Looped

Art history class. A lecture on the emotional intent of impressionist artists, and it becomes a chore to keep my eyes as my teacher continues to ramble about Debussy’s ‘the afternoon of a fawn’. Her voice is slowly drowned out by the sound of waves in the sudden distance, and the feeling of salty air on my skin. I lean back in my wooden beach chair, and sink my feet slowly into the sand.

I reach down and grab my bottle of Corona, and put it to my lips. My mouth is filled with the taste of tropical beer with a hint of the lime that was shoved in, and is settled at the bottom of the bottle. I set it back down into its imprint in the sand beneath my chair. I let the sound of the not so distant waves slowly drift me into a state of relaxation that no amount of drugs can do.

I go again for the beer, but it’s stuck in the sand. I grab and pull harder but it won’t budge.

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“Nick……………Nick!”

“Wa….”

“Want to pull my leg harder you prick?”

“Oh, sorry.” I reluctantly take my hand off my friends leg, and return to trying to listen to whatever my teacher was saying. The bell rings, and the class shuffles out of class. That’s when I see her, beauty emerging from the class across the hall. I go to walk over to talk to her, but it feels more like I gliding until I stop in front of her.

“Hi.” She seems no to notice me at all, as if I wasn’t there at all. “Soooo I was thinking, there’s a new show playing the Vendor and do you want to go with me?” She still looked like she didn’t notice me. “Hello?” I waved my hand in front of her.

Then I feel a push from behind.

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“Move out of the doorway.”

“Sorry.” I walked out of the way, and to my locker to get my sweatshirt to go home. I get out to my car; it has always been crappy hunk of a car with a paint job that was almost as old as me. I get in, put the key in the ignition, and it suddenly roars to life. I squeal out of my parking spot and speed out off of the school cam

I floor it down the road leading towards my house, letting the adrenaline keep my hand steady. I reach my house in record time, and the engine putters to a stall like an old jalopy. I open the squeaky door, and walk into my house.

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I walk down the same twelve steps to the basement. I sit down at the edge of my bed, and reach for the familiar hunk of metal that lies under my pillow. My breathing becomes shallow as I build up the courage to do what I really want to do. I slowly out it to my temple, and apply the needed amount of courage to finish it.

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My desk.

Art history class. Lectures on the emotional intent of impressionist music, and it becomes a chore to keep my eyes open.

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar, general thoughts