Status: Finals are coming by and I need to get my grades up. I won't be updating this very much. I'm sorry. Bare with me.
We're Ghosts in a Hail of Bullets
Hearts on a Wall
It seemed that Tate new this house like the back of his hand. He told me to give him a tour but he was showing me a few things. When I asked him if we could just chill in my room, he knew where it was without me even pointing it out. He opened the door, flipped on the light switch, and sat down on my bed.
"The chalkboard's still there?" He exclaimed. bouncing right back up and walking towards me. I couldn't tell if this was weird or interesting. He told me that he explored this house before we moved in. Because he lived across the street for so long I didn't question it, but he knew this house so well. Like he lived in it. He picked up a thick piece of chalk and began to right on a chalkboard that I didn't even know was there. I guess my struggle to get out of this room so many times caused me to be oblivious. I didn't even notice that Moira had left me a message on it.
"All clean,
-Moira," She wrote is tall fancy letters. Tate erased it immediately in order to replace it with his art.
"You don't mind do you?" he asked, the chalk pressed against the board. There was no stopping him so I just shook my head and smirked. He began with wide, long strokes to create a big curvy heart. Then he began to shade it nice and neat and wrote our names. My heart sort of stopped in a metaphoric way. I stood there confused and shocked. I didn't know how to react so I didn't. I didn't run into his arms like long time lovers, or kiss him as if I've wanted to for forever. I froze as goosebumps made their way up my arms. As I stood in my spot, checking my breathing a hundred times to make sure it was normal, I noticed that Tate didn't do anything either. He smiled a dork smile, but other than that there was nothing. He didn't embrace me in a romantic hug like two star crossed lovers or take my hand like it was our time to wed. He sat me down on the floor and asked me what kind of music I liked. It took me a while to process what was going on. I promise I'm not that slow, it was just a big shock.
"I like...everything," I said as I slowly searched my brain for an answer.
"That's such a bullshit answer," he replied. I looked at his cute smile and suddenly the fear of making a wrong move or saying the wrong thing hid away.
"Well, I like HIM and My Chemical Romance. Nirvana, the Promise Ring, Taking Back Sunday, Rammstein, Rob Zombie, Korn, Kittie, Otep, A Skylit Drive, Last Seen Dead, Hawthorne Heights, Eminem, Steven Wonder, Rise Against, and this small band called Self Centered. Just to name a few. If I had my posters up you would see all the stuff I like," I said with more confidence.
"Do you like Morrissey? The Misfits?" he asked.
"Of course! I listen to Minor Threat, the Doors, Germ, Bad Brains, Bad Religion, and Suicidal Tendencies too," I said this time with an actual smile. Tate nodded in approval. We sat there for twenty minutes discussing music and what we liked and didn't like. From the beginning I knew that Tate was a grungy child who hated conformity and society. It came as no surprise that he hated Brittany Spears, Lady Gaga, and Kesha. I hated them too. If I found myself singing their songs in the shower I would stop myself and stay silent. Later in the day, after we went through a list of things to talk about, Tate helped me set up my room that I have been putting off for days. The funny thing was that Mom told me to have everything unpacked by Friday and it was Sunday. She never yelled at me. Probably because she was never home to notice. I probably made her sound like a horrible mother when she wasn't. That wasn't the point though. Tate and I had fun in my room. We laughed about to stupid people and shared our ideas on life. I learned that him and I have common interests. We both had an odd obsession with famous serial killers which made him more attractive. My favorites were Jefferey Dahmer and Ed Gein while Tate took a favor to Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris from the Columbine shooting.
"I wish I could talk to though guys," I commented, "I want to know why they did it and what was going through their heads when it happened,". He went silent for a moment and a blank stare possessed his eyes.
"Yeah," he said plainly. Did I offend him? The fear of saying the wrong thing or making a wrong move engulfed my body in it's darkness. The room was silent for the rest day. He left about an hour later, giving me a tight hug, and then walked out of my house without a word. I felt sort of empty but upset at the same. He's my only friend in this world of California and I intended to keep him.
"The chalkboard's still there?" He exclaimed. bouncing right back up and walking towards me. I couldn't tell if this was weird or interesting. He told me that he explored this house before we moved in. Because he lived across the street for so long I didn't question it, but he knew this house so well. Like he lived in it. He picked up a thick piece of chalk and began to right on a chalkboard that I didn't even know was there. I guess my struggle to get out of this room so many times caused me to be oblivious. I didn't even notice that Moira had left me a message on it.
"All clean,
-Moira," She wrote is tall fancy letters. Tate erased it immediately in order to replace it with his art.
"You don't mind do you?" he asked, the chalk pressed against the board. There was no stopping him so I just shook my head and smirked. He began with wide, long strokes to create a big curvy heart. Then he began to shade it nice and neat and wrote our names. My heart sort of stopped in a metaphoric way. I stood there confused and shocked. I didn't know how to react so I didn't. I didn't run into his arms like long time lovers, or kiss him as if I've wanted to for forever. I froze as goosebumps made their way up my arms. As I stood in my spot, checking my breathing a hundred times to make sure it was normal, I noticed that Tate didn't do anything either. He smiled a dork smile, but other than that there was nothing. He didn't embrace me in a romantic hug like two star crossed lovers or take my hand like it was our time to wed. He sat me down on the floor and asked me what kind of music I liked. It took me a while to process what was going on. I promise I'm not that slow, it was just a big shock.
"I like...everything," I said as I slowly searched my brain for an answer.
"That's such a bullshit answer," he replied. I looked at his cute smile and suddenly the fear of making a wrong move or saying the wrong thing hid away.
"Well, I like HIM and My Chemical Romance. Nirvana, the Promise Ring, Taking Back Sunday, Rammstein, Rob Zombie, Korn, Kittie, Otep, A Skylit Drive, Last Seen Dead, Hawthorne Heights, Eminem, Steven Wonder, Rise Against, and this small band called Self Centered. Just to name a few. If I had my posters up you would see all the stuff I like," I said with more confidence.
"Do you like Morrissey? The Misfits?" he asked.
"Of course! I listen to Minor Threat, the Doors, Germ, Bad Brains, Bad Religion, and Suicidal Tendencies too," I said this time with an actual smile. Tate nodded in approval. We sat there for twenty minutes discussing music and what we liked and didn't like. From the beginning I knew that Tate was a grungy child who hated conformity and society. It came as no surprise that he hated Brittany Spears, Lady Gaga, and Kesha. I hated them too. If I found myself singing their songs in the shower I would stop myself and stay silent. Later in the day, after we went through a list of things to talk about, Tate helped me set up my room that I have been putting off for days. The funny thing was that Mom told me to have everything unpacked by Friday and it was Sunday. She never yelled at me. Probably because she was never home to notice. I probably made her sound like a horrible mother when she wasn't. That wasn't the point though. Tate and I had fun in my room. We laughed about to stupid people and shared our ideas on life. I learned that him and I have common interests. We both had an odd obsession with famous serial killers which made him more attractive. My favorites were Jefferey Dahmer and Ed Gein while Tate took a favor to Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris from the Columbine shooting.
"I wish I could talk to though guys," I commented, "I want to know why they did it and what was going through their heads when it happened,". He went silent for a moment and a blank stare possessed his eyes.
"Yeah," he said plainly. Did I offend him? The fear of saying the wrong thing or making a wrong move engulfed my body in it's darkness. The room was silent for the rest day. He left about an hour later, giving me a tight hug, and then walked out of my house without a word. I felt sort of empty but upset at the same. He's my only friend in this world of California and I intended to keep him.