Put Your Heart Back in Your Body

Your throat is stinging from the pop. You never wait to taste the flavors.
Pop is you substitute alcohol, because all the wine, beer, and vodka from before ran out a long time ago. There's no one you know that could get you a fake i.d. and pop gives you the same barrage of knife blades in your throat as alcohol. You don't care about getting drunk anymore, you just want to feel that common pain.
It's something that hurts and you hate it, but it's something you feel has to happen. You need that pain.

An accident has occurred on a major road. The bus you took home passed the area before it happened.
Another crash in some neighborhood you've never heard of took place this afternoon. The news anchors say that it was highly unlikely to ever happen. The two drivers involved are still alive, but the three total passengers died. Two at the crash, one at the hospital. It was during the day while most people were away at school or work and inside a clean, nice, low-crime-rate neighborhood.
The accident made many people unhappy.

"When we come back, how one teen saved a community," the reporter-lady says in a neutral voice.

The television turns off because of your finger touching a button. You have had enough.

After a couple of lazy tries, you're off the couch.
You climb your way to your way to your room. It's average-sized, and not much is occupying the space. What is though, is sprawled out over the floor. A lot of clothes. Some papers. Photos. Dirt.

There's a speaker in your room, but you snatch the old black iPod nano out of it and grab the earbuds. The speaker works just fine, but right now you want the closer loudness of earbuds that even your headphones can't provide.

A long time ago, you made a playlist of songs you like by artists you like. Each song though, makes you feel uncomfortable and wanting to press next. Pressing next leads to you just figuring out that the next song is the same misplaced feel, and next of that makes you feel like you don't belong, and then the truth is that all those songs are nerves wanting relief and the only thing to do is just stay calm and listen.
That's all you want. Listen, stay calm, and feel on edge.
It keeps you sane.

The list has a sprinkling of Muse, The Killers, The Hives, Cage the Elephant, and then the rock classics.

You lie down on the bed, hands on the pillow, behind your head. Legs straight - not even crossed.

After a long time goes by, you finally fall asleep.

Tuesday is always a day you have school. You go just to please the adults and authorities. And the law. One thing you don't want is jail.
So you shoulder on your backpack over your dark blue t-shirt(It's close to the color of your room), and open the door to your house. There's nothing to say goodbye to, and you do the five-minute walk to the bus stop.

When you get to the gray tinted street corner, your eyes glance over the approximate number of five other people. They're all quiet and tired looking - you blend in well.

It's before dawn. The sky has a reddish-gray tone. Your outdated nano has the volume all the way down - you don't want to rip your eardrums just yet.

Your school, as you eavesdrop from conversations, starts way too early. You don't mind anyone looking at you or making a face as soon as he or she sees you though.

You run your hands through the caramel-colored locks of your hair. It's too short for any major tangles, too long to be any normal I-have-cool-friends haircut. It does you well.

Just then, the yellow school bus comes by. You think it's quite the ugly yellow, and you dislike the boxy look.

It stops far to your right in front of where the other I-hate-mornings people located themselves in a more dense way.
You're the last to get on at the first stop.

A salmon skims each cloud in the air now, but you like sunsets more than dawns, so you just think that the sky looks as it does every morning. Every damn hateful school morning.