...and I've officially had it. This bell's got it out for me; just yesterday it rang the exact moment I'd picked my pen up from under my desk. I still have a welt from the back of my head meeting the metal bar along the underside. I want it documented somewhere, anywhere, that this thing's gonna be the death of me. Murdered by a faulty school bell. Honestly, there's probably better ways to go, but Harmonia's not a very prolific town when it comes to untimely deaths.
Well, I guess that Jane Doe didn't get the memo...The pen bled through the paper, paused on a dot out of silent curiosity from the owner. Archer found himself too enthralled with watching the students meander out of the classroom. His eyes fell on the teacher, fierce footsteps stomping against the tiling, though none fiercer than the frown stretching his lips. The bell never ceased, even in the finality of the door clicking shut - forgot amidst a wave of anger - while Archer's eyes followed the cracks against the wall, up to the ceiling, to stop along the starred spots splattered overhead. He hummed, the drowned out sound vibrating against his throat. Pen taps splattered ink against the pages of his journal before it slammed to fall into a ratted backpack at Archer's side.
High schools always smelled the same, regardless of prestige: weed, dashed dreams, and teen angst. Students passed by talking about the same, trite topics. The bell served as a backdrop - an every day reminder of the fruitless toils of everyday American teenagers. Archer never allowed himself the thought for more than a second. Nihilism twisted the tongue like ash; it made him taste cigarette smoke and piss-ridden bars.
"Bonfire at Beaumont Cove, fuckers! Don't be a
queer - be there!"
Archer flinched (word choice, jeez), face swiped by the zipper of a varsity jacket. The same pestered stench of old-spice battered his nose, unable to hide the clinging, sweaty sock smell that accompanied every high school locker room. The only response came in gritted teeth, though Archer didn't let the mindless assholery take away from his comprehension. Bonfire "canceled" only meant bonfire "relocated" by any obvious standard. The thought nearly distracted him from the pulsing in his pocket.
If I see you on the news tonight, I'll kill you myself, kid.
No one could really fault Ms. Milton for being... crass, even if her kid didn't exactly inherit that gene. He happened to acquire the chattiness without the vulgarity, to many people's misfortune.
Archer's thumbs tapped against the screen, his feet already dragging him through the small crowd in the hallway.
The plan's to head to the cove. Don't be a snitch, ma. Eggshell and yolk isn't exactly a flattering paint for a house, yeah?
God forbid anyone know where to go the minute a serial killer comes to slaughter our children.
...
Be safe. Don't do anything stupid. And, for once, don't be a boy scout and willingly stay to get caught. The gossip mill would have a field day.
If anything, half the teachers down this hallway already knew about it. If they gave a shit about the personal safety of their students, they'd likely inform the police. Eventually, it'd end with a lynch mob coming to string up some white bread jock kid by his fingernails. Archer never got the gist of how important these social nightmares were to kids his age. Then again, he never understood a lot of things the individuals around him did. Perhaps it's the wiring of his own mind, or maybe the environment his mother raised him in. She took no shit, first of all, and secondly, she wasn't the pastel perfection of a suburban, van driving soccer mom.
Jostling jumped Archer out his thoughts to push him onto Graystone's campus. The distance from the main building to the boy's dorm settled his heartbeat, while creasing out the frown on his face before he entered. He paused for a moment, in the first floor lobby - if it could be called that, with all the shit lying around - to take in just what his mother called the "real high school experience."
"Doesn't really work for a high school," Archer muttered, adjusting his shoulder, "I mean, dorms designed for teenagers? Such a real experience.
Visceral."
No use turning back like some kind of idiot. At least, some kind of quiet would help quiet his mind. Climbing the stairs felt mindless - it gave Archer time to reflect on certain thoughts. Like if he needed to catch dinner before catching a ride to the cove. Or what kind of week waited after this likely eventful weekend. Archer hummed, letting slam of the door handle wake him up, again. The bell still rang, incessant. If it went on for any longer, it might just send him into a meditative state of enlightenment. One could only hope.
Shoving through to the hallway meant a direct line down, from end to end, of the top floor. It also meant Archer caught sight of Stephen poking his head out from his room. He shook his head the moment he caught Stephen's attention, motioning to his ear. "Sorry, Steve," he yelled as he passed by, even if his normal voice could likely reach over the bell's volume, "can't hear. Can't read lips, either, pal."
Archer made toward his room, slipping inside and slamming the door shut. He fell face first into the ratty, hand-me-down sheets his ma gave him. For a second he just laid there, letting his breathing drift off into subconscious, yet deep breaths. He shimmied further up, until his face buried into the quilt covering his pillows. The smells brought him back to the days his mother brought him down to their little shanty cottage; his gran would always find a reason to let her anxiety thrust her into a baking marathon. It would could the entire house in the various aromas of cakes, pies, cookies, brownies - an assortment of various pastries - that usually matched the season.
He made a sound before inhaling deeply, squeezing his eyes close and burying his nose further into his pillows. A hint of cinnamon cookies left his tongue, just a figment, a shadow of his memory.
And the bell still
fucking rang.
Member
Snowdrops
Damo021
