Brighter Places [🗸]

8. my hobby is screwing around with random guys

Darkness blankets everywhere.

The world is black as I slide out of my sheets, my outfit consisting of my regular dark shirt and jeans, letting me melt into the night.

It's always eerily quiet. I raise my phone into the air, checking the time.

11 PM.

Not too late, this time round. So, I slip out of my room, letting the door close behind me with a soft thud. 

The hallways seem insanely wide at this time at night, not like they're not spacious in the mornings. But right now, the darkness makes the halls seem to go one forever. They seem endless.

Slipping through the hallway, I make sure to practically float across the floors. I know the steps by heart. After all, it's something I've done time and time again. So many times that every movement is etched into my mind.

I've learned from 13-year-old Jason's mistakes. By now, I've memorized the floorboards that are creaky, the doors with unoiled hinges, the best passageway to the back door, the quiet breathing to go unnoticed.

The staircase materializes in front of me, and I let a hand rest on the railing, my feather-light touch letting me move down the stairs, letting out silent curses every time a floorboard creaks, every time Ms. Willis lets out a sporadic snore from somewhere in the house.

Once I'm at the ground floor, I purse my lips, sliding over to the backdoor, opening the door with the carefullest twist of the handle, slipping through where my car is waiting for me, all in its full dark glory.

With that, the door's shutting behind me, and I'm sliding into my car, pulling out of the garage, a smirk tugging at my lips.

Once I'm out onto the road, speeding down the highway at a speed that's a little bit faster than the limit says it should be— I let out a whistle, then a howl, cackles filling my small, dark car, because I'm home free.

I pull into a different driveway after a few moments. The school's resident, redheaded crackhead—David— is throwing a party. And once I filter out onto his lawn, it's more than clear. Cups litter the floor, people press against each other, yells fill the air. Everything reeks of instability and pure discord.

I love it.

Wandering into the house, I glance about the chaotic room. People are downing cups of whatever it is David's conjured today. I'm guessing it's spiked with something equally as sketchy, and I make a mental note to avoid the punch tonight. Games are being played, across tables, over counters.

Everyone seems extremely sweaty. Not like it's surprising, of course. It's a hot night. And even though the air inside the house is chilly, the feverish dancing— if we can even call it that— and sides pressed against each other are bound to make everything a million times hotter.