think.

-one-

{Daniel}

There's always something, something to fuck with any form of serenity I attain. It's either minuscule or prodigious, never in between. However, my standard for "good" has dropped so low that something negligible to others may be amazing to me. For example, someone saying hello to me would help me make it through days of loneliness and solitude, while others may just feel nice for a few minutes and completely forget about the interaction.

Another day, another mass of thoughts. They linger the longer I stare. Car rides make it impossible to have a moment of mental peace within myself. The bumps on the road, thankfully, pulled me out of my trance now and then. The rest of the time, hundreds, maybe thousands of thoughts roll around my head. They never come out, they're not meant to. If anyone else could hear the things I think, no one would like me. Very few people actually do already, but that's beside the point. I'm just another brooding teen that adults hate having conversations with.

My name is Daniel, and I fucking hate it here, my head that is. The town I live in is also a raging dumpster fire, but isn't every small town? I'm a senior in a high school that couldn't give less of a shit about my aspirations or dreams. I'm seventeen, eighteen in November; it's September now. I have one friend and I'm his only friend, so it works out socially. His name is Oliver, he's a sweetheart with his own special thought process. He's never been to a funeral and has only ever smoked one cigarette next to some train tracks before throwing up from the taste. I love his princess bitch ass, more than anything.

I, on the other hand, have an extensive list of fucked up shit I've done. I have attended more funerals than I can even remember, I lost count after my sixth one due to the numbness I derived from all the piano music and tears. My addiction started from the age of eight when I found my mom on the floor with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I took a few sips and spit it onto the floor because of my baby taste buds. However, I took one smoke of the cigarette and fell in love. I started stealing two from each pack my mom bought. She'd buy around five boxes every Monday and Friday. I saved them for when I could make at least two packs. No specific reason, I just felt if I didn't I could never smoke ever again. My mom eventually got into coke, which I partake in occasionally if I ever become engulfed in thoughts after three in the morning. Finally, around the age of twelve or thirteen, my taste buds could handle alcohol. The first time I drank, I drank three bottles of whisky and a twelve-pack of beer. It was a very interesting night. I started seeing stars before I fell asleep. Waking up in my own vomit was probably the worst part of the whole experience.

The agonizing car ride finally came to an end and I dragged myself into the double door of hell on earth. The first day of my senior year, and I couldn't be any less excited.

"Dan, over here!" I hear a shrill voice cry out. I look to the lockers and see Oliver in his usual outfit consisting of a lilac skirt and a white shirt with more feminine accessories. I've always loved his frilly outfits. However, it's not the only thing he wears, it's definitely the best. Black jean jackets, platform combat boots, and spiked jewelry isn't really his thing like it is mine. Needless to say, he's hot in both.

"Hey, lemme see your schedule," I grab his schedule comparing them. English, math, lunch, history, and art are the same. He does cosmetology and when he does that is normally the same time as writing club, so it works out. "Cool, we've got all but one."

"Yes! I was worried we wouldn't have any or very few together," he said with a huge grin on his face. We walked to my locker to store a pack of cigarettes and some spare mints. I would never put them in his locker, I could care less about getting in trouble. I just know he gets terrified when yelled at or rebuked, so I take all blame.

I throw my bag over my shoulder and follow along as Oliver finds the first class, history. Out of all the classes, this is probably my favorite. After English, of course. I'm a writer, not a very good one, but that comes with time I suppose. We chose the first two seats in the back next to the wall with a plug, me behind Oliver making it easy to pass any form of class notes to one another. It also gives me chances to sleep unnoticed in case I just can't keep my eyes open. Oh, and of course able to charge our phones.

Finally, when our first three classes ended we got to go back to my locker to grab a cigarette and my lighter so Oliver and I could go smoke on the bench. Granted, I was the only one smoking and also drinking a diet mountain dew. Oliver sat crisscrossed next to me eating a cookie and a bag of strawberries with water. His meals are always quite balanced compared to mine, but he forces me to eat a few strawberries to soothe his concerns. I promise I don't have an eating disorder, I just hate eating at school because the taste of food and cigarettes put together isn't my favorite. Generally, when I get home, I drink another diet mountain dew to get the taste of a cigarette out of my mouth before getting real food.

Around the time we get into art, this kid scurried to his desk. He was about my height, six-two, six four-ish. He had jet black hair that was put up into some kind of quif. His outfit consisted of a bright ass t-shirt and black ripped jeans. He also had a couple of bracelets, three necklaces, and four rings. His necklaces were a choker, a short necklace, and a little bit longer chain. He was quite attractive with a fairly sharp jawline that came to a point. With greenish-blue eyes and extremely pale skin. Needless to say, I liked looking at him. However, I liked it so much that Oliver tapped my shoulder to tell me I was staring.

"Dan, what the hell?" he chuckled. I felt myself blush, which is a rare occurrence. The teacher came in with a ton of sketchbooks that he set on all of our tables.

"These are your class sketchbooks," he said quite loudly, "You will have a daily prompt that you will use to make a piece and then describe in words what it means to you next to the piece."

I felt fear grow inside of me when I heard we would be describing our art. I knew I had to keep them light while also being careful not to make it look like shit. This was going to be difficult since my best artwork always comes from the darkest corners of my mind. I couldn't possibly let that out to a teacher; I'd probably get kicked out. The only other person that gets to see that art and writing are Oliver.

Anyway, moving off that topic, something unique happened. That kid I described look towards me and waved with a blushy grin on his face. All I could do was crack an awkward small smirk and turn to Oliver.

'Holy shit' seemed to be the only words that came to mind.