Status: Work in Progress, slow updates—hopefully once a week.
Beautiful Disaster
One.
Alex was sat on the curb outside of his high school, threadbare blanket clutched tightly around his shoulders. The sound of wailing students, police sirens, news reporters, and cars whizzing by were just loud enough to keep him alert but just quiet enough to be internally kept at bay by the incessant buzzing that was in his mind—his thoughts. Distractedly, he wondered why he’d been given a blanket in the first place; it was the middle of goddamn summer and his forehead was drenched with sweat, the last thing he needed was a blanket. But it was comforting, and it was blue—he liked blue—so he kept it snugly around his shoulders.
“Are you… Alexander Gaskarth?” a voice said above him. Judging by the badge and all blue attire, Alex assumed he was a police officer. He was tired of seeing them, and it’d only been, maybe, a few hours.
He gave a nod.
“I need you to come with me.”
Another nod—it wasn’t like he could say no.
The leather seats of the police car were cold when Alex slid into it, a cool welcome from the suffocating humidity outside. He hadn’t realized just how hot it was outside until he had something to compare it with, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed because he was numb. The word, when used as a feeling, was paradoxical and strange; numb is supposed to be an absence or the absence of feeling, or response to a stimulus—yet the thundering in his heart, the sweat gathering on his palms, the swirling pool of acid in his stomach, and the pounding in his head all told him he was certainly responding to the stimulus.
So, what did he feel, then?
Maybe he just felt empty, but that couldn’t be empty because he definitely felt something and the word empty implied that there was nothing in his heart. Some days, he felt like the figurative muscle, dead-center in the middle of his chest, responsible for emotion, had been placed there after someone punched a hole through this body and shoved it in, sloppily sewing his mangled flesh back together and leaving him to nurse the wound—its stitches invisible to everyone but him. His head throbbed. Maybe he’d figure it out later.
“Alexander?” he heard above him, door opened, the heat stumbling messily into the car—when had they stopped and when had the door opened? He got out anyway, feeling slightly ashamed, despite the fact that he wasn’t under arrest for any reason; it was probably just the stigma associated with getting out of a police car. There was a significantly less amount of reporters, but still enough to make him feel uncomfortable.
He followed the officer who’d driven them there into the station, and then again when he lead him to a room; without being told, Alex knew it was an interrogation room. More importantly, Alex knew they would ask him about Jack.
His mind whispered something to him he hadn’t realized he’d heard, though after a few seconds, he placed the event as taking place maybe a few moments ago. It was something a reporter had said.
“What could possibly cause a previously straight-A, honor roll, college bound, smart kid to just one day stroll into his high school and decide to start shooting?”
Well, you know what they say—you shouldn’t ask a question if you are unprepared for its answer.
“Are you… Alexander Gaskarth?” a voice said above him. Judging by the badge and all blue attire, Alex assumed he was a police officer. He was tired of seeing them, and it’d only been, maybe, a few hours.
He gave a nod.
“I need you to come with me.”
Another nod—it wasn’t like he could say no.
The leather seats of the police car were cold when Alex slid into it, a cool welcome from the suffocating humidity outside. He hadn’t realized just how hot it was outside until he had something to compare it with, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed because he was numb. The word, when used as a feeling, was paradoxical and strange; numb is supposed to be an absence or the absence of feeling, or response to a stimulus—yet the thundering in his heart, the sweat gathering on his palms, the swirling pool of acid in his stomach, and the pounding in his head all told him he was certainly responding to the stimulus.
So, what did he feel, then?
Maybe he just felt empty, but that couldn’t be empty because he definitely felt something and the word empty implied that there was nothing in his heart. Some days, he felt like the figurative muscle, dead-center in the middle of his chest, responsible for emotion, had been placed there after someone punched a hole through this body and shoved it in, sloppily sewing his mangled flesh back together and leaving him to nurse the wound—its stitches invisible to everyone but him. His head throbbed. Maybe he’d figure it out later.
“Alexander?” he heard above him, door opened, the heat stumbling messily into the car—when had they stopped and when had the door opened? He got out anyway, feeling slightly ashamed, despite the fact that he wasn’t under arrest for any reason; it was probably just the stigma associated with getting out of a police car. There was a significantly less amount of reporters, but still enough to make him feel uncomfortable.
He followed the officer who’d driven them there into the station, and then again when he lead him to a room; without being told, Alex knew it was an interrogation room. More importantly, Alex knew they would ask him about Jack.
His mind whispered something to him he hadn’t realized he’d heard, though after a few seconds, he placed the event as taking place maybe a few moments ago. It was something a reporter had said.
“What could possibly cause a previously straight-A, honor roll, college bound, smart kid to just one day stroll into his high school and decide to start shooting?”
Well, you know what they say—you shouldn’t ask a question if you are unprepared for its answer.
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I was listening to "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People and suddenly got an idea, I dunno. Give it a listen while you're reading this, and also let me know what you think! (: