The Unusual Thoughts of November (On Hold)

Chapter One

:- C H A P T E R  O N E -:

There is a moth is fluttering around the light in my room. It keeps trying to touch the bulb with its papery wings but every time it reaches the source of light it immediately flitters away. The moth has been doing the same thing since I turned the damn light on. I crane my neck and squint at the glowing clock by my bed; 4am, it's time I went out. I crawl out of the cavern of my covers and stumble up from my bed. The chest of draws creak open and I rummage around for some clothes stuffed behind my neatly folded school uniform. I'm not too sure why I still have that. Maybe I keep it as a grim reminder but I've come to find that the best thing to do is try not to think about things like that. You see, ignornace is bliss, it truely is, and ignorance from self is the most bliss of all.

I get dressed into some old black jeans and a t-shirt, avoiding the mirror propped up in the corner of the room. Pulling a hoodie over my shoulders, I turn off the light. The moth will probably go find another bulb to crash into. Silently I pad across the landing and put on a jacket and shoes. I stuff my keys in my pocket and leave the flat.

Outside, the wind wraps itself around me like a blanket sending my hair flying in all directions. I skip down the stairs each foot making a dull thud as rubber hits metal. It's so cold that I watch my breath dance in the icy air before disappearing.

I navigate through the winding streets lit buy buzzing streetlamps that drip harsh yellow light onto patches of pavement. I walk past the dog that barks and past the baby that cries. I walk until the road narrows and leads to a path that trickles alongside the river. The path is in complete darkness apart from the lights glowing from the city on the other side of the river. I continue until the path opens to a small, enclosed area with a short, rotting wooden pier jutting out the middle. The walls are coated with graffiti and a single golden light shines from over the wall. I walk to the end of the pier. At the end, a solitary bench sits. Leo and I dragged it there when we were twelve. We pulled it all the way from the park on a winter evening, our hands froze and we were soaked through from the sleet that was hammering down, but once we'd dragged it all the way there we sat and watched the sunrise. On the top slat of wood there is a very messy carving that reads 'Leo and November'. We'd scratched that into the wood with Leo's penknife before running home so Mum wouldn't catch us.

I quickly shake the memory from my head. It's not like that anymore and as I said ignornace from self is the most bliss of all. Every night I sit on this bench at the end of the pier and clear my head, or at least try to. I dont really know why I do it, it doesn't really work. If anything its been so long of clearing my head that I dont even know what I feel anymore. Everythings been pushed down so deep inside that no longer can I pick out one sole emotion or unpick the strand of rejected memories.

Every night a boy always comes. Sometimes I'm there before him and sometimes he's there before me. He wears a black hoodie pulled right over his face. He brings a big bag filled with paint and brushes. He's a contributor to the growing archive of graffiti but his is different. He uses brushes instead of spay cans, he works on his pieces for months with careful planning and he doesn't scribble pictures of women with shiny tanned skin and massive tits everywhere.

My favourite is the one he's working on now. It's of a little girl with plaits in a red-checkered dress, cupping her hands. You can't see what she's holding but there is light radiating from it. The light warms her face and her eyes are bright. I light a cigarette and from the corner of my eye I see his careful hand begin to paint. I stare out over the river and try to keep my mind in that constant state of nothingness.

"UGH, FUCK," the boy in the hoodie interrupts my thoughts. I turn to look at him. He dips his biggest paintbrush in a pot of white paint. He raises his arm, ready to paint over his work.

"Don't-" I stop myself.

"Huh?" He stops, his hand in midair. He turns to face me and we stare at each other, It's the first time I see his face. He has light skin and soft features, strands of curly blonde hair poke out from his hood. I sigh and quickly look at the ground. "What?" He asks in confusion.

"It looks good..." I laugh nervously. I haven't talked to anyone apart from Leo, Chris and Andrea in a long time. He laughs a little too. He turns back to face the painting.

"No, no," he says. "The proportions are all out," he takes a step back from the picture and examines it. "But if it's you like it then I guess I'll keep it." I turn back around before he can look at me. There is silence but I can feel him watching me. "Why do you come here every night?" He almost whispers it but I hear him. I'm not sure if the question is too forward or not, I don't even try to ask myself that question. I look out over the river and take a long inhale from my cigarette.

"For peace," I finally reply.

"Fair enough," he registers the bluntness in my tone, I still face away from him. This is strange.  I hear his footsteps approach me. I flinch at the clossness of his person. "Well, I'm Parker," he says. He stops about 3 feet away I angle my head to look up at him, confused.

"November," I nod, keeping the blunt tone. I odnt particularly want to talk to him and I'm not going to pretend like I want to. It's a tactic thats never failed me.

"November?"

"Yes, like the month," I look back out over the river.

"Let me guess, your birthday's in November." I inhale again.

"No, actually, my birthday's in August, I was conceived in November."

"I know this is going to sound weird but, do you go to Anchor's Collage?" My breath gets caught in my throat. WHAT?

"Used to," I reply shortly, my shock obvious. I stopped going to school about a year or so ago. I'm not one of those kids who drop out because they're bad and would rather be spray-painting their initials on alleyways and snorting coke behind dustbins. In fact, I would rather be at school. The problem is I can't go back now; I've been away for too long. According to Leo the register says I'm on 'Medical Leave'. Leo just says: "Stop sitting in a puddle of your own self pity, get outside and do something." But it's not that simple. I can't.

Now it's Parker's time to look at the ground. "Everyone, talks about you..." he mutters.

"Oh yeah?" I laugh coldly, "Who can blame them?" Parker also looks out over the river.

"You're Leo's sister right?" I nod "He doesn't tell anyone why you don't come in."

"Good." The sun is beginning to rise. Amber reflects off the windows of the buildings in the city. The bleak sun brings no warmth to the harsh February morning.

"You were meant to be in my art class," he thinks out load. I wish he'd stop trying to talk to me, but like all the others his facination for the mystery of November Archwright is too much to drop the subject. Although I must say the new knowlage that he's in my supposed art class intrigues me. Art was always my favourite subject, not realistic art, I found that boring, why create a painting that looks like a photograph? No, I liked to express the way I felt in my art. But thats a thing I can no longer do.

"How come I've never see you before then?"

He shakes his head, "I only joined this year."

"I see," I blow one final smoke ring before flicking the cigarette butt into the river and standing up. "See you tomorrow," I smile and he smiles too. I begin to walk home. I can feel Parker watching me until I am out of sight.

*   *   *   *   *

Authors note:

So I hope you enjoyed it so far. I know not much happened but there is more to come! What are your thoughts on November? Feedback would be amazing!

Thanks!