In a small town in Mississippi a boy sat at a desk, crayon in hand, placidly scribbling on a piece of white-lined paper; no attempt at rational pattern forming. His mind numb from a short-lifetime’s worth of socialization that didn’t quite add up, he continued his drawing, now taking the form of counter-clockwise circles spiraling towards the left. Crumpled papers scattered around his figure, almost as though he were some sort of scribble perfectionist, though the truth was that he just knew how useless a scribble on a piece of paper was. His name is Christopher Sheets, 11 years of age, lifelong resident of River Valley, and a member of Troop 1414. The only reason he was in the scouts was because his parents feared that his lack of friends could plague his entire youth, do in most part to his inability to participate in social events. He hated scouts.

His life was filled with lots of things he hated; enough that he didn’t care to express his emotions anymore. Instead, every Thursday, he walked from his mother’s car to the troop leader’s front door, counting and calculating every step, as to keep some form of interest in his life. This every Thursday a tall woman who went to church and enjoyed baking would open the door and try her hardest to look excited that Christopher had arrived, though the boy actually intimidated her. He spoke only out of politeness, as he was far too aware of how utterly useless a conversation was. His vocabulary was mediocre at its best, though he never found himself in a state of aphasia. His mind ran lucidly even when communicating ideas, though as practicality would tell us even a frictionless surface has its flaws.

Christopher Sheets could have been mistaken for a mentally challenged boy, though it would have been truer to say that his mind was far too capable of complex thought to be restricted by the relatively mentally challenged people he suffered through.

His drawing began to become more sporadic, the crayon markings growing deeper and darker across the grains of his paper, straying to right. The crayon leaves the paper and begins marking the desk for a moment. Having realized this he drops the crayon, sits back, and tries to comprehend what just happened. He forgot for a moment just who he was, like a bookmark falling from the friction of its recent-most pages, pages that will now be lost forever.

It hit him like a brick, panic setting in, paralyzing his every limb and digit. If he had remembered how to scream he surely would have, yet all he did was stare. His eyes watered, his nostrils flared, and soon a burning sensation manifested within his chest. The only coherent thought drifting through his mind was “go”. He didn’t know where he was supposed to go, but he wasn’t about to put up an argument. Christopher Sheets, 11 years of age, lifelong resident of River Valley, and member of Troop 1414, was leaving for good.

His pursuit began towards the river behind his school. He sat down on a rock, and awoke to his surroundings. He was confused but sure that he was safe, so his panic subsided. This was a familiar place to him, though he didn’t remember it. His brain still numb his subconscious operated as backup power. The ground was plain before him, a small ant coming into picture from left to right. His subconscious, a subconscious so powerful it was capable of complex thought and observation, began to note its progress over the various obstacles placed before it by nature. It was by far the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

His eyes glazed over from minutes without blinking, and then a neural spark commanded his right arm to gather the ant, place it between his thumb and fore finger, and crush it.

Christopher flicked his fingers to rid of the remnants, froze, and tears flowed down his face. He knew why he killed the ant, because it was competition. He knew that the ant was far more satisfied with its own life than he was his, and destroying it would be the only way to raise himself up on the worldly contentment rankings. Unlike the ant, which when handed an obstacle maneuvered around or over, he removed it. Christopher cried because he knew that by killing the ant he hadn’t improved his own condition at all, only secured his discontent and the ant’s eternal happiness. He messed up big time.

He knew that his actions had warranted an unwelcome atmosphere, so he gathered himself and trudged towards large hill he was familiar with. His mind still oblivious to any past relations he once found himself accustomed to. He counted his steps for personal pleasure, as he often did. Christopher took peculiar pleasure in obscure statistics. He often averaged how many steps common routes took. This was the main purpose for his ongoing count, and although he knew he would never be walking this particular route again it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

When the count ended at 5,348 he was atop the largest hill in his town. Christopher had never been to the very top before, though he always had the urge. This was his subconscious taking control, and luckily. If it weren’t for his subconscious he most likely would have collapsed in a pile of his own foamy saliva in what could be referred to as the most powerful seizure in the history of mankind. Lucky?

From this point the top of the hill broke the clouds and it was very difficult to breathe. Christopher took very little hesitation before his legs began reaching for the clouds. The first step proved against all physics as it secured and allowed pressure. His next step followed suit and within minutes the hill was far enough behind him that it may as well have been in front of him. It was then that Christopher sat, smiled, and felt happiness. He was above the ant, above the life he once lead. He lived in the fucking clouds.

The rain came down hard that night, striking Christopher’s lifeless body atop the hill. He was about as unresponsive as you’d expect a dead body to be. The only difference was that this was the happiest corpse there ever was.