Once His [ON BREAK]

One

"My dear Casey, hello, and welcome to my life in paper. You have successfully found my notes, and I suppose you will take the time to read them each and every day, each and every night. Because these notes contain what I know you are looking for. If you seek revenge, read these notes with hatred. Our father will not care, and our mother's grave will sink into the ground if you do not accept the fact that I am coming for you next, my dear.

By my hand."

+++


"Yo', Casey, what are you doing this afternoon?" my best friend, Bryce Layne, says, a wave of amusement spreading over the sandy tone of question. I shake myself out of my daze, and turn myself around in my seat. Currently, I'm sitting in homeroom at probably the worst high school in all of New York: Appalachian High. I have been going here since I was small, so the smelly cafeteria and odd teachers don't bother me much; anymore.

I smile back at Bryce, whose jet-black hair is a bit messy and sticking out, as though he was in a rush that morning. We have been best friends since the eighth grade, and by now, most people understand that we are not dating.

"Nothing really, why? Want to go someplace?" I say with my smile still spread across my face. He just shrugs slowly and chuckles.

"Well, do you want to go to my basketball game? Please, I go to yours. Besides, I don't want you to watch Netflix all day in your bed," he says, grinning. He knows me to well, that I have to laugh. So does he.

"Sure, I'll go. And by the way, I don't watch Netflix in bed," I say, pausing to see his reaction, "I watch it in the living room." Bryce just laughs, and as he does, our homeroom teacher, Ms. Benson, walks through the door.

"Take your seats, class. Miss Blue, turn around if you still want your A-average," she says coldly, as though she had been dunked into a tub of ice water just as she lost the lottery. I turn around quickly, since the only thing I can keep in tact in my life are my good grades.

"Okay, class, take out your math homework from last night," Ms. Benson says in her icy tone, "I hope you did it well, because this is counting at a test grade."

The class erupts into groans.

+++

That afternoon, I head home to get changed for Bryce's game. I take the key from the mailbox and click it into the lock. It screeches, the sound filling the chilly air, and soon the door pops open. I step inside carefully, trying not to get the snow from my boots onto the carpeting. My dad seems to not be home, so I feel free to leave my jacket on the back of the couch.

I pad upstairs to my room, sliding my hand across the wall as I go. I approach the door directly across from the landing and creak it open. It's a complete mess, of course, and I part my way through rough copies of essays and dirty pieces of clothes to get to my closet.

After choosing a white shirt, a gray sweater vest, leggings, and a school basketball-team sweatshirt that Bryce had given me, I'm set to get to the game. From my desk, I pick up my comb, then begin to brush my messy brown hair back, then cover it up with a navy beanie. Gliding down the railing and to the front door, I grab my wallet, which also contains my car keys, and combat boots, then open the door, exposing the chilly air. I feel my cheeks flush as I click open the driver's car door, and I quickly slide into the seat, starting up the car, then the heater.

As I back a parking spot by the school, I look out the window, which is covered and frozen with ice. After parking the car, I push on the handle a few times, and suddenly the door flies open, causing flakes of snow to get blown into the car and onto the seats. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt, and head off to the front doors of the school.