RUN RABBIT, RUN!

two. where my good thoughts go

seven months earlier 2067, february 6th

"Alright, let's do this one last time," I mutter to myself, sitting on my bed with messy hair and eye bags. Last week of school.

     THE LOUD MOTOR OF YOUR stereotypical all-American school bus was shoved into Candy's ears. The smell of interestingly mixed perfume and lack of deodorant also occupied her lungs. Don't people know that deodorant is like two dollars? She let out a huge breath and waited for the smell to pass. Ensuring her safety to breathe.

   As usual, she sat near the middle to front (this way she got off quicker), and silently let everyone know that her backpack was in great need of the unoccupied space. No one usually bothered her to her face, they would save the mean comments for when her back was turned.
   People called her a bitch and all the other petty swear words you can think of.

   The girl wasn't one for conversing. Which consequently would end up in her blatantly ignoring anyone for anything. It wasn't like they were needing to receive validation from a stranger as much as she was anyways.

  The obnoxious yellow bus that would painfully remind her of bananas, thus minions, thus that one girl who had a passion for them back in the glory days of 2015–not for all, though, just the socially privileged—arrived at her school. She quickly got off with the rest of her peers.

  The time on the bus always went by so slowly. If she could, she'd bring a book or maybe even a phone—something to distract her from the lack of the capability to breathe correctly,  anything to keep her attention and eyes off of the dystopian novel she felt the world was.

   Social liberty? You're funny.
   Freedom of speech? You ever thought of doing stand-up?
   Abolishing capitalism? You're getting there, but not quite.

  The government implemented a new type of telling others what to do, and not giving much of a choice. Taceism. Well, the west of the country. The other half are operirists—they're not very different from each other.

   For instance, books aren't allowed—my grandma used to tell me about them like it was her first love, and speak about the radio like it was her inconvenient little cousin needing a babysitter. That's all we're left with now. For literally everything. Usually it's producing something patriotic and dehumanizing. The foul words leaving the radio man's mouth have become something somewhat normal.
But it's not your traditional, aesthetically pleasing old radio, with the annoying static coming out.
They resemble a camera. Do they take photos of us nonconsensually? Going based off history, it's not unlikely.
On the top left of the camera is four dots: red, yellow, green and blue, with a brown leather background. One camera lens was on the other side, all the while the main, attention grabbing one laid in the middle in all it's stupefied glory. That's where the sound comes from.

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Sitting in my unwritten spot, I listened closely as our teacher simultaneously gave us a lecture/life lesson/trying to painfully explain what kinematics is. Although it wasn't hard to tune her out when she started telling us how much of her life she didn't waste when she was our age, and we should be just like her.

  Vile is sitting in front of me again. Or Vesper, V, Ves, one of those many nicknames. Sometimes I wish people noticed me enough to give me more than one nickname, but I think I prefer being the quiet girl who sits in the corner and only shows up when there's a test.
His hair looks different. Usually it looks like it's never came into contact with a hairbrush, although it looks nice now. His black hair is actually styled for once, that's how it always looked in my dreams. He is always in my dreams, and it's never one of those random dreams where you're holding a lightsabor running from Voldemort. It's violent, horrifying.

   A year ago, when they first started was when my brother died. I was in a public bathroom, which I likely got from my local gas station, there was graffiti on the mirror and every time I went near it, the sentenced written always took away vision of my eyes. I never remember what it says, only a foggy memory of seeing 'R', 'G' and 'O'. I'm always washing my hands, then deathwatch beetle's start coming out of the sink--all the previous water turned into dragonflies going into and down my throat, choking me until I collapse. Then he shows up, that stupid, stupid idiot shows up and 'saves' me from the swarm of insects. And then I wake up.

  This is why I don't sleep much. I'm too afraid of something that isn't real, too afraid of waking up thinking I might be in a hospital bed, too afraid that I might be saved by a stranger.

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Candy splashed the tap water of the bathroom sink on her tan features, thinking it'd might keep her awake for at least more than thirty minutes.

She stared her reflection down, a feeling of discontent squirmished within her but it wasn't hard to shrug it off. But as soon as she heard someone opening the door she backed away and wiped away the fresh tears that were collecting under her eyes.

There wasn't anyone there.

''Hello?'' She called out, then quickly decided she did not want to be in any True Crime titles. ''What the fuck?'' She said from under her breath, mostly to herself because it's not like anyone was there to listen. The door wasn't opening, why isn't it opening? It should be opening. Her knuckles started to turn white, her hands felt hotter and hotter as the seconds passed.

''Keep it family friendly, would ya?''

   That came from the back, right?

She grabbed the pepper spray she always kept in her backpack. If she dies, she'll still look good, right?
  She saw a shadow, a mysterious silhouette yet it seemed to be ownerless. An independent shadow. Although last she checked, that's literally impossible.

   Her eyes quickly scattered around the bathroom, looking for any viable window. Anything. Anything that could help her escape what she isn't familiar with. There was none, she was trapped. What are you supposed to do in this situation? Should she scream, shoot aimlessly, investigate?
  Obviously, her best choice here is to put on her 'bad bitch' voice and 'show them who's boss'.
   
  But she didn't need to instigate anything. She was asleep now, her mind stuck in wherever the dream world may be.

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