Enigmatologist

“Lesson number one is you should never trust the narrator”, my teacher exclaimed seemingly out of nowhere to the barely attentive class. His eyes scanned the room for any hint of life behind our eyes before landing on the girl who sat next to me.

“Mrs Reece, I think you should always trust the narrator, how else will you know what is real? Even with the knowledge you are being lied to, there is always a level of trust being placed in the creators arms. This happens no matter what when you are no longer the creator of your own reality. A reader is like a baby being taught the world for the first time, and the lying narrator a parent who feeds its baby lies. While you drink from the teat do you doubt the mother? No, you can question and eventually query, but you never can shake the death grip of a parent”. The girl sighed after her monologue and stared at the teacher proudly, waiting for his response.

Of course there was none, the girl beside me was a creation of our teacher’s own mind. He envisioned this clever and excitable student to satiate his desire to both seduce and teach a young girl within our class. He thought only of supple legs and an innocent mind through that entire discussion. What a shame, it was an interesting point.

“Reader?” I realised I was being summoned, and returned to the room, where all eyes were on me. The question, what was the question? I was not listening at all. I should pay more attention in class.

My throat felt tight and my legs suddenly extremely itchy. I felt acutely aware of how misplaced my tongue was in my mouth, especially since it was seemingly not going to give any answer at all. At this point it might as well be cut out and used as a paintbrush, pictures paint a thousand words.

The teacher sighed, “I expected this from Marcus but not from you DEAR READER, please pay attention” he gestured towards another boy sitting with his neck turned all the way around to grin at me. I smirked back when I was sure I wouldn’t get caught. Marcus is always funny to have around. “What I asked you all was, who here survived the End of the World?” Oh boy what a question.

The class began to look around with a buzz. Finally something interesting. Before long all of the gazes had centred on a solitary hand in the air quivering slightly. The girl a desk behind me sat, mousy haired and nervously squirming. Don’t I know the feeling. She wore a light blue jumper with a small heart shaped locket adorning the front. I could not see her skirt because of the table, but considering our teacher that was probably for the best. We caught eyes and she blushed deeply, looking away almost immediately. I did the same and found myself admiring the floor. My face felt about 98.6 degrees farenheight! Before I had a chance to look back again the teacher had moved on. He was talking about puzzles now.

“A puzzle piece is made to fit a puzzle. It is a part of a whole, and therefore has a purpose. I think that puzzles ruin life, it teaches us that there is an answer, a solution. That there are a series of pieces waiting to be completed by your edges. You are not a part of a puzzle, rather imagine you are a solitary piece from a different puzzle entirely. You force yourself into place, warping the board, contorting all that you touch. You do not fit anywhere, and you never will. This puzzle has no solution, you will always be there either remaining off the board or ruining it forever”.

The mousy girl stood up, tears in her eyes and threw the locket at the wall. It burst open and inside we could see that there was no picture at all. What a meaningless plot device. I silently begged her not to leave the room, however she did. It doesn’t matter anyway, she will be back. Loneliness is a lot like misery, both desire company.

As the girl stepped out of the ruined classroom we all disappeared. For without the girl there is no story, and without no story there is no narrator.