Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter One

And thus, it begins.

Time Stamp: 7:00 PM

~

Presley's POV

~

I was prepared to miss Pretty Boy's memorial.

Viewing the ornately crafted rectangle of wood sounded as tempting as denying my nipples from society. Standing alongside his two best friends—one of which returned from the dead—and enveloped by aspen trees, dimming our bodies from the furious tears soaking our cheeks interested me as much as sobriety.

Aspen trees were rife, but they weren't breathing. Everyone knew the trees could not hug the other, wrap cracked branches around their companions in points of hurt.

Everyone knew aspens trees were unable to hug the ones they love.

Harry and I were aspen trees.

Pity the ceramic sink suffering my firm grip. Calm for the return of Levi, though bathrooms welcomed me in times of duress. As the absurd world caved onto my shoulders and pinched me dead, I found relief in bathrooms. Auggie's high school bathroom, the one I lost my mind in after meeting Pretty Boy, the Tootsie-Pop bathroom—hideouts when the voices became louder than my puttering my heart.

Though, right now, I didn't care if the voices derailed me.

I just needed to hear his voice.

To hear the low vibrato in his throat, emerging from foolishness dragging off my tongue, and the brutal laugh I hated until weeks ago. Christ, Pretty Boy's grim words felt better than quiet.

Silence was better than quiet. Nothingness was better than quiet. Silence meant the voices were muted. Now, however, was not that. This was quiet.

Until I heard his voice, I would only know quiet.

I would only know Hell.

Quiet and Hell were synonymous.

People have whispered assumptions surrounding the bottomless inferno with outstretched torture for centuries. Reservoirs of fire drowned demons until their throats burned into crimson dust. Screams heard for eternity, the forgotten souls pleading forgiveness to escape the torment, evade the realms in their minds.

They never could escape, could they?

They could never leave.

Gruesome memories replay on rotted monitors visible from every view; horrid moments buried deep sprung to life. The endless tears they cried, nights void of stars, and human touch to comfort them—periods of hating themselves, hating others.

Thesaurus's filled with the spiteful words spoken, the malevolent words spoken to them. Arguments held with loved ones looped. Photographs of failed friendships and relationships plastered on the walls, hung by an orange rope. Mirrors attached to columns with lights strung above, highlighting the imperfections laughed at in life.

All the suffering that people wanted to forget...

They had an eternity to remember.

Lambent, rectangular lights burned my corneas, burnt tears threatening to spill from the corners. Purple tiles with dirtied grout covered the bathroom walls; sticky grime spread across the ground. Bathrooms and Presley Symmes were a match made in Hope.

My mind wouldn't kill me.

My mind gave me hope life would get eventually get better.

Which was worse?