A curious case

short and random

     Somewhere along my middle school days, I had gained the acquaintance of one peculiar kid. He was small, thin and frail, with a very odd expression on his pale face as if there was something unusual in everything he sees. From the surface one would rather mistake him as the silent type�"as I once did�"but upon befriending and knowing him better, he proved to be the curious and talkative type. He used to hit me with dull, senseless questions which almost irritated if not for the naivety in his voice.

     “When was condom invented?” One of the many he asked me.

     “Don’t know,” I would say, almost automatically, thinking it was the natural answer he expected.

     “Probably around or after the 19^th century, right?”

     “Probably.”

     “Then, how come the world’s present population far exceeds the past? Even when condoms are in practical use now? Don’t you find that bizarre?”

     Such things ran through his mind. Including this one, some topics had actually taken my interest. Majority of them, however, were very silly and stupid to the point I wanted to punch his face. At first I pondered whether he was ignorant or simply wanting conversation, but soon enough I realized it was pure curiosity. His enthusiasm about the unknown surpassed that of a five year old child. He really was passionate to know the facts, to experience the feeling, to prove his point, and to release his mind. The burning passion grew without limits, day by day, question after question, until his curiosity had amounted into stupidity. He wanted to know what it’s like to be dead. Is there really heaven or hell? God or the devil? Reincarnation?

     Hence, the outcome.

     I had tried to convince myself he wouldn’t do it, but deep down I knew for a fact he would, and probably could’ve stopped him. Truth be told, I didn’t want to stop him, because I had my own curiosities as well--about him.

    He was discovered dead inside his own room, hanged. Poking out his pocket was a short letter which read:

    “No one is at fault. I decided to kill myself not because life is painful or meaningless, or any emo stuff like that, but because I simply decided to. The same as deciding whether to take the bus or the train. So cheers to everyone! Wish me luck in the afterlife.

  

P.S

     To prove I’m no emo, instead of cutting my wrist, I did the traditional style by hanging myself.”

 

     Whenever I spend time with my buddies, we often found ourselves talking about that grim incident.

     “Crazy,” was the usual word I would hear them say.

     “No, not crazy,” I’d object. “He was just curious.”