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 pull out the sketch pen's cylindrical cap with the force of my teeth, and check their names off the list. It doesn't feel complete though, like this's just been a prologue to the horror I wanted to pen in actuality, inked with agony. "Emma Callaway," I read out my own cursive handwriting sprawled all over the creased paper in red ink.
"She didn't really go to jail, so it wasn't anything brutal. George, on the other hand, is suffering bad. Poor guy would turn pale just at the sight of bubbling water," I chuckle in merriment.
"And Arch..." I place a kiss on the paper, forming a fuchsia lip impression near his name, over the dotted i. I can't possibly go too hard on him. He's already on a mission to make his life a living hell, while I just contributed my bit to that. You know, walk up to the boys dorm in a hiked up denim skirt, flirt a little, get your hands on eerie looking tablets, report those tablets to authorities... just another day in my life.
How would I ever know he'd never wanted to be Captain, that he's as much of a hypocritical junkie who's now caught between life, death and his ever glowing fame. So much on his mind apart from his very recent heartbreak, of course. I wouldn't be surprised if the words, 'I love you Emma, please come back' are engraved on his tombstone. I, for one, plan to include a minor joke about it in my speech at the funeral. Although, if I manage to sneak some contraband in, I can't guarantee what'd actually spill out of my mouth.
Just a joint maybe. A joint. Weed. "Oh crap!" I mumble, rushing out and almost slipping on my own socks, to the kitchen to fill up a vessel with tap water. I had almost forgotten about it. I take the kettle shaped vessel out to my window sill and carefully pour water over the leaves, watching the soil soak, or rather snitch what she knows is rightfully hers. I took the liberty of naming the plant, Cruella DeVil.
My nostrils flare up as the skunk fragrance spreads throughout the room, reminding me it is nearing its flowering stage. I never knew gardening could be such a great hobby until someone told me, it is possible to grow your own marijuana. I converse with Cruella for a bit, having read the benefits of same in a book once, and gaze upon it proudly before leaving it be in the morning sunlight.
Later in the morning, I roam around the house, compromising with the long stretched weekend. If it were two months ago, I would be curing an ugly hangover in my bathroom right now, and probably listening to the equally terrible sounds of George puking in his, because he can't get through with it alone. Looks like times have changed since then.
I switch between various channels on the television, waiting for something good to pop up, until stuck watching Die hard at last. Except my attention doesn't hold up on the screen for too long. My gaze gets diverted to the house next door, where someone dressed in a hazmat suit is standing in the balcony and tearing up a scream every two seconds. I try to drown it out, but it seems to be matching it's tempo with my television.
Agitated but mostly curious, I switch off the TV and protrude over to the neighbouring house, which seems to welcome me with its wide open wooden gate. I look around for a while, admiring the beige exterior of the house that gives it a rustic feel, and enter through the sliding glass windows on the eastern side of the bungalow. A quick scan of the living room reveals that it looks almost too tidy, almost like it is on display in an IKEA store.
