We Are Infinite

t w o

k a d e  /  t w o

Another Friday night, another party, same people, same faces. I roll my eyes, inwardly sighing as the voices around me get louder. I pick my lunch tray off the table, and drop it off at the cafeteria before heading to the school gym.

It's another dragging Thursday in a week that feels like Mondays, and I'm exhausted. Albert Einstein High is a school with piles of homework and a load of assignments, and along with soccer and weekend parties, life is mad crazy.

I wink at the volunteer student behind the counter at the entrance of the gym, a junior girl with blond hair in a short pixie hairstyle and warm brown eyes. She blushes a deep shade of red, and I laugh to myself as I walk past her into the gym.

As it's break now, the gym is empty except for me, and I breathe in the cool air conditioned air. I head to the boxing area, which has a few red boxing bags hanging from the ceiling. I run a hand through my hair before grabbing a roll of white tape, which I then wrap around my hands.

Life is tough and the gym is my escape during school hours. As I throw another punch at the bag, I think of the monotonous weekend that awaits me after tomorrow, and I sigh again.

And then throw another punch, much harder this time.

God knows I can't wait to get out of this hellhole excuse of a town. God also knows that I have no idea how to go about working toward getting out of here.

Greenwood is the sort of town you'd never see on TV. Tiny, close-knit, talkative. Talkative in the sense that people spoke way too much, about everyone and their grandmother. I guess it was because there wasn't much else to do, besides sitting around and twiddling your thumbs all afternoon.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in Greenwood, but then I look at my parents and the answer is right in front of me. They say that there's a spell binding you to this place, that once it calls, you answer. Once you're here, there's no getting out.

I want to break this unspoken, unheard rule.

Greenwood is worse for the elderly, the homely, the ones looking for a pretty quaint village to set home and begin anew.

For the teenagers around my age, though, things were kind of chill. There were parties every weekend, and bars, and clubs, but that kind of stuff doesn't really interest me.

I was the lone wolf, the grey in between black and white. And as I think back to the way the other guys at my table were talking about tomorrow nights party, as I think about the way all of my friends eyes light up as they spoke, how they've all gotten girlfriends, money, status, somewhere to call home, an emotion akin to anger fills my veins. I direct my anger onto the bag in front of me, and when I throw yet another punch, I'm not surprised to see the red material rip.

My anger lays on the ground, on the bag hanging from the ceiling; the remains of yet another thing I'd broken.

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