the girl in red

xi. black hole sun

Tuesday, December 16th, 1975

Lafayette, Indiana

Bill flopped back against his chair and his head lolled back, the ceiling becoming the point of his gaze.  His hands tapped against the desk and scraped at the wood before falling to his lap, as utterly bored as the rest of him.  The indent of the Marlboro Gold ghosted his fingers and he sighed, rubbing his palms harshly against his jeans.  He had parted ways with Dimitra too many minutes ago, but he couldn't fully rip her from his thoughts.  They weren't laced with anything, only curiosity.  She was sharp as a blade, but something floated behind her eyes, the eyes that didn't seem to like looking into his.  They were always trained on the jut of his nose or flicked between both eyes as if she couldn't decide on which to look at.  It intrigued him.  She intrigued him.

The clock ticked like thunder on the wall, teasing the release from the class.  There were still too many periods left, but at least two of them would be out of the way.  He tilted his chin down and faced the bored, only partially paying attention, and fiddled with his sleeve.  He'd forgotten to go to the bathroom while he was out, too, and his bladder screamed at him as he loosened his belt and shifted in the seat.  He pressed his palms to his knees and frowned.  The bell finally rang, releasing him from the teacher's hold, and he bolted from the room, his backpack slapping his back harshly.  The bathroom was already packed by the time he'd shoved his way in, filled with boys smoking and mingling.  He resisted the urge to grab a cigarette for himself and he walked to the only open stall.  Noise came from every direction and smoke lingered as heavy as the bruises along his wrist did, not to fade for days.  The hallways were equally packed, so he abandoned them for the fresh air outside.  The snow was thick now, piles of it reflecting the sun like a mirror.  He walked around the white, taking the long way to his next class and ignoring the burn of the cold against his skin.

Bill's shoulders bumped against the sides of other kids but he brushed it off, continuing his sloppy strides.  He pursed his lips and adjusted the strap of his backpack before finally stepping into the quieter B hallway.  The heaters didn't work as well there and a thick cloud of cold hung between the brown and beige walls, purely invisible to everyone.  Bill's coat hung off his arms like he was a skeleton, which was too close of a comparison for his comfort.  His button-up was loose, too, only squeezing his arms where the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.  The breath he sucked in before pulling open the door to the English room was deep and ragged, laced with chronic exhaustion that hung heavy beneath his emerald eyes.  There was only an hour and odd minutes before lunch, and a few more than that until school got out, but it still felt like fifty years had been stripped from him by the time he'd closed the front door behind him and stepped onto the ugly rug protecting equally crappy floors.

The house was cold and the heater was abandoned since neither his mother nor father were home.  Where they were, Bill didn't know.  He didn't care, though; what mattered was that they were out of the house and away from him.  And until the bus came by to drop Amy and Stuart off, he was all alone.  And he loved that idea.  It would be stupid for him to hate the loneliness; it was the only place where he went untouched, physically and mentally.

Nearly ten minutes later, Amy and Stuart walked through the door and shucked their shoes off.  Bill accepted the company with a sigh and a frown, but he had still gotten his dose of alone time, so he wasn't angry.  He didn't like to be angry at them, either.  That made him too much like him, and he hated him.  Amy greeted him with a loud smile and an enthusiastic wave before she turned and pulled something out of her backpack.  He sat up on the couch and grabbed the paper from her small, pale hands and turned it over.  It was too hard to smother his smile, so he didn't.  On the white sheet was a drawing of what he guessed was him, with his disastrous haircut and round glasses; Amy, with her scribbled floral dress; and Stuart, with his signature bright blush on his cheeks.  He reached over and mussed Amy's hair with a grin, which she returned with ease.