Monday
By: Orcadia
Rating: T+/M (For Violence)
A/N: After listening to 'I Don't Like Mondays' about…I don't know, thirty times I just felt like writing. So this is the bastard child of Boomtown Rats, a really bad production of West Side Story, and dirty Contacts. Please don't Flame. I know it's bad. Just Read and Review like a good little audience!
It wasn't always something that bothered me, or I'd never really noticed before.
But truth was, here it was, staring me straight in the face, gun loaded, barrel smoking. I caught the lump in my throat with extreme uneasiness, finding the realization of my situation relatively hard to actually comprehend. Though, a few minutes ago nothing had seemed particularly out of place.
In reality, it hadn't been such a bad morning. The sunlight had been hidden only partially behind the blinds in my bedroom, only letting in a few strands of light across pale sand-colored carpet and piles of worn jeans and dirty t-shirts. The small orange alarm clock had rung correctly at six-fifteen, playing the soft hum of well-orchestrated alternative rock on the radio. I had tapped it in the usual manner, not to hard, yet not so softly that it didn't turn off. I'd picked myself out of the warm comfort of sheets in enough time to work my way over the bureau drawer and pull out my clothes and shamble my way over to the hallway bathroom.
Even the water that sprayed from the shower head had been perfectly normal. The steam was calming, and I could faintly hear the buzz of other alarms as the rest of the house began to also work their way from their sheets. The small rubber duck, however, no doubt left still from my sister's bath the night before, had been staring in a most peculiar manner. Yet, with painted on eyes, I'm sure I would have stared too.
I had combed my hair, and brushed my teeth. I took the few pills waiting for me in the medication cabinet, and slipped on my jeans with a towel draped over my soaking hair in the same time and tempo as every morning. The truth was, today I hadn't really felt like going to school. Most Mondays I woke up refreshed, energized, ready to start the week off, get the tests done with, and just hurry up for Saturday to roll around again. I had actually felt tired.
"Toast or Cereal, honey?" My mother had asked in ever-pleasant awaked-ness as she would every morning. She'd still had blue slippers on her feet and a pair of striped pajama bottoms, her hair was slightly mussed, only looking like she hadn't brushed it yet this morning. She of course hadn't noticed his sloth-like demeanor that particular morning, and merely greeted him with a small crystal glass half-full with orange juice, and a small plate with a few apple slices.
I usually ate, but though, I hadn't felt all too hungry. Though I should have noticed something was going to go wrong much further before then. "Neither Mom." I'd muttered it in a sleepy-slur that made me sound more like a fizzling television that my usual self. "I think I'll actually just have the juice today."
She'd made a hasty movement to my side as soon as the words had left my mouth, hand to my forehead, her brow creased. "Are you feeling okay, Roxas?" Her voice was breaking in all sorts of ways, biting her lip softly as she assessed my personal appearance. "Did you even fix your hair this morning?"
"Not yet, Mom." I replied, brushing her hand from my face. I'd brought the glass of juice to my lips by this point, pushing down a swallow of orange and pulp down my throat as I thought. "I've just got some work to do at school today. Y'know, project, have to be there early." I'd forced a smile to my lips, tugging at the corners, pleading. "I'm fine."
"Okay," She whispered, placing down the small hand that she had so quickly brought to my aid just as fast as it had appeared. She watched tentatively as the juice was emptied from the glass, and I moved to place the apple slices in a plastic bag. "Just know," She brought her own smile this time, the peach colored lips brighter than mine at any moment. "I love you."
It brought me back to reality. Purposely or not, knowing that I'd lied just seemed to make the morning worse. I'd stumbled off the small kitchen chair to the mirror in my bedroom, running fingers through the still damp lump of blonde hair that had begun to droop into my eyesight. The towel had been forgotten long before somewhere in the middle of the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I flexed my fingers a few times, contemplating nothing and everything at the same time. For the first time in my life I truly felt it. I hated Mondays.
The room had gotten progressively brighter as I'd slid on a pair of canvas sneakers, lacing up checkered strings and pulling the side-satchel from beneath my bed where it had rested between strewn copies of Harlequin and plastic army men, all guns pointed at one surrendering figuring. The three text books, Chemistry, Trigonometry and a thin French handbook had been stuffed inside previously on Sunday evening as I'd always done. Everything seemed in perfect harmony, but the small feeling that was burning the inside of my stomach left me with the shuddering opinion that something was terribly wrong.
Usually of course I'd have taken the bus. Number eight always arrived at the end of my road promptly at seven forty-five, and left only minutes afterwards. Though the small plastic license that had burned a hole in my pocket had seemed particularly persuasive this morning, and the small silver Prius parked in the driveway had just called my name. I didn't even remember the drive to school. It was usual, stop at stop sign at the end of the street, turn, speed enough to get through the only stoplight on the route, and park in number one-thirteen right between the lamp post and the willow tree.
I'd glanced only momentarily at the analog clock on the dashboard. Thin blue-green Seven-ten glanced back, only to be torn away as a man crossed the parking lot and I pulled the keys from the ignition. The man was tall, his silver hair sweeping across his lower back as his ponytail bobbed. Two books were clutched to his chest and a series of papers were peeking from the top of his bag. Thin silvery spectacles clung to the edge of his nose and he'd been silently talking to himself.
My homeroom classroom had been open. Odd enough, the teacher's desk was open, and the lights were on, chalk words already spelled out on the board, yet the ghost feeling of loneliness was shifting uneasily beneath my skin. I hadn't even taken that long for the class to filter in, or for the usual chatter to begin.
"Did you see Riku at Selphies'?" A thin blonde girl had chattered, hands delicately crossed beneath her chin as she turned to a red-head next to her. Her voice was light and airy, and the thin white shirt around her chest creased softly with the twist of her body. "He was wasted. And I mean, waste-ed."
The red-head had laughed. It was a giddy laugh, slightly high pitched and slightly obnoxious. She'd chosen to sit behind me, and I'd almost forgotten that she was still sitting behind me, trembling and shaking ever so slightly.
It was surprising that I wasn't shaking too. I could feel the uneasiness, the fright, and the pure feeling of unleashed outrage the second the door had opened mid-way through the English teacher's Midnight Summer's Dream lecture. He was tall. That was for sure. He wore a pair of tight skinny-jeans, neon red, along with a pair of dirty back boots, half-covered with mud and shoelaces dangling. A heavy black sweatshirt dangled from his thin shoulders, odd enough since it was at least sixty-five outside. He looked angry.
He sounded angry. "Stay sitting." We hadn't even known why he'd said that. At least until he pulled the gun from his sweatshirt pocket, slowly aiming it at the teacher and fingering the trigger for a few seconds. "I've had enough, you know that?" He drew out, swishing the gun in the air as he approached the teacher. "Enough of this shit." Barrel to temple. And pull. The sickening sound made bile rise in my stomach, gag reflex swirling as I caught myself to pull away from the shattered and crumbing body.
The boy turned back to the class, emerald eyes gleaming, and my breath held. I knew him. I loved him. Axel, at least, that was what the student body called him, was the lead singer in the school's band. Splattered glittering ruby colored liquid was splayed over his face as his own lips tugged into a smile. The girls around me shrieked, shuddered at the shot and trembled half-way behind their desks. Then he advanced. Eyes glittering, his hands came down upon my desk.
"Why, Roxy," He smiled, malicious insanity sprayed over his features. My own eyes glistened with tears as he sat at the edge of the desk in front of mine. "You've got to understand," He took this small time to laugh to himself. "Some days are just like this." He sat up again, pulling the gun straight, and firing off a couple more rounds, though I was too scared to count them or look behind me to see how many students were now lying on the ground with glassy eyes and bleeding bodies.
I let out a choked cough, gagging back my vomiting as I turned to him and slowly stood up. "Why?" The question had come out shaky, and it was the final emotion that I thought I would ever feel, and I wondered if sixteen years were good enough for the rest of the world. He only grinned again, pulling back the gun and firing off at least five more. There was no sound now. The silence was even more sickening that the idea of death around me and over my head.
"I just had to." He shook his head sadly as he turned his attention to the shaking door at the front of the classroom. He quickly dug his hand into his pocket, pulling something out and quickly thrusting it into my own hands as he just as quick brought the gun to his forehead and pulled.
The blood splattered. Across my mouth, the warmth was sickening as I crumpled to the ground and shook. Though I wouldn't notice the men barging into the room after the door had been bust down. The only thing I'd notice was the white-washed walls of the hospital, and the still shaking world. The breathing had long been thick and full of quick beating heart that I hadn't even thought to unclench my hands. The first thing I'd noticed was the small class ring that I had lost two days ago, a small Necco candy heart, and a slip of white notebook paper with thin pencil scrawl.
I hate Mondays.
Don't You?
A/N: Now…It's short, But It wasn't that bad…right? REVIEW, Please?
