Status: slow active.
Burning in the City
Vincent
Living is very much like living in your bedroom. Everything is there: your soft bed, your information-laden computer, your polished desk, your alarm clock, your closet full of clothes and shoes, and bookshelves of extracurricular books you read out of class. Except you change the adjectives used to describe them. Your soft bed is a slab of wood and a thin blanket. Your computer is a dirty notebook. Your closet is a pile of dirty rags. And the shelves of books are boring history texts no one cares about.
Who cares about history when half the world is owned by zombies?
Date unknown, 2012
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I looked up from the shirt I was mending.
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Tap
I sighed. Jesten was at it again.
Tap
Tap
Tap
He claimed there was a way out of his cell. He said there was a brick that would reveal a secret passage.
Tap
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It was just a load of bull.
Tap
Tap
Tap
With the sounds of something hard tapping against bricks, I worked on stitching my shirt back together. It was so torn up I had to tear another shirt to make patches. That gave me a grand total of three shirts left. One of them would be a complete shirt, and the other two would still be rags. I really need more clothes, but I doubt I’ll get any. All I can do are put my rags together to make complete clothes. And then after that I’ll refer to my bed-sheets. Then after that, I’ll jack them off from Jesten or my other neighbor: Zack.
I wasn’t very talented with stitching clothes, so the shirt wasn’t stitched up properly. At least I could still wear it. Before I stitched it up it could pass as a skirt.
Tap
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Tap
I stood up from the ground and brushed myself down. I set the shirt on the ground carefully and set the needle and thread on it then crawled on top of my wooden bed. I was careful not to slip on the blanket. I pulled apart the dusty curtains and looked through the window to see a messy room.
Jesten’s cell looked untouched. The blanket on his bed wasn’t wrinkled. The history books were undisturbed on their shelf. Their positions on the shelf hadn’t changed since the last time I saw them. Jesten wore the same clothes since I first time I met him. He still wore the gray hoodie and shirt. I wondered how his clothes always stayed in one piece. It was probably because he didn’t lose his mind like me and tear at them.
I watched Jesten tap at the brick with a metal bar. I wonder where he got that.
“Vincent! Vincent! Come here!” a voice shouted. I looked behind me and saw Zack looking through my other window.
He looked pissed. No, scratch that. He was beyond pissed. He looked like he was a volcano ready to erupt. I could easily tell he was grinding his teeth and wouldn’t be surprised if he was clenching his fists.
I walked closer to the window and asked, “What?”
“You’re a fucking doche!” he shouted. Typical Zack. He always called me a fucking doche. That was his favorite name for me.
“What did I do?” I asked, as I always did whenever he cussed me out.
“You took my needle and thread!”
Oh. So he was upset because I took his needle and stool of thread during visiting hours – which was probably a few days ago. I smiled and gave him two thumbs up. He banged his fist on the window and cursed again. Zack had a stool of thread and a sewing needle with him the time he was tossed in his cell. He once told me it connects him to his past life – his life out in the real world. And without it he is isolated from all memories.
Living here has taken its toll on Zack. For years he had been holding onto that needle and thread. He treasured it like a pet.
“Give it back!” he demanded.
I shook my head. “No can do. I can’t get out until the next visiting hours.”
“That’s in a month!” he shouted and bashed on the window again.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry.”
Zack clawed at the window as if he could break through. He banged his fists against it, making it vibrate violently. I decided to spare myself his death glare so I closed the curtains over the window. He screamed at me to open it but I didn’t listen. He couldn’t touch me – until another month.
I walked away from the window and sat down on the ground. I took my shirt in progress and continued where I left off my stitching.
One minute into my work the cell’s door slammed inwards. I gasped and accidentally pricked my finger with the needle. A small cry of pain was caught in my throat as I stared into the eyes of Sir: the cell guard I hated the most.
“Cut the racket down,” he said in his gruff, menacing voice.
I nodded even though Zack was the one who had a temper tantrum and took it out on the window. I knew Sir hated me as well – possibly more than I hated him. He probably viewed me as a filthy rat to be supervised. Sir was always right – I was always wrong.
He gave me a disgusted look before he turned on his uniform boots and professionally exited my room.
I flipped him the finger behind his back.
Sir froze in his steps. My heart froze in its beats.
“Did I just hear a finger flipping?” he asked.
Before my heart got on track of its beats Sir spun on his heels to fix steely eyes on me.
“I-I… N-no Sir,” I stuttered.
But Sir knew I was lying. He marched over to me and grabbed my forearm in a killer grip. He pulled me to my feet, and the shirt, thread, and needle fell to the ground from my lap. I winced as he tugged me toward the open door.
About an hour later I learned what happens when Sir catches you flipping him off: you get taken to the fighting rink as entertainment for the cell guards.
Everything happened so fast. I wasn’t used to fast moving action after staying cooped in a cell for years. It was someone hit the fast forward button on my life remote and broke it. One moment I was shoved into the square rink. The next moment a small crowd of cell guards gathered and surrounded the rink. Then a body was thrown at me. A fist bruised my jaw. My fist struck something as hard as bone.
And then time caught up.
I looked down at the boy writhing on the ground, clutching a bloody nose. I looked at my fist and saw his blood on my knuckles. I looked at the guards grumbling and handing the others money. I looked at Sir who was very disappointed.
And I wondered what happened.
Who cares about history when half the world is owned by zombies?
Date unknown, 2012
Tap
Tap
Tap
I looked up from the shirt I was mending.
Tap
Tap
Tap
I sighed. Jesten was at it again.
Tap
Tap
Tap
He claimed there was a way out of his cell. He said there was a brick that would reveal a secret passage.
Tap
Tap
Tap
It was just a load of bull.
Tap
Tap
Tap
With the sounds of something hard tapping against bricks, I worked on stitching my shirt back together. It was so torn up I had to tear another shirt to make patches. That gave me a grand total of three shirts left. One of them would be a complete shirt, and the other two would still be rags. I really need more clothes, but I doubt I’ll get any. All I can do are put my rags together to make complete clothes. And then after that I’ll refer to my bed-sheets. Then after that, I’ll jack them off from Jesten or my other neighbor: Zack.
I wasn’t very talented with stitching clothes, so the shirt wasn’t stitched up properly. At least I could still wear it. Before I stitched it up it could pass as a skirt.
Tap
Tap
Tap
I stood up from the ground and brushed myself down. I set the shirt on the ground carefully and set the needle and thread on it then crawled on top of my wooden bed. I was careful not to slip on the blanket. I pulled apart the dusty curtains and looked through the window to see a messy room.
Jesten’s cell looked untouched. The blanket on his bed wasn’t wrinkled. The history books were undisturbed on their shelf. Their positions on the shelf hadn’t changed since the last time I saw them. Jesten wore the same clothes since I first time I met him. He still wore the gray hoodie and shirt. I wondered how his clothes always stayed in one piece. It was probably because he didn’t lose his mind like me and tear at them.
I watched Jesten tap at the brick with a metal bar. I wonder where he got that.
“Vincent! Vincent! Come here!” a voice shouted. I looked behind me and saw Zack looking through my other window.
He looked pissed. No, scratch that. He was beyond pissed. He looked like he was a volcano ready to erupt. I could easily tell he was grinding his teeth and wouldn’t be surprised if he was clenching his fists.
I walked closer to the window and asked, “What?”
“You’re a fucking doche!” he shouted. Typical Zack. He always called me a fucking doche. That was his favorite name for me.
“What did I do?” I asked, as I always did whenever he cussed me out.
“You took my needle and thread!”
Oh. So he was upset because I took his needle and stool of thread during visiting hours – which was probably a few days ago. I smiled and gave him two thumbs up. He banged his fist on the window and cursed again. Zack had a stool of thread and a sewing needle with him the time he was tossed in his cell. He once told me it connects him to his past life – his life out in the real world. And without it he is isolated from all memories.
Living here has taken its toll on Zack. For years he had been holding onto that needle and thread. He treasured it like a pet.
“Give it back!” he demanded.
I shook my head. “No can do. I can’t get out until the next visiting hours.”
“That’s in a month!” he shouted and bashed on the window again.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry.”
Zack clawed at the window as if he could break through. He banged his fists against it, making it vibrate violently. I decided to spare myself his death glare so I closed the curtains over the window. He screamed at me to open it but I didn’t listen. He couldn’t touch me – until another month.
I walked away from the window and sat down on the ground. I took my shirt in progress and continued where I left off my stitching.
One minute into my work the cell’s door slammed inwards. I gasped and accidentally pricked my finger with the needle. A small cry of pain was caught in my throat as I stared into the eyes of Sir: the cell guard I hated the most.
“Cut the racket down,” he said in his gruff, menacing voice.
I nodded even though Zack was the one who had a temper tantrum and took it out on the window. I knew Sir hated me as well – possibly more than I hated him. He probably viewed me as a filthy rat to be supervised. Sir was always right – I was always wrong.
He gave me a disgusted look before he turned on his uniform boots and professionally exited my room.
I flipped him the finger behind his back.
Sir froze in his steps. My heart froze in its beats.
“Did I just hear a finger flipping?” he asked.
Before my heart got on track of its beats Sir spun on his heels to fix steely eyes on me.
“I-I… N-no Sir,” I stuttered.
But Sir knew I was lying. He marched over to me and grabbed my forearm in a killer grip. He pulled me to my feet, and the shirt, thread, and needle fell to the ground from my lap. I winced as he tugged me toward the open door.
About an hour later I learned what happens when Sir catches you flipping him off: you get taken to the fighting rink as entertainment for the cell guards.
Everything happened so fast. I wasn’t used to fast moving action after staying cooped in a cell for years. It was someone hit the fast forward button on my life remote and broke it. One moment I was shoved into the square rink. The next moment a small crowd of cell guards gathered and surrounded the rink. Then a body was thrown at me. A fist bruised my jaw. My fist struck something as hard as bone.
And then time caught up.
I looked down at the boy writhing on the ground, clutching a bloody nose. I looked at my fist and saw his blood on my knuckles. I looked at the guards grumbling and handing the others money. I looked at Sir who was very disappointed.
And I wondered what happened.
