Summary: To explain a few things before you read it - basically, the narrator has some type of mental disorder that has to do with some sort of extreme case of paranoia and social anxiety.
Warning: One of those pieces written at 2AM with minimal sleep.
A/N: To explain a few things before you read it - basically, the narrator has a mental disorder that has to do with some sort of extreme case of paranoia and social anxiety. I didnt give names or distinguishing characterstics so you, the reader, can read it in whoever's POV you want.
Sunlight streaking through the windows, the light almost blinding; it bleeds color onto the pale walls around you. Your head’s pounding, you can hear the blood pumping through your veins and the light footsteps, every movement of the clock on the left - tick, tick, tick, tick. Your eyes are closed, your hands are clasped over your ears but you can still hear it and you don’t know if it’s just in your subconscious or if you are really just crazy. Simple(but intricate at the same time, you note, your eyes following every line, shape and the subtle differences in color from one petal to the next) flowers sit on the desk next to your bed, the only thing that holds interest in the room to you anyway. The image of a charismatic, friendly(and strangely refreshing) smile, two boys who had coincidentally been assigned as study partners in a large classroom of 38. They never found out there was not even a single minute of studying that Tuesday morning from them - only whispers about anything to avoid the school work, his quiet laughter seemed warmer than the sun than floods through the room you’ve been in for twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. You still refuse to leave as if your life depended on it and it didn’t, but something propels you(his shy smile, dark bangs falling over his forehead as he introduces himself) and something else stops you from leaving every single time. The flawless white oak door glares at you, every carve and scratch in the door makes your eyes burn and the thoughts of the thousands of people past that door made it like that. Every obscene hand gesture, arrogant stare, every echo of footsteps getting farther and farther away from you, it’s engraved in your memory as a film is on a tape. Rewind, fast forward, rewind, and it never stops. He seemed oddly out of place and you couldn’t put a finger on what it was but he couldn’t be one of them. It intrigues you, more than every miniscule of details on the ceiling, more than the flowers he set by your tableside, and you must be insane to think he won’t leave you too. You don’t see him often - his image flutters by your memory but it’s there, so subtle but memorable when you close your eyes and picture him there. Arms wrapping around your waist, a laugh you might (never) forget, a goodbye(another that you foresaw as he hid tears with his left hand) as he sets down flowers on the table that is now blindingly white. Every single frame in your mind that he is there; it’s almost as if it’s glued to the back of your eyelids and you wonder if the image will ever leave. The only one that has never pushed or been pushed away, he comes back sixteen days later. At 4:27 that morning, you’ve left your only safety barrier from horrid things, horrid feelings, from being left behind - you leave it for him when he comes with an extended arm to you and a small vase of fresh flowers.