adjectives | reddie

thirty&two - frustrated/worried

"muh-mikey," bill lifted his head up from his homework. his eyes were tired, grayed. stanley was leaning on bill's shoulders almost lifelessly. his tired, limp body made no sudden moves that indicated he was awake. slow breaths rose and fell from his chest as a subtle smile was slathered across his face in his sleep.

comfortable

"yeah, billy?" mike answered, not looking away from his math homework. ben was sitting next to him, trying to explain what he was supposed to do, but he couldn't seem to get it. mike never seemed to excel at math. the constant tapping of his pencil showed the frustration, and his twisted faced always showed no sign of understanding the assignment in front of her. however, it was the constant adjective above his face that made it obvious.

confused

stanley's bed creaked as bill moved slightly. he propped stanley up slightly to move over and lay the boy down on his lap. stanley's eyes never opened, and bill smiled fondly before looking back up at beverly. "w-wuuuh-when are we leaving?" mike began to close his math book, causing ben to stick out his hand to keep the book page. he turned on the swivel chair to face us.

"whenever you guys want to leave," he shrugged, "i'm done with that stupid math for now. i'd rather die." he sighed, standing up and grabbing her backpack.

my eyes averted over to bill again, who was shaking stanley softly to wake him up. stan's eyes opened slowly, staring at bill. sitting up, he kissed bill on the cheek automatically, like it was natural or a habit. "hi." he didn't look away, not even noticing the people around them.

"hi," mike snickered, "we're here too."

i laughed lightly and looked off from the group. pictures in small wooden frames were neatly organized at one corner of the room. many were of the original group of three, but the more you looked down, the bigger the group got. one picture was of beverly and stanley; i don't even know when it was. they were smiling, side-hugging. beverly's hair was at shoulder length, so it had to be recent.

beverly had begun to grow her hair out slightly. she refused, however, to grow it out to where it used to be. i had no clue what her old length was or meant to her. a trimming once a week seemed to keep it somewhere safe for her. the length of her hair made her feel safe.

it is strange how people can feel safe through an inanimate object. sometimes it could have a meaning that no one understands, but sometimes it just acts as some kind of control as if the person was in an experiment. it can show the person that something stays the same, or it is a way to prevent or cause something (even if no one knows it). no matter how much the weather changes, beverly still has her short hair, and it kept something away from her to feel safe.

it was the tuesday after easter. the sun was shining, and christian homes had begun putting away their decorations of crucification scenes. we had the week off from school, so we just sat inside of stanley's bedroom. our genius plan was to leave for the movies, but nothing seemed to catch our eye.

my fingers calmly skimmed the bed sheet as i waited for everyone to leave the room. the alarm clock ticked slowly, matching along with the best of stan's steps: two steps per second. it was a habit that he picked up in first or second grade. he worked on it during recess while bill and i finished writing an assignment he missed. stanley refused to go outside for recess if he was alone; he feared of the bullies.

a familiar feeling struck as i watched beverly slowly walk out of the room. she looked like she had just met the group. sure, she was walking in the same space, but her mind was wandering in a totally different universe. her steps were careful, meaningful, as if she had just walked into a room of total strangers two hours ago. she played with her medium length hair, running her fingers through the length she thought she would never grow again, while she continued walking down the hall.