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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She was dead. Her pale, lifeless body looked nothing better than a mass of bones lathered in burnt cigarette ash. All except for her hazel eyes, that were glued on me, strangling on my dry throat. I wanted to save her, somehow grab her hand before it slipped into the clutches of the approaching grim reaper. But I couldn't do it, and I knew from that moment on– that this image will continue to haunt me in my sleep for years to come.
Mia's horrific recollection of what she witnessed in the college, has now made a space in my vacant head as I continue to grind my ass against the floor of the city hospital. The horde of dead bodies and weeping families aren't making it any better. I tried to divert my mind with some flavoured mineral water in my gym bag, but the humidity of this place managed to make me empty the bottle within minutes.
Now there are two sounds invading my senses while I try to focus on the surroundings, rather than my inner scared self– the first one is the obvious gurgling in my throat as I push the hefty amount of water down my system, and the second one is the wheezy sound of George's wheelchair creating friction with the cheap marble of the floor. I didn't know how to react when I first saw him wheeling it to the campus ground; just like I couldn't form any words when I tried dialling him the morning after the incident. He didn't pick up, and I was both— a little glad and a little broken.
So, in a gist, I am trying not to jump off the terrace of this building and get my hands off of consoling a never seen before personality of Mia. She has gotten rid of the Rolling Stones denim jacket to reveal the baby pink tank top she is wearing underneath. The top has these little ice cream cones printed on the fabric. Little ice cream cones. This is undoubtedly the lowest low I have seen her at.
"How did she even get in there?" Archie breaks out of his shock bubble once again to ask questions, the NYPD is probably making a list of, right now.
His hoarse voice only ends up making Mia shed some more tears, and hence forces me to pat her greasy hair while she does so. He isn't in a very great shape himself, but he is coping with the headset he has plugged on to. I, for one, know that his playlist is limited to the Beach boys' songs, and this crappy little piece of information is adding up to my anxieties with every button he presses on his phone.
It is a hell hole all in all. Not to leave out the burning gazes of Kylie's parents as they sit side by side like these wax statues– if only statues had an intent of grabbing a couple of teenagers' guts and shoving them back in their bodies repeatedly. They are a hundred percent convinced that one of us went MIA, and snuck inside the basement with a can full of gasoline and a good old lighter to burn all the useless wood lying around in there. And a passed out body stuffed beneath all that wood.
When I got a call from George, my first instincts told me that he wants to brag about one of his recent escapades. I had clearly forgotten about how he hasn't even left his house since three weeks, let alone go out to have a casual fling with some skinny drunkard, scarred with insecurities. I can sketch it out so precisely, because I was one of them, too.
