orphic

prelude;🦇

This is written from Tate's point of view, for clarification.

1994, October 22nd.

Muffled music, specifically Nirvana, played in the background. It was 7:15 A.M., I hadn't slept a wink. My hands were shaky; cold. My alarm rang loud, my fingers trace the outlines of the buttons, feeling surreal. That's been happening a lot more recently, feeling like everything is merely a dream. Definitely not my dream.
I pressed the snooze button, only to remain in bed, staring at the old ceiling, it looked like it's crash down at any moment. But alas, this house is doing good for hundreds of years old. Probably.
My eyes were burning already, school was always harder for me. Never felt like it was that important, but couldn't just not go, Constance would get her little boy-toy of the week on my ass.
I take in the dust filled air, the scent on freshly dried clothes, and rise from my bedridden position. My back cracks and I let out a dull hiss. I observe my room, it doesn't feel mine. Nothing does.
I grab a hold of my sweater, not willing to change into new jeans. Nobody would notice anyway, especially if it's me who's repeating outfits. Even if I have been for...
I check out the imprint of my body embedded into my mattress, not really caring about the sad sight. I even felt a little proud of myself, it was deeper than other times I've caught eye of my bed-rotting.
I slide the almost scratchy material of the striped pullover-sweater over my torso. I sloth over to where my bag is, just a little book bag, a canvas type. I think it's neat, I suppose.

On my just merry way to class, I caught a glimpse of the usual group who chatted rather loudly in the hallways. I know I sound rather annoyed at this, but I never really care about those things. Or anything anymore, I tune most things out. This is one of the things.
I sat in the back, as always, I don't particularly like being close to the teachers, or anyone, really. As much as I do tune stuff out, I'd rather not do it for an hour of a period.
A girl; one that I've never seen before, lurches in the room. She looked somewhat different from most girls in this school. But not enough to be singled out, I suppose.
She wore a long skirt, a flimsy ruffle or two on it. She clasped her shaw to her chest, under her guarded arms, I notice a white tank. One most thought was a cuter type, with lace outlining the V-shaped collar.
Her darker brown hair feels down her back, ending at her forearms. I couldn't quite see her facial features, not that I minded. She doesn't seem to be the one to talk to me, or most people. A quiet, artistic soul, seems.

But I didn't know her, and I wasn't going to chase after some girl just because she was a little bit like me. Or she seemed to be. Everyone isn't always how they appear, I guess.