something that isn't black. Something that complements my brown eyes. But each time I say I will, I recline the promise and blame time. As if it's supposed to wait for me.

Once, I'd even cooked up a trip to Mexico. I used to catch wind of my mother's description of the place, especially Guadalajara, where she used to live. So it piqued my interest.

But it never left the planning stage. I gave up after formulating too many excuses.

Across the table, Jenny grumbles out some curses. Her nails are perfect and painted pink as always; it's her favorite color. She's styled her hair this time to mimic space buns, which suit her just as good as the rest of the styles she tries on herself. Then there are her clothes; cute and yet provocative.

She dresses only in the ways I wish I could dress, in the ways I picture myself dressing if I had enough confidence. And I know I mentioned my dislike for good looking people, but that doesn't apply to Jenny.

I watch her text for minutes to come until I deem it necessary to intervene. "Did you happen to speak with Calvin?"

Jenny pauses, and I half expect good news. But she tells me the same story. "I tried, Dalia, but he was totally coming on to me! I tried to keep the conversation on you, but that asshole wouldn't even let me get two sentences out. What a piece of shit."

The disappointment is not at all kind when it hits — no, butchers me. I try swallowing it down. "Oh . . . no, it's okay . . ."

"You don't need him, anyway. There are plenty of other hot guys out there for you. You just need to look."

"You're right." I smile, or at least attempt to. She's not wrong. I just have to keep looking. But for how long?

"Oh, and by the way," Jenny starts again. "There's a party this evening, and you're coming with me."

I sigh. To be financially free. "I'll be working, Jenny.

"Still?"

I can't resist laughing. "That's what happens when you get a job."

She sticks her tongue out at me, and I wonder how my life would be without her in it. Definitely far more tedious. I'm reminded of the day we first met four years ago. College freshmen we both were, clueless about our future and more so about Chem 101.

If I had a penny for how often I reminisced about the past, maybe I'd have enough funds to quit my job at this café.

But I need it, as much as I need Jenny.

Once my break ends, I greet Jenny goodbye and take my place behind the register. I hate this stupid job. I despise it. The staff, the customers, everything. Always complaining about some shitty coffee or the other. "Are you sure you used two pumps of espresso?" "I can't have this drink without caramel." "Can I have the cinnamon coconut latte but with no coconut?" Can't wait until I no longer need to rely on this ugly place.

"Excuse me."

I put on my brightest smile. "Hi, welcome."

The customer, however, has no such pleasure. She places her drink down in front of me, her brows glued and face caked with indignation. "That doesn't taste right."

See what I mean?

I suppress a sigh. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I ordered a vanilla macchiato. And that tastes like dog shit."

If I had a grenade, I'd detonate it right now.

"We're so sorry to hear that, ma'am," I tell the woman in my best customer service voice. "We'll have another one made for you as quickly as we can."

That should have been the end of it, but no. The woman grabs the drink and hands it to me. "No, keep it. If you lot can't even handle a simple drink, then I might as well go drink piss. I want my money back."

I try grabbing the cup, but she allows it go just at the last second. The drink ends up spilling and staining my attire, mostly my shoes. And now I'm left with a giant stain and another mess to clean.

I hate my life.

The woman isn't at all remorseful; she's still waiting on her refund. But I think I've about had enough. I abandon my post and head out back to the office, where I contemplate the reason behind my existence for the rest of the day.

___

Work ends at midnight, but since we have to wipe down the café, it takes an additional fifteen minutes before we're allowed to leave.

I've already put the whole day behind me at this point. Let bygones be bygones. It can't possibly get any worse.

The drive back home is never tedious, especially in the spring when the trees are past full blossom. I used to dream about driving past heaps of snow as well, but California hardly ever offers us that luxury, especially here in Irvine where it's dry most days out of the year.

I dream about escaping this place sometimes, but it's not exactly like I have the funds for that either.

To get to my car — parked on the other side of the street — I take the shortcut that goes behind an abandoned shop. It isn't until I'm almost past the shop that I hear the whimpering. Perhaps a cat that got caught in a trap. But the more I listen, the more it becomes clear to me that it isn't animal-like. In fact, it sounds a whole lot more . . . human.

I'm very good at minding my own business. Jenny often tells me that it's one of my best qualities — leaving to others their business to take care of, as opposed to budging.

This should have been one of those days.

But no. I forsake my gut feeling and peek behind the wall out of some moronic, idiotic, stupid, morbid curiosity. And standing there, with a blade in his bloodied hands, is none other than Colt Bradshaw, star athlete of the football team.