Supernova

1: The Orange Clockwork

TW: Some self destructive habits (mild)

That gets around on the street, we're out of business. You did the right thing,' Carmine said, patting Richard on his enormous back. 'You're a good man, Richie. Mamma mia, I wish you were Italian. I'd sponsor you in a fuckin' minute, a fuckin' minute,' he said, and paid-

I close the book. The white and red cover glares up at me, nearly threatening me to continue reading. No, I won't, I think, like I can somehow argue with it.

Reasons to stay in South Korea:

-

My hand tips to brush the pencil against the page, but I don't have anything more to write. We're supposed to be answering questions, but the answers seem too pointless to be learned. The black hangeul of the textbook is too static-like for me to fathom anyway.

I become aware of my hand; fingers jerking down toward the palm, nails pressing against skin. One at a time, index finger first, like the action frame of a piano. It gives some momentary release, but I refuse to space out again.

The cough of one of my classmates gives me the opportunity I need to press my hand flat against the desk, directing my attention toward the thing I always focus on when I'm impatient.

In the otherwise dull, beige-toned room, the only pop of color is orange. A very bright, bold orange, truly deserving of its name. It looks so misplaced up on the wall, ticking diligently toward my freedom. Does it know how much power it represents?

Even though I've had the same train of thought so often, it comes again.

Most of us have heard about the book 'A Clockwork Orange' by Anthony Burgess. If you didn't, now you do. The title makes no sense at all, as an orange could never be a clock, but there's a reason for it. It's actually taken from the phrase 'as queer as a clockwork orange' which originated in East London, and means something that's very odd. Or gay. Depends on the context.

I savor every word of the explanation, but it passes in a second. Narrating to myself is a habit which can either be good or distracting, but nonetheless grants me peace.

For the remaining ten minutes of class, I doodle a hedgerow of hydrangeas along the column of my notebook. Not too complex to be considered a proper drawing, but enough so that it's recognizeable. Small, curved pushes of the basic HB pencil is the smallest amount of effort I can manage.

A tap on my arm makes me peer to the side. Through the curtain of my purple hair, I see the boy next to me offer a folded paper note pinched between his fore-finger and thumb. They're larger and thicker than mine, but the joints are slim, making his hands appear elegant.

Despite my worry that the teacher might see, I accept it. The paper is thin and soft, indicating cheapness, but it makes the process of unfolding it soundless

Your drawing is really good ^^

How am I meant to respond? I can write on the note and send it back, or I can talk to him after class, or I can-

The bell rings.

I gather my things in my bag, hesitating before putting the note in as well. After sliding on the jacket hanging off my chair, I put in my earbuds, turning on the first song in my playlist. The words are drowned out by the surrounding sound, but the beat is enough. In my head, I'm finally alone.