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VALERIE
11 months later...
Brown.
Brown and grey. That's the colour of the world on the other side of the window.
The honey coloured leaves are tinted with yellow. The naked branches of the trees that were once a deep mahogany now suffer from age and merciless weather, their formerly rich barks stripped from their nutrients. The brick walls surrounding the school are meant to be red, but they're a faded tawny colour now because of how old they are. All different shades of brown.
And then the sky is grey.
I can't help but wonder what kind of life the colourful people live. Is every day different for them? Does every day bring something new?
My mind drifts to the graffiti from yesterday. I spotted it on the way home: Brightly lettered and colourfully designed in a mix of yellow, orange and red- "This Day Is On Repeat", it had said. Never have I seen anything more relatable in my entire life. Those words have been on my mind all day. That's all that's been on my mind all day. I don't allow myself to think about anything else.
Although now it's a free period for me, I don't have enough things to occupy my mind with, so I usually put myself in daydreaming mode, or take a trip into the past. I wonder where I should go today.
My eyes still fixed on the view outside, I spot a movement from the corner of my eye. My eyes dart to the spot where a sort of faded figure stands beside the large Rowan tree near the college gate. They seem to blend in with the background in some strange way- almost like they are transparent.
I blink, then squint my eyes to see better. There's nothing there. Is boredom making me hallucinate, or am I being haunted by some supernatural being? I snort to myself at the thought. Now I'm starting to think like Fraya.
The wood of my pencil feels rough on my skin,while I twirl it around my fingers and thumb, and as I return back to the present, my gaze shifts from the window back to the study room, where people are chattering among themselves over takeaway boxes, with the same old fish and chips or meat pies they sell at the food hall. I never buy anything from there. I'm tired of being constantly thirsty after every dry meal. The cackles and loud jokes shatter my eardrums, immediately making me coil.
I hate free periods.
"Hey, Valerie."
I jump from the sudden sound, and turn in the direction of the voice, my eyes peering out from beneath my tumbleweed of hair.
One; Gina Fortner is standing at my table. Two; Gina Fortner's fixated smile is bigger than usual. Three; Gina Fortner is carrying a binder.
I conclude that she's coming to ask for homework help.
Reluctantly, I reach for my notebook and flip to the homework page, before handing it to her. She raises her eyebrows, but looks thankful. "How'd you know I was gonna ask?"
Because that's the only reason anyone ever approaches me in this class.
"Just a guess." I reply, resting my hand back on my chin and turning back to the window.
"Well, you're literally a life-saver," her large, blue eyes gleam with relief, "Trust me, this is not something I usually do, but I don't have enough time to..."
Her words fade away as I turn my thoughts back to the graffiti. There's nothing else interesting to think about.
I'm glad to know there are other people with the same mindset as me. Or what if it wasn't an actual person who made it?
I allow myself to think about what it would be like if something inhuman created it.
If there really was some supernatural being, I wonder what it would be. Maybe a guardian angel was watching over me. Then again, if it is a guardian Angel, it's not exactly great at its job. Because I'm a current mess.
********************
Leaves crunch beneath my worn, greying-white sneakers as I trudge down the street. The sky is beginning to turn black- the weather tends to cry a lot here. I should hurry up and get home.
Tucking my chin further into my scarf, I pass the miniature library (which is the only library) and the dead post office that never gets used. Who needs to send anyone a package when nobody's house is longer than twenty minutes from each other? This place is literally tiny. And it's not like people even have enough connections outside of this place to send anything out.
BridgeTown is just as dry and uncreative as its name: A small town thrown off the side of the motorway bridge, a little bit tucked into the woodlands, near a caravan park. That's what we are; suppliers to the rich caravan customers, who often want to get away from city life and live in the countryside. "Such a cute little village," they like to say, "so peaceful".
Peaceful my miserable arse. BridgeTown is as lifeless as they get.
We all buy the same things, and do the same things. We talk about the same things-if we talk at all-and go to the same places. People always try to stir up drama but there is technically nothing to stir. BridgeTown is not peaceful- it's boring.
As I pass by the red brick walls that make up the alleyway, I decide to stop. I look back at the place the graffiti was, even though I know it will still be there. I stare at it for sometime, and as I look closer, I notice that there are more words that have been added in the same colours, scrawled underneath the first message. The scent of spray paint is still fresh; someone's recently done this. But that's not what immediately catches my attention. My main focus is on the words:
