If The World Ends Tomorrow | ONGOING

𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒

𝚠𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟷𝟼𝚝𝚑

The rooftop of my house is a surprisingly good place to watch the sunrise, watching the sun peak over the dead trees that scatter beyond the fence of the small backyard.

Half-used blunts are all over the rooftop, and probably on the small deck below, it's not like anyone went out there anyway. 

Pax and I used to sit up here all the time, he'd bring a pack of beer, maybe wine if he'd managed to nick it from the liquor store. We'd throw the bottles on the rooftop watching them shatter, then we'd scream at the top of our lungs like there was no one around.

Pax would scream at the sky telling it to fuck itself.

"I hate this world anyway, jackshit it's done for me." He'd always say.

I didn't come up on my rooftop for months, thinking that if I didn't go where he was so heavily, he wouldn't haunt me, but he follows me everywhere.

Nothing hurts when you're high.

He never fucking leaves.

⋆・○・✮・○・⋆

An array of colors stands in front of me an endless amount of possibilities, after standing there for a good 2 minutes I decide to grab basically each color, except for yellow, and orange the two colors that didn't fit the vibe I'm going for. I look over to Eden who has one singular color in his hand, brown.

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow, "Just brown."

He shrugs.

I roll my eyes. "It's Tie-Dye, it's supposed to be colorful, eventful, colorful."

He shrugs again. I roll my eyes, shaking my head.

I grab a medium white t-shirt we take seats on the ground on a piece of tarp, the leader of the event Fiona my former art teacher in elementary school, guides us through preparing the shirts to tie-dye with the rubber bands. 

Finally, it's time to put the dye on our shirts, I go bonkers with it, squirting all sorts of colors all over my shirt, after I've put at least 7 colors on it I'm satisfied with how it looks, to others it's a clump of color, but I'm confident when I open it will be a masterpiece.

I nudge a ladybug off it, before looking over at Eden who's looking at my shirt a judgy look or at least that's what I'm interpreting it as.

"What you don't like it?"

He says nothing.

"You can't judge," I say. "At least mine won't be boring," I point out, looking at his neatly contained shirt with brown dye thoughtfully placed, there's barely any dye pooling out, unlike mine which is sitting in a pool of dye.

I don't know what Ms. Fiona thought the plastic bags she made us put underneath the shirts was going to do, but the dye is all over the grass, staining it all sorts of colors, and it's not just my section.

Ms. Fiona comes around to collect our shirts when she sees mine her face pulls into a fake smile. 

"This is lovely, Giselle, it's good to see that your art methods haven't changed much." My mouth nearly drops open, I won't lie, her comment I take to heart, she had been my teacher in second grade. 

I've seen my art in second grade it's ugly.

I won't take Ms. Fiona's comment personally, I'm pretty sure she'd die before liking something I created. She hates me, fair enough, I was a nightmare back in second grade, back when my cries for help were through disruptiveness.