Blue Howard (boyxboy)

Criminal

Finally an update, and I hope you like it :)

PS: Posted a one-shot, which is about Jack (Frost) and Jamie.

Chapter 9 – Criminal

Day three and it’s still just the two of us, plus Jocelyn and Emma. And as tragic as it is to admit, we have also met Lorcan Pintes who, from what I’ve heard (overheard), has quite a reputation, meaning basically nobody knows what his deal is. Except for the fact that the girl he mentioned has actually (rumour has it) confirmed what happened.

Yes, it’s day four and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, ready for school, but my legs don’t want to move. My backpack is on the floor, and looks like it doesn’t want to brush against other people or the desks, so I guess we’re on the same page.

Anton opens the door, towel wrapped around his waist, a little breathless. His eyes fall on mine and a boyish smile appears on his lips. I’ve rested my hands on the edge of the bed, and I’m tense, yet bored, yet lost, yet disappointed, yet hopeful. And none of it makes sense.

“Too many people wake up too late,” he says and throws his shower gadgets (shampoo and soap) on the bed, creating water droplets on the sheets. “I have to develop a better relationship with my alarm clock.”

I manage a smile, my eyes glassy. “Should I wait for you?” I ask and shake my head, because there are clouds in my mind, and they are threatening with rain, or snow, or knives.

I need sunshine.

I can’t let myself get lost. I can’t this time.

“Um,” he mumbles, trying to dry his hair with another towel. He looks helplessly around, closes one eye, and then opens it. You could say it was cute. “I guess you can go. We shouldn’t both be late. Yes, go. It’s fine.” He nods to convince me further, but I’m already sold. I need to get into a bigger room. I need air.

I sit there, listening to the teacher speak about literature, how we’re expressing ourselves through words, and don’t usually want to reveal it all in ink, but instead hide the real message between the lines, layers upon layers, so the most valuable treasure is not found by the dumb; that the privilege belongs to only those who seek deeper.

Layers upon layers like paint, layers upon layers like make-up, like the Earth – is there anything worth discovering at all, or will the curiosity burn you alive?

I wonder if Anton made it to his class on time.

The teacher continues his lecture, and right now he looks like Hamlet performing his monologue. Will his class have a tragic, utterly twisted ending?

But in the end, the bell rings, and he wishes us a good day even though there isn’t even a slight hint that he means it, so maybe it’s under layers and layers of silence, and I’m too stupid to notice it.

The students flow out of the door, pressing through, so they could get wherever on time. I’m the last one to exit.

And I add layer upon layer on the canvas in the art’s class. All the different kinds of blues, some shades of grey and the black droplets are like rotten cherries. Red might ruin it all.

At first I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but then it’s a house; it’s a collapsing building that can’t even be called a building, but merely a ruin, shaken by the winds and torn by the storms, flooded by rain and the ever-changing sea.

I don’t know why I picked literature if I’m so into art. I’m not good with words.

But to live out all of your emotions using a paintbrush and splashes of colour is a whole other dimension, one you get so lost in; like a pitch black hole that swallows everything, sucks the life out of this world and destroys you, as if you were garbage, as if you were a porcelain doll that was meant to fall and be on the floor in a hundred little pieces, so before anyone else can wreck you, it does it itself.