The magic and wonder of a new school year
Today was my first day as a sophomore. All in all, it was a lot like every school day last year. Except, you know. New classes.
Seriously, was I really expecting otherwise?
There is truly nothing magical about the first day of school. Why we seem to think so is unfathomable to me.
I need Chinese food.
And if you don't like the occasional f-word, don't read ahead plz. Or read ahead and pretend they're talking about frogs, whichever you prefer.
The number of zeroes is staggering.
I can feel the paper shaking in my hand--no, it's my hand that's shaking--and my breathing grows shallower, harder to get the air in with each breath. I don't understand; I don't...
It's Christmas Eve, and there is no way in hell I can pay this rent.
The paper crumples slightly in my now violently shaking hand, then is promptly reduced to a loose wad as it falls silently to the floor; I can hear it crunch under my toe as I cross the room, stagger, collapse onto the couch and just lie, my face buried in pillows.
No. No. It's not happening.
Snow swirls against shades of gray, outside the window. I don't bother to close it--let me freeze. God, how great it would be if everything just froze...
A violent tremor shakes through my body, leaving me breathless, and I can see the outline of my exhale, now, white on white--or white on gray--I don't care. Who does anymore. (It's not a question.)
My face is dry; my eyes are dry. I vaguely wonder, in the back of my mind, why that is--but then, I don't care much about that, either. Really, what matters is that it's cold, and it might be my last night with a home in the East Village, that tomorrow I may be the newest addition to tent city, fighting desperately for the closest spot near a burning fire housed in a trash bin, trying to ignore the nasty purple color my hands are turning.
And then a knock. On the door.
Evicting me already? I'd have thought they would have at least given me the weekend to try to come up with the payment...
Despite myself, my legs, solid and heavy like cement blocks, stand me upright, send me clunking emotionlessly towards the door, and my hand reaches blindly, takes hold of the doorknob, turns it.
Not my landlord at all; just some dude, complete with wide robin's-egg puppy eyes and floppy brown hair that obscures them slightly, and a huge, goofy grin that I am really not in the mood for. It falters and slides off like a wet rag when he notices my expression, which is, I'm almost certain, far from welcoming.
"Uhm," he stammers, trying to regain his composure after seeing my rat's-nest hair, bloodshot eyes, murderous expression, "Merry Christmas!"
It is only then that I notice the tray of cookies in his hands.
What the fuck.
"Who the hell are you," I state bluntly, not even bothering to phrase it like a question; he gulps, growing increasingly awkward. Screw awkwardness. Get off my threshold, skinny Santa.
"Um, I'm Kyle Adams. From downstairs...I just moved in and..." He trails off lamely.
"And you just decided you'd give random neighbors cookies, for the hell of it." I'm tired, Kyle Adams. And you're keeping me awake.
He flushes a deep red. "Um...yeah."
I glare, steadily. "I'm hardly in the mood, Mr. Adams. Thanks for thinking of me, but I need fucking sleep right now, not sugar."
I'll apologize in the morning. If I'm still living here.
His expression is momentarily pained, but he smoothes it over, nodding understandingly. "I see. I'm sorry. I won't bother you in future, Miss..."
"Goodnight. Merry Christmas."
"But I don't even know your--"
The door slams with a very final bang. I hear a small sigh outside, but it doesn't bother me.
Much.
I sink to the floor, trembling. And now I cry.
When I wake from a dreamless sleep, drenched in cold sweat, I hear singing.
It wafts in through my open window, punctuated every few beats by the pluck of acoustic guitar--soft, barely audible, and clear, like a truth hanging present in the atmosphere, waiting to be expressed.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch, it murmurs, a breath against howling wind and whispering snow, but love is not a victory march; it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah...
Jesus.
Literally.
I let my head fall back against the wall, gently this time, close my eyes, and listen.
Hallelujah, indeed.
A knock. On the door.
It opens, tentatively, revealing the robin's eggs again, wide and inquisitive, widening further as they rest on me. He is holding a guitar.
I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me, a smile playing on his lips.
"You want the cookies, now, right?"
I nod helplessly.
Hallelujah.
Dude, this is old.
I think I wrote this mid-freshman year.
As I type, I'm noticing a hairtie tan around my wrist. After, what, an hour of running. That's a record.
If you like it (the story, not my tanline), tell me :D
Seriously, was I really expecting otherwise?
There is truly nothing magical about the first day of school. Why we seem to think so is unfathomable to me.
I need Chinese food.
And if you don't like the occasional f-word, don't read ahead plz. Or read ahead and pretend they're talking about frogs, whichever you prefer.
The number of zeroes is staggering.
I can feel the paper shaking in my hand--no, it's my hand that's shaking--and my breathing grows shallower, harder to get the air in with each breath. I don't understand; I don't...
It's Christmas Eve, and there is no way in hell I can pay this rent.
The paper crumples slightly in my now violently shaking hand, then is promptly reduced to a loose wad as it falls silently to the floor; I can hear it crunch under my toe as I cross the room, stagger, collapse onto the couch and just lie, my face buried in pillows.
No. No. It's not happening.
Snow swirls against shades of gray, outside the window. I don't bother to close it--let me freeze. God, how great it would be if everything just froze...
A violent tremor shakes through my body, leaving me breathless, and I can see the outline of my exhale, now, white on white--or white on gray--I don't care. Who does anymore. (It's not a question.)
My face is dry; my eyes are dry. I vaguely wonder, in the back of my mind, why that is--but then, I don't care much about that, either. Really, what matters is that it's cold, and it might be my last night with a home in the East Village, that tomorrow I may be the newest addition to tent city, fighting desperately for the closest spot near a burning fire housed in a trash bin, trying to ignore the nasty purple color my hands are turning.
And then a knock. On the door.
Evicting me already? I'd have thought they would have at least given me the weekend to try to come up with the payment...
Despite myself, my legs, solid and heavy like cement blocks, stand me upright, send me clunking emotionlessly towards the door, and my hand reaches blindly, takes hold of the doorknob, turns it.
Not my landlord at all; just some dude, complete with wide robin's-egg puppy eyes and floppy brown hair that obscures them slightly, and a huge, goofy grin that I am really not in the mood for. It falters and slides off like a wet rag when he notices my expression, which is, I'm almost certain, far from welcoming.
"Uhm," he stammers, trying to regain his composure after seeing my rat's-nest hair, bloodshot eyes, murderous expression, "Merry Christmas!"
It is only then that I notice the tray of cookies in his hands.
What the fuck.
"Who the hell are you," I state bluntly, not even bothering to phrase it like a question; he gulps, growing increasingly awkward. Screw awkwardness. Get off my threshold, skinny Santa.
"Um, I'm Kyle Adams. From downstairs...I just moved in and..." He trails off lamely.
"And you just decided you'd give random neighbors cookies, for the hell of it." I'm tired, Kyle Adams. And you're keeping me awake.
He flushes a deep red. "Um...yeah."
I glare, steadily. "I'm hardly in the mood, Mr. Adams. Thanks for thinking of me, but I need fucking sleep right now, not sugar."
I'll apologize in the morning. If I'm still living here.
His expression is momentarily pained, but he smoothes it over, nodding understandingly. "I see. I'm sorry. I won't bother you in future, Miss..."
"Goodnight. Merry Christmas."
"But I don't even know your--"
The door slams with a very final bang. I hear a small sigh outside, but it doesn't bother me.
Much.
I sink to the floor, trembling. And now I cry.
When I wake from a dreamless sleep, drenched in cold sweat, I hear singing.
It wafts in through my open window, punctuated every few beats by the pluck of acoustic guitar--soft, barely audible, and clear, like a truth hanging present in the atmosphere, waiting to be expressed.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch, it murmurs, a breath against howling wind and whispering snow, but love is not a victory march; it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah...
Jesus.
Literally.
I let my head fall back against the wall, gently this time, close my eyes, and listen.
Hallelujah, indeed.
A knock. On the door.
It opens, tentatively, revealing the robin's eggs again, wide and inquisitive, widening further as they rest on me. He is holding a guitar.
I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me, a smile playing on his lips.
"You want the cookies, now, right?"
I nod helplessly.
Hallelujah.
Dude, this is old.
I think I wrote this mid-freshman year.
As I type, I'm noticing a hairtie tan around my wrist. After, what, an hour of running. That's a record.
If you like it (the story, not my tanline), tell me :D