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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
If my conscience had a colour, it would be the one of the sky right now– pale blue dissolved in charcoal remains.
This actually might be the first time in years, that I am getting blessed with the privilege of strolling under the morning sky. Most of the time I wake up to the silent chaos of NYC, blending in with the laid back atmosphere of pre evenings. There is something unusually satisfying about watching my fatigued face get shadowed in the shimmer of the afternoon sun. Plus the wine cooler I gargle with, appears a thousand times more aesthetically pleasing than it does the rest of the day. As unfortunate it is, I had to break this ritual today, or else I would be waking up to the beats of lethal prison fights in the dark of the dawn.
The police has been round and about ever since they retrieved Kylie's body from the basement, because the note planted in her locker wasn't enough of an indication. They have successfully managed to raid every place Kylie set her foot in, within the geographical boundaries of the state– the campus, the dormitory, the bars, the pubs, the raves, and even the police precincts her troubled ass had to spend a night or two at. But they failed to cover the one spot, which could have actually proven to be a treasure chest for their investigation. That's exactly why someone needs to dust off any and every potential piece of evidence in there. Someone who has seen it all.
Judging by the poor state of this apartment, I think I have landed at the right place. It has also been a hell lot of time since I took a visit to a frat house, and especially when the clock is striking five. When I did some quick research work on Brandon Jacobs, I found out that he had been staying at a fraternity house in Greenwich Village during his brief tour of America. If he indeed was as close to Kylie as his threatening tone gave out, then it won't be very surprising for Kylie to have visited, even stayed at his apartment while they were dating. The NYPD detectives have bagged and cleared out the littlest of her belongings in her dorm room, and luckily haven't found out anything incriminating amongst the pile. Though, if that FBI certified cop who questioned us, decodes the Jacobs-Meyers link, his first stop would indefinitely be Brandon's bed and brothel accommodation. I am not looking to find those clues myself, but silently praying to return empty handed. However, if I do get my hands on something tainted by our many mistakes, I won't hesitate to destroy it's existence.
Walking over to the half open door, I take a moment before entering inside what could only be described as living hell. My flip flops are greeted by a pile of wrinkled sheets, stained with a couple fluids I am better off not examining. The rest of the living room is covered in plastic cups reeking of beer, a few passed out bodies with equally strong beer breaths, the clothes of the passed out bodies which basically comprise of nothing more than a rack full of t-shirts in a GAP showroom, a garbage line up of half eaten pizza slices– the rotting mozzarella being scavenged by house rodents, and a rust hued couch in the middle of the room, where someone's panties are literally in a bunch. Kylie has undoubtedly been to this place.
