The wind rustled, leaves seemed to crinkle and tinkle in response to his question. His burnt-corked appearance fiery to the nonchalance of Clarisse. "Your mom." His voice rumbled like the great Messiah. Her dark eyes shone brightly, shimmering with...
Her fingers were numb. Her hands were freezing cold to the touch. It almost seemed like she had became the frosty version of Midas, instead of everything turning gold by her touch, everything turned cold. Alas, a little lamer, she admitted to herself.
She tugged at the loose threads of her white dress. It was her favourite dress, tailored exactly to her measurements. The dress encapsulated her pale features and brought out her dark eyes.
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In a desperate attempt to defrost her stiff, chilled raw chicken-like hands, she blew on them. Her hot breath offered little to no comfort, to her disdain.
Clarisse McClellan slumped against the hard concrete wall. The dimly lit alley provided a familiar sense of loneliness to engulf her. She pulled out a pineapple from the pocket of her dress amd started chewing on it, not bothering to remove the pines. In 0.002 hours, she devoured it whole.
A hefty sigh left her lips as she looked up to the barren sky. Damn, she wished she was at home in her Lightning McQueen bed right now. She grunted, cursing herself for angering her mother by playing Party Rock Anthem in response to the news of her now dead uncle.
Served him right, he always seemed like he never showered.
A gust of wind ran by, bringing with him the presence of a new entity. Clarisse paused her badgering thoughts of Simon Cowell. Slowly but surely, she tip-toed out the alley, a wave of autumn leaves circling her steps.
Because Ms Amitra said symbolism.
She was met by a man. Not just any man, this man was stinky as hell! Damn! Good for him! His unwashed face and unkempt hair could easily let him be mistaken as a rampant rodent.
His face was blackened with cinders. At first, Clarisse thought he was a racist, no, he was a fireman. Of course. They're not too different, in her opinion.
She fumbled with the hem of her dress, thinking of ideas to ease the awkwardness. The air was so stale you could probably consume it.
"H-h-h-h-hello." She stuttered.
"That's not in the fucking book." His voice laced with confusion.
"Clarisse McClellan. You reek of kerosene. Fucking smelly."
"Where is your mother?" He decided to ignore her last statement.
"She kicked me out. My uncle got ran over by a driver who was speeding. This means something about our Society."
"My bad. I mean. My wife got a speeding ticket today, so it may have been her." He remarked sheepishly.
"Fuck you." Clarisse replied, a gaze of humble adoration in her eyes, her tone polite and shy.
He sighed for like the fucknth time and reached into his pockets. After a few moments of awkward motionlessness, he pulled put a wrinkly and stained Baskin Robbins voucher.
Tearfully, he handed it to Clarisse.
Clarisse accepted the voucher distastefully, nose wrinkling in digust as she held it with two fingers like it carried the Plague.
"Sorry bout' your uncle, get him some ice cream." His gaze averted.
After what seemed like a long silence, he cleared his throat of what sounded like a really humongous wad of phlegm.
"I'm Montag. Guy. Uh... Guy Montag. I have a wife named Mildred and no children. We live down the street. I earn meagre wages but enough to sustain my wife's terrible wall addiction. I am not okay."
"K."
"Do you... need a home? I can take you in, in like, a completely foster-parent way not a, I-am-a-strange-middle-aged-man-who-will-do-something-bad-to-you way."
"I need to shit SO BAD."
Montag examined her features. Her face was pale, like a milk-white crystal. She was like a mirror, reflecting his innermost desires, thoughts and emotions. It almost seemed like he was compelled to pull out his wallet and drop it at her feet.
She really was a mirror! She refracted his own light to himself. Just like him, she was a big motherfucker.
A smile tugged at his lips, beaming he quipped, "Great! Get into my house!"
"K."
Clarisse McClellan and Guy Montag had opened the first of many chapters to come.
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I don't want to do math so bad I woukd do anuthing else. T-t-t-t-t-this book is d-d-dedicated to Eren's Diarrhoea. Llease like amd suscrube!!
