Nothing that you Hear (v2.o)

"... Believe only half of what you see, and nothing that you hear."

1. burns

15/15

November 28, 2014: 12 31 pm.

-Elliot-

I could taste the acrid scent of smoke in the back of my throat as I looked up at the building from where I was. The flames rose high into the air, licking the cloud-covered gray of the dull sky. It really did add a whole air of melancholy to the affair, I thought, the smoke tickling my throat as it trickled out of the burning, collapsing frame of my former school.I looked at it a few moments longer, before lowering my head as to not be able to see the school I had been attending up until a few minutes ago burning down. Luckily, I had been clutching a sketchbook all through the class period, and singed though it was, it was still in my hand. I took a pencil to the paper; my lines, almost against my will, began to form the outline of a school, once majestic, burning down.

As I drew, I could hear the screaming of students: some that were still trapped inside, and some that were outside and merely screaming at the horror of it all.Some kids had bottles of liquor in their hands; where they had gotten it, I had no idea, but they were busy swigging the harsh liquid and boozing themselves up after the initial surge of adrenaline. "Tch," I said, under my breath. They were hardly sixteen, two years older than me, and yet they were already becoming the type of alcohol-influenced adult I would never want to be.Yet others still lingered around the scene as the wooden framework of the second floor finally toppled.

The local press, endeavoring for a few shots of the school; the neighborhood nannies, gossiping to each other and giving the occasional sob. I supposed I should feel sympathy for them, but I was incapable of feeling for others even at the best of times, and this was most definitely not the best. Instead of trying at all to feel some kind of sorrow, I lowered my head again and resumed drawing, scratching rough lines of graphite into the texture of my sketchbook.

Before I could get more than the brickwork of an arch rendered, one of my friends walked closer. I hadn't been looking for them, not wanting to know if they were all right for fear of the worst. But now that I saw that he was all right, I felt a little guilt for not trying to find him after all.

I saw his eyes wandering to the picture I was sketching. Resting my pencil, I looked up at him, and adopted a blank expression.

"Like it?" I asked him, narrowing my eyes.

"Yeah. Nothing's better than the scene of our school burning down," he replied, sarcasm apparent in the short reply. His name was Christian; I'd known him since fourth or fifth grade.

"Don't forget, I can sense sarcasm," I told him, deadpanning the statement. "Next time you do that, I will put you in a chokehold." He didn't reply; a scream had just rang out from the charred doorway of the school, a morbid plea for help. As I watched, Christian shook his head, trying to rouse himself. "Hey, are you okay?" I asked, more as a sort of placeholder than out of actual concern. That was the type of person I was.He nodded, though he still looked distracted.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Elliot." Not even half a minute later, a voice called both of our names. "Christian! Elliot! Are you two okay?" The words rang out through the tumult, and I looked up to see another friend of mine: Ezra. I'd only started talking to Ezra in sixth grade, though he'd been in our "gang" of friends since elementary school.Ezra doubled over a little, panting. It looked like he'd run all the way over from the other side of the parking lot that the students were all gathered in. At any rate, I felt like being sardonic, so I looked up at him with narrowed eyes and an irritated expression.

"Well, let's see. I have no burns, no wounds, and I'm sitting here, quietly drawing a picture - I think I'm fine," I said to him.Ezra's mouth turned down, and he looked a little aggrieved. "Hey, I was just worried about you guys." I scoffed, and looked back down to my paper.

"You worry too much." The principal of the school was standing on a stack of concrete blocks that had been lying around the parking lot for ages.

"Attention, all students," he was yelling, a megaphone held up to his mouth. "We need you all to leave - we will keep you updated on what's happening! Please! Go home!" I didn't like the principal, but what could a boy do when told to leave in the face of a disaster like the one we were facing?