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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This is probably the first in my life that I am feeling dizzy without the support of a hefty amount of something particularly intended to draw me out of my agony circling between the hell I've myself bricked alongside my once supposed friends.
Looking down at the creaky stairs leading to the heck house reminds me of the thunderstorm rolling past that damned night when I found myself drenched in rain and obsession, such that my eyes turned blind to what I was doing. I could have been her saviour, but instead I decided to prove a point I have been begging for people to hear all along. Even when I got played, all I wanted to do was shove competition out of the league. Now that I have done the damage, I realise it was all in futility, that Archie and I are just a hazardous combination of crack and vodka which although might feel good at the moment, benefits no one in the long run.
Whatever it maybe, I need to face this. My hands reflexively pull the denim jacket closer to my chest as I walk down the termite stricken basement of Arlington. Each step acts like the play button of a cassette player– screening a hazy film of the horrors I committed that night, beginning with Kylie was slumped on my shoulders whilst the rest of my intoxicated body struggled to keep balance on the chipped off wood. I could feel her hollow breaths on my neck... chillier than they could ever be. The wound on her head stained my curls and conscience at the same time, both of which I realised too late to get rid of completely.
I walk over to the same spot I halted at, back then. The rocking chair is intact in its place, wrapped up in the same ropes that engulfed her lifeless body. The dust filled air, the wood shavings, the fingerprints on the window, the muddy impressions of my shoes, and even the violet strands of her hair... the entire place looks like a three dimensional photograph of that night, except it's one missing element, one that was the most important out of everything disheveled and rotting in here. Kylie.
After whatever happened at Daniel's, to claim that I was enraged, would be undermining my pointed gaze at her and the thoughts awoke that in all cases led to something catastrophic and me in the centre of it all. That bet was motivation enough to push me over the ledge. My head was swarming in a land overcrowded with butterflies, and my feet were covered in blisters by the time I reached the spot. I vaguely remembered Kylie telling me that she's got a hiding spot in the Arlington Woods, a secluded place she goes to clear her head, apparently. I attempted a hand at the same until my gaze caught upon the drama brewing between Blossom and Bubbles.
I could barely hear their argument, but I sensed some tension between the loud voices and dead leaves flown my way by the wind. My tired ass was gladly watching them bicker, taking drags of a cheap cigarette when a thud like sound disrupted the peace. The cigarette fell off my lips, leaving my mouth to gape open at the image of Emma holding on to a blood stained tree log, and I had to muffle the gasps escaping my throat once I saw Kylie laying on the ground, beside our murderous Mary Poppins. My heart beat slow yet unregulated under the effect of the meds, quietly observing Emma panic her way into a lousy escape. I expected her to call 911 when she picked up her phone, except it was Kylie's. She shoved the cell in her clutch and fled from the scene.
