Boy Anachronism

Goal #1, Ruined

Millions of sounds rang through the warm night air, straight into Craig Tucker's unwilling ears. He stood shaking on top of an apartment building, towering over the roaring city, the noises had the trembling boys' hands reaching to over his ears. Cars horns being slammed and overused, constant brakes screeching. The worst of all being the sudden sirens of an ambulance of which he knew was for him. As they continued to obnoxiously blare, his eyes blurred. 

Craig felt his heartrate surge. The sound had his mind frantically skimming over the previous events that had taken place that night. He hadn't told anyone of his plans, had he? Though the thought lingered, he knew for a sure fact he didn't. The sounds of the ambulance suddenly increased in volume. He felt the feeling of a nauseating, cold pit of uneasiness punch him in his stomach. Or maybe his brain? Anyways, brain or stomach, it was not a comfortable feeling. It had all of his emotions bleed out all over him uncontrollably, exposing him of everything he had felt at the moment, naked. 

Craig squeezed his eyes closed in attempt of shutting out the stabbing pain of anxious fear drilling into his abdomin. Thinking maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough he could disconnect himself from the feeling. And maybe even the current gut wrenching situation he himself had gotten himself into would disappear along with it. 

His eyes began to burn as he heard soft foot steps behind him.

As soon the sound hit his ears, Craig know they belonged to his mothers. The woman who had put up with all of his shit, all of his carelessness for all these years, treating him with the same kindness that he never returned. The woman who had to watch her son slowly dig a part of himself deeper and deeper into a hole and drag every other bit and peice of Craig Tucker with him. The one who had stood back, and watched quietly as he did so. Unsure of what to do. Craig honestly couldn't bring himself to blame his mother. Hell, who the fuck knows what to do in that sort it situation? A situation where a person you loved, nutured, cared for, is constantly expressing a yearning desperation to take away the life you gave them.

She screamed. She screamed her son's name one last time. One last time with genuine, raw desperation and pain, knowing she could not control nor stop what he'd do next.  

And then, of course, he did it. 

He jumped. 

Not into the blaring traffic, not into the craze of society. And definitely not into the flashing llights blinding his eyes. The boy was jumping the exact opposite direction. Away from troubles, away from the thought of a death of which would happen in a boring fashion as tribute to the boring, miserable life of Craig Trucker. The one be had made for himself. He was jumping into peace, serenity. 

A short lived noise was worth it for the eternity of quietness that death held. 

As Craig felt the weight of his body slicing thought the thick air as he fell further and further down, his eyes snapped open. Suddenly, he felt all of the weight he had finally released creep back up his spine and into his brain. And then, shockingly enough, slam into his hard, wooden bedroom floor. He shot up onto his aching legs and groaned, a cold sweat lacing over his body as it did each and every time he had awoken from the reoccurring dream. 

Craig sighed, not out of happiness, but out of being bombarded with the conflicting feelings of relief and agony. The ones that swirled in his chest, filled with heavy breaths, each time he was hit with the dreadful realization that he did not actually do it. Serving a reminder to himself it is not his reality, and that he's too much of a coward to really ever go through with it. He felt the sun peaking through the blue blanket that draped over the window in order to block it out.

 Already morning? He glanced at the digital clock sitting on his night stand, which read the numbers 7:00 AM.

 Fuck.

As Craig raced to his dresser, he heard his little sister Tricia belt his name from the bottom of the staircase. He sighed, slightly frustrated by her high pitched, obnoxious pre teen girl voice. After creating a mess of the neatly folded clothes in search a decent outfit, he decided to grab the most basic, ordinary pants and tee. At least ordinary enough for him to not stand out. Craig had feared even the idea of the boys at school, ESPECIALLY Eric Fucking Cartman, picking on him as he had relentlessly done to any student who had seemed even slightly abnormal. His entire body shudders of the thought, the motion being enough to reel back his drifting thoughts. 

Once he got to the kitchen, he was met Tricias annoyed face, which read 'You dickwad, youre gonna make us late.' In response, he stared at her with the usual, deadpan expression that he always wore. As he threw on his every day Navy blue hat and winter coat, his sister piped up. 

"Took plently long, " A smirk now plastering on her face that admired her own nails as she spoke, "would've thought you'd look less like shit than usual." Craig's middle finger shot up in response to her mocking tone. 

"Shall we go then? " he deadpanned in a nasal, expressionless voice. 

Craig's spirits were liftted a bit on the brisk, quiet walk to school. Well, at least compared to this mornings wake up which had gone just sooo well. After all, Craig's number one goal was still on track for a one hundred percent success rate. All he had to do was avoid anything that may seem... Different? Abnormal. Unlike the usual, just not weird. And, of course, to not get involved in the slightest if something does happen to go against the singular rule. No problem. 

Though, the moment Craig Tucker stepped foot into class, he knew he was fucked. An odd, thin blond boy who he hadn't recognized had nervously sat himself down in the back of class. Odd was an understatement. The kid had madly messy, tangled hair that shot every direction physically possible. He wore a pale green tee shirt with an unbuttoned, grey collared shirt over it. Freckles were lightly scattered over the awfully pale skin of his nose and cheeks. He seemed to constantly be moving, physically and mentally. The kid was practically an embodiment of everything he was trying to avoid. 

And there he was, plopped down on Craig Tucker's seat in the back of class as if Satan himself had placed him there .