Positively Negative [Rewrite]

Nov04: No Compañero, o No Comprendo?

WARNING: Be wary of this chapter, sil vous plait. The beliefs of the ignorant characters are no way in line with my own. They are simply idiots. Thank you.

:~o~:

Free periods tended to suck for me on account of the fact that my friends all had subjects in whatever option block I obviously did not. Usually, to remedy my loneliness, I'd wonder over to the music area and mess about on the piano, but all the practice rooms were taken. Likewise with the nearby IT suite when I opted to do some research for my History homework –which I hadn't ended up finishing the day before. This lead me to hazard stepping foot in the sixth form common room.

The common room did a pretty good job of being awful.

It was at the end of the sixth form block and connected to a sheltered garden area, but despite the school's attempts, it still failed to live up to any scholarly expectations. Rarely touched bookshelves were only leaned against by the likes of idiots like Pete Lowood. He could often be found sprawled across one of the sofas, making crude jokes and swearing as if he was born on the seas. Sure enough, of course, that was exactly how I found him when I walked in.

As per usual, the room was divided into two initial groups; the year thirteens and the year twelves. I wasn't all that surprised, or even offended, that most of the older year chose to actively ignore us. In seeing the way Pete and friends lounged as if they owned the room and spoke at a volume that suggested everyone should have been taking notes because, Goddamn, the party they went to last night was so bloody sick, I would have actively ignored us too. They, 'Lowood's Lot' as they were occasionally called, were probably a little right. It was so sick that if I remained in the vicinity and listened too long without competent distraction, I'd be some sort of ill too.

Other smaller groups always formed around the edges so as to avoid as much damage as possible, and I was to be one of them.

I strode into the room towards the quad doors and settled on a window sill there, ignoring whatever hilarious comment had been thrown my way.

Odious, Peter Lowood is thy name.

Digging my hand in and around my bag, I found what I'd been looking for and pulled it out before letting my bag down and opening it, allowing myself to get lost between the pages of a brilliant thriller, The Boy in the Suitcase by Danish writers, Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis.

I'd always loved to read, and psychological thrillers in particular seemed to take my fancy, which was one of the reasons I ended up picking up Psychology this year.

I was addicted.

Not only were thrillers filled to the brim with mystery, suspense, and unrelenting intensity, but they required buckets and buckets and shed loads of thought and effort to write. Planning. Any old idiot could write a romance, - XX meets XY. Hate, love, or love then hate then wonderful love. The end. Not an original bone in the body of work. But it took guts as strong as on ox (or however the saying went) to write something so shocking; controversial. Something that struck people, and stuck with them, had them holding their breaths without realising it, widening eyes, noticing that the rates of their hearts had increased tenfold within three paragraphs, and straining along with the protagonist. Also, opinion though it was, I felt writers of the thriller genre were a lot more skilled in the art of weaving words. Knotting letters together like string and laying them upon the page -not necessarily looking for the prettiest way in which they could do so, but the way that would make the most impact.

I was addicted, and The Boy in the Suitcase was not only feeding that addiction, but increasing the want.

: