We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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I divert a lot of times before rounding back up to the very same spot. My hands feel cold, despite the car heater running at its max limit. The air around has an unnatural grey to it, adding to the melodrama of my decision. I wished for her to accompany me in case I turn weak and need that last push... but Mia is fighting her own battles at the moment.
The freshly layered gravel of the road scrunches under my feet, and it seems like a paradox, considering the purpose of this place. Once I reach there, my head bows down in a reflex reaction. I keep my eyes glued to the ground, counting the steps under my breath. "Fifty two, fifty three, fifty four."
Hoping to have done it correctly, I warily raise my head to face the not so horrid sight. Thankfully, I recognise the faded inscribe of the letters; 'Henry Schiller,' the name carefully carved on a tombstone, directly in line with eyes. While it's immediate neighbour says, 'Reese Schiller.'
Why are they faded, you would ask. I never was, and still am not on-board with my parents' identity to be scribbled on a dust eating piece of granite. On the night of their funeral, I had sneaked in here in an inebriated state, only to wash it over with a bucket of water.
When I woke up in the morning, the realisation of where I am, did instil a lot of fear and disgust within. However, as my eyes caught upon these carved names, it gave me a sheer sense of relief, like I was being protected by them. Those inscriptions don't bother me as much since then.
I sit on the barren ground, crossing my feet on top of each other. My fingers rake the dried up mud around the tombstone, whilst the action stirs up the grief– a feeling I have been pretending to kill. It really doesn't make much sense for me to be here. Nothing is left of them, apart from the rotten carcasses of their bodies. These graves all around are nothing more than a stingy reminder of how none of these people are going to come back to life again. They have gone for good.
Still, I continue to breathe in the stale air of the burial ground, my eyes beginning to water and tears spilling out in a very indescribable manner. It nowhere near feels like a flood or like little pricks threatening to break into a stream. All I can feel is the wetness of my face, while a yawn caught in my throat accompanies the furious sobs. I revel in the moment before the tears dry to mere stains, and wipe my runny nose with the sleeve of my hoodie.
"I knew I would be needing this." My hands pull out a joint along with the age old lighter sitting in the back pocket of my jeans. As soon as it's rear end burns to black ash, I take a long drag, or at least I try to. Every time I make an effort to suck in my breath, I relentlessly choke out more tears. I must be appearing like a child who has been handed a cigarette, and doesn't have a clue of what is to be done with it.
After forcing a few puffs of smoke into my perfectly healthy lungs, I dump it on the ground and decide to put another one to use. While the joint dangles between my parched lips, I hear a couple of purposefully muffled footsteps approaching in my direction. I freeze at first, and then again when my eyes meet the person casting shadow on the tombstone.
