Bright Eyes, chapter 1
He was sitting in detention...again, staring at the same bloody white wall in front of him, bored to death. And what had he done this time? He just stole a couple of bucks, no big deal. Those rich snobs already had plenty of money. He hadn't been careful enough. He looked around. He was surrounded by nobodies, looking back at him with empty, staring eyes. He returned to staring at his beloved wall.
His head was in a daze from last night, and his body was broken like the vows in his shattered life. He didn't give a shit, though. All he needed was the suitcase waiting on his bed at the house he refused calling home. All though it was his mother's highest wish.
He shook his head and took another look around. Same old faces, tired and sick of life. Just like himself. Still, he felt like he had nothing in common with them. He was the only "real" person in that room. They were all hypocrites. Rednecks, preps, punks. He couldn't care less. To him, they were all the same.
Suddenly the door flung open, and in came a man he hated with every fibre in his body. Mr. Stinn. His well-fed stomach bounced into the room, and his tiny eyes looked at the god-forsaken kids in the room. He stopped for 2 seconds and took a good look around. Then he slowly continued to his desk. He sat down on his chair that almost broke from his heaviness. He opened his bag and took out a folder, then started to take attendance.
Focusing on the white wall in front of him, looking for new stains, he didn't hear when Mr. Stinn called his name. He didn't even see Stinn walking up to him, looking down at him and smirking. He brutally got aware of his presence when the ruler smacked him on his hands, and the pain numbed his hands. He clenched his fists and slowly looked up at Mr. Stinn. Mr. Stinn smirked and walked away, happy and satisfied. The boy returned to looking at his white wall, for the 100th time, and he swore to himself that someday he would take revenge. He was not going to be another victim.
Slowly dragging his feet along the pavement, he tried to clear his mind. What was he going to do tonight? He was sure he had plans, probably the same old usual shit. Hanging by the 7-11, in the parking lot, at the center of the world, where he was taught. Their motto was just a lie.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Did he have plans? His thoughts got interrupted by the sight of his wrecked home. He smiled sarcastically and took out the keys and unlocked the door. He got in; he didn't bother taking off his shoes, the house was dirty anyways. He took a quick look in the living room, checking if the woman he so long ago had called Mom and loved so deeply but now called "the bitch" and felt nothing for was in there. He let out a sigh of relief. He turned around and got greeted by a punch in the face. He swayed for a minute but then regained control. The Bitch was home, and she was drunk. He shook his head and tried to focus his eyes on the woman in front of him.
"Where have you been!?" she screamed and swayed form side to side.
"I..."
"DON'T TALK BACK TO ME! It's almost 6 o'clock, where have you been!?"
"I..."
"You fucking nobody," she said and spat at him.
"Well I'm no fucking whore like you, coming home with different guys every single night, then getting drunk to forget about my shitty life," he said and looked back at her.
She blinked and then walked away.
He sighed and went up the stairs to his own room. He threw his bag at the bed and looked at the posters hanging on his walls. The familiar faces looked down at him. It even looked as if they we're showing him compassion and pity with their eyes. Looking at his miserable life, trying to save him with their songs and lyrics. And it helped. Some of the songs saved his life from time to time.
He slowly walked over to the stereo and put a record on. Slowly the tunes of "Pretty Vacant" by Sex Pistols told him everything was going to be alright, and that all he had to do was wait. Walking over to the dresser, he grabbed a cigarette on the way and lit it. Going through his drawer, he looked for his pills, checking how many he had left: 28. He always had 3 of them in his right pocket. In case he wanted to get high or kill himself. Simple as that. He took 2 of the pills, then put the paper bag back in the drawer, locking it after him.
Collapsing on the bed, he closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, without "The Bitch" nagging at him, without Trey expecting him to jump off bridges or steal TV's. He shook his head; there was no place on this earth like that. It was just a silly dream. He looked up at the clock: it was 8:30. Time to go and meet Trey and the gang. Oh, happy day.
His head was in a daze from last night, and his body was broken like the vows in his shattered life. He didn't give a shit, though. All he needed was the suitcase waiting on his bed at the house he refused calling home. All though it was his mother's highest wish.
He shook his head and took another look around. Same old faces, tired and sick of life. Just like himself. Still, he felt like he had nothing in common with them. He was the only "real" person in that room. They were all hypocrites. Rednecks, preps, punks. He couldn't care less. To him, they were all the same.
Suddenly the door flung open, and in came a man he hated with every fibre in his body. Mr. Stinn. His well-fed stomach bounced into the room, and his tiny eyes looked at the god-forsaken kids in the room. He stopped for 2 seconds and took a good look around. Then he slowly continued to his desk. He sat down on his chair that almost broke from his heaviness. He opened his bag and took out a folder, then started to take attendance.
Focusing on the white wall in front of him, looking for new stains, he didn't hear when Mr. Stinn called his name. He didn't even see Stinn walking up to him, looking down at him and smirking. He brutally got aware of his presence when the ruler smacked him on his hands, and the pain numbed his hands. He clenched his fists and slowly looked up at Mr. Stinn. Mr. Stinn smirked and walked away, happy and satisfied. The boy returned to looking at his white wall, for the 100th time, and he swore to himself that someday he would take revenge. He was not going to be another victim.
Slowly dragging his feet along the pavement, he tried to clear his mind. What was he going to do tonight? He was sure he had plans, probably the same old usual shit. Hanging by the 7-11, in the parking lot, at the center of the world, where he was taught. Their motto was just a lie.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Did he have plans? His thoughts got interrupted by the sight of his wrecked home. He smiled sarcastically and took out the keys and unlocked the door. He got in; he didn't bother taking off his shoes, the house was dirty anyways. He took a quick look in the living room, checking if the woman he so long ago had called Mom and loved so deeply but now called "the bitch" and felt nothing for was in there. He let out a sigh of relief. He turned around and got greeted by a punch in the face. He swayed for a minute but then regained control. The Bitch was home, and she was drunk. He shook his head and tried to focus his eyes on the woman in front of him.
"Where have you been!?" she screamed and swayed form side to side.
"I..."
"DON'T TALK BACK TO ME! It's almost 6 o'clock, where have you been!?"
"I..."
"You fucking nobody," she said and spat at him.
"Well I'm no fucking whore like you, coming home with different guys every single night, then getting drunk to forget about my shitty life," he said and looked back at her.
She blinked and then walked away.
He sighed and went up the stairs to his own room. He threw his bag at the bed and looked at the posters hanging on his walls. The familiar faces looked down at him. It even looked as if they we're showing him compassion and pity with their eyes. Looking at his miserable life, trying to save him with their songs and lyrics. And it helped. Some of the songs saved his life from time to time.
He slowly walked over to the stereo and put a record on. Slowly the tunes of "Pretty Vacant" by Sex Pistols told him everything was going to be alright, and that all he had to do was wait. Walking over to the dresser, he grabbed a cigarette on the way and lit it. Going through his drawer, he looked for his pills, checking how many he had left: 28. He always had 3 of them in his right pocket. In case he wanted to get high or kill himself. Simple as that. He took 2 of the pills, then put the paper bag back in the drawer, locking it after him.
Collapsing on the bed, he closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, without "The Bitch" nagging at him, without Trey expecting him to jump off bridges or steal TV's. He shook his head; there was no place on this earth like that. It was just a silly dream. He looked up at the clock: it was 8:30. Time to go and meet Trey and the gang. Oh, happy day.
