A piercing sound fills my ears, as I feel the pool of saliva against my mouth and my vision is coming into focus. Damn. My fingers fumble to fix my frames, the blood rushing to my head as I sit up. South Glenbrook High School must have the most vexatious bell in the entire state.
My eyes squint attempting to focus on the faces and bodies around me. My feet always are taking me into the wrong direction, stumbling from one classroom to another. Conversations overlap each other, but to me, they combine with one another into a roar. My ears perk up at the sound of a show this weekend, coming from some guy in my math class. We converse about music, he has a decent collection. Arm? Is that what he just said? You’ve got to be fucking me. Arma Angelus. Friday….what time? I’m sure there is a poster somewhere. I’ll ask around.
The front door to my house squeaks at the slow touch. My luck is that the door will make every possible sound as I attempt not to disturb anyone. A soft crumple fills my ears. The receipt riding up my pocket and is scratching my stomach, scribbled on the back of it is the address of the venue of where the show is at. Hopefully, I will be able to read it when the time comes. My handwriting never grew up past the second grade. I’m wired, even though it’s late and I want a shower. The clock on my nightstand says it is twelve, mentally I am arguing with it, convincing myself that is nine, maybe ten o’clock at the latest. Towel. Towel, where is the…fuck it. My frames fumble as I reach for what smells like a clean towel, and I feel my way down a dark hallway. My knee buckles as my foot gives to an unidentifiable object. Megan. She was here? I stay still for a second, thinking I had heard something.
Drips of water attempt to make trails on my skin as the shower steadily flows. Calloused fingers run through my hair; my foot taps to an unknown beat. The music occupies half of my mind, as shades and hues accompany it. My elbow rests against the wall, and my head leans on my palm. I shift my hips, my left hand finding a comfortable place on the coordinating hip. A shock ripples through my body. The music fills my head again as my fingers travel down to the base of my cock, steadily holding it. My pulse is fast. My breath is short, and I release my grip on myself. The water trickles down my face as the head of the shower stops with a small shake. Hide and seek has to be my glasses’ favorite game. The goddamn things seem to completely escape me most of the time.
Soft sounds of trumpets travel from the record player on my desk. My fine motor skills are failing me as I scribble an awkward couple of lines onto a scrap of paper. I feel trapped in my room. Thirty minutes or so passes by before realization sets in for me. I am pacing back and forth between the furniture in my room, trapped mentally and physically. The bright light of my clock reads two, and I crawl into bed. My eyes scan the ceiling. Poised between my restless and the mirage of my mind rests my consciousness. An array of colors flash behind the slowly sinking eyelids. A struggle erupts, the mind against its vessel. This is why I can’t stay awake at school.
Two days. Forty-eight hours. Two thousand eight hundred and eight minutes. Let me just note that it does not matter how I attempt to acknowledge the short period of time, every one hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds fucking crawled. Naturally, I do not remember any of it. Concrete. The medium is solid against the soles of my sneakers as I lean against a brick wall. According to the flyer, the show begins at seven. Take a note, nine times out of ten, a show regardless of what or who is playing, is late. My patience is shrinking and this line is getting longer. My hips shift, as I fix my footing. Wait a second, the line is moving. Which would be fucking rad as hell if I was restless as shit. I cannot stay still for a goddamn second. I chuckle to myself as I scoot closer to the front of the line, thinking about how we all look like cows being herded to the front. I am incredibly lame, and this is why I am here by myself.
“My ID?” I question to the middle aged woman behind the counter.
“Your ID.” The reiteration of the two words has not changed my befuddlement. “Identification. Look kid, are you even eighteen?” I contemplate lying, but there is no use and I couldn’t live with myself. I shake my head. She sighs, “You know I can’t let you in.” The smell of tobacco from her clothes disagrees with me, and I murmur an apology as I slowly walk away.
