GOOD MORNING AND GOODNIGHT
My neck is sore. So are my arms. And my legs too. The flight attendant approaching me doesn't seem to have any idea that her lipstick is smeared on her collar and her eye shadow makes her look like her eyes have gotten punched out recently. She looks me up and down as she passes by, no doubt taking in my silver splattered jeans and colored-on sneakers. Whatever. Go ahead. At least I don't look like a badly dressed hooker. She throws a blanket in my direction as an over optimistic voice informs me that the plane may experience some slight turbulence and to please fasten my seat belt in very bad English. I tune out and examine the people around me.
The nice green-haired lady to my right that I exchanged small conversation with just minutes ago is talking about guns with the black-haired gentleman behind her. It's obvious they'll at least have each other's number by the end of the flight. Hopefully. Because if 23 hours isn't enough time to at least get a girl's number, I seriously worry for the men of this generation. As I already do for the pink haired dude who's trying not to throw up on the blonde in front of me as she reluctantly hands him a bag to puke in. They both look about my age, though. I wonder where they came from.
I pull out a magazine in front of me and flip through it, hoping to find something interesting to pretend to look at so I don't have to talk to anyone. They probably don't want to talk to me anyway, since according to my friends, I look "intimidating". Well, it's not my problem if they don't even have any guts. I decide that the ridiculous looking jewelry and fake cigarettes ads in the magazine aren't the slightest bit entertaining and glance at my watch. 7:59. Great. Just 21 more hours with these people. 21 more hours.
I turn my head towards the window and drift off into much-needed sleep as the annoying blue fabric digs into my cheek.
My eyes wander around the room in search of a certain red head out of habit. Damn it. I've got to stop doing that. Someone is waving their hand up and down in front of my face. I turn around, trying to put on a polite face to tell the person to Fuck off when I realize it's Gray. I sigh and turn back around. He must be able to tell how pissed off I am.
"You know, I feel like skipping today," I tell him. I can see the teacher glaring at me for talking in class. Like I give a Fuck.
"Go ahead, I'll save some food for you," he mutters, oblivious of the intense, "loving" stares a certain blunette is giving him. Man, I can feel her drilling holes into me with her eyes.
"I'm leaving," I say as I scoot out my chair, which makes a scratching sound on the tile floor. She hated that sound. I stride toward the door. Stop it. Pull yourself together.
The door slams behind me.
The hallways look so empty. I remember dragging her out of her classes and teasing her about being such a goody-goody. What have I done? I climb the stairs numbly, barely aware of where I was going.
When my feet stop their journey, I find myself on the roof. This is where we always went to escape the noise and tension. I like high places, she had said, you can look down on the rest of the world, watching it continue on without you. Is my subconscious trying to get me killed?
I know Juvia will continue her obsession with Gray, the boys in the school will be glad to be rid of me and the entire city couldn't care less for a person like me ... The world will continue on without me. But I can't continue without her. I've let her go. This is all my fault.
I stare down at the world. Where is she now? I don't deserve to know. I don't deserve to see her ever again. No, I don't even deserve to think about her. My left foot is over the ledge now, waiting for the rest of my pitiful body to join it.
I pull it back.
I don't even deserve the relief of death.
Broken and forgotten; maybe I'll die tortured by guilt. I feel the odd desire to laugh.
Instead, I turn and walk back through the door, into the hallway and down the stairs, feeling like I'm descending into a dark, evil place, where people like me will never even catch a glimpse of the angels up above, beings pure and innocent, like her. I don't deserve her tears.
How can a bastard like me even hope for more than a glance of her smile?