Life sucks, and then you die. That is, unless you're exposed to radiation. Then life sucks, you get super powers, become a rebel, and save the world or die trying.
I lean back a little from my sketch as I shade in the final zombie's face, admiring what I've doodled all over the back of the math worksheet I'm supposed to be doing. So far I have a zombie horde chasing after my teachers and many people who considere me to be their personal kickbags, deciding that I need some more blood as I grab for my trusty red pencil once again... only to find that it isn't there.
"I believe yet another detention is in order here, Miss Hayes," Mr. Fletcher sighs, dropping my beloved red pencil down onto the table I'm currently occupying with a loud clatter, the class falling silent around me as I decide to examine my nails.
"Drawing again? In my lesson? For what, the third time this week alone?! How many times do I have to tell you that this is a math class, not an art class?! This is getting rediculous, Hayes, and you know it. Next time, I'm afraid that I'll have no choice but to call your parents and talk to themabout the matter,"
"Go ahead," I answer breezily after thinking over his words for a moment, chipping away at my laquered, bitten-down black nails without a care in the world.
"Not like they'll give a shit. They never have before. Why start now?"
"Language," Fletcher intones warningly, trying to stare me down with his icey blues and failing as miserably as his comeback did
"I expect you here at 1:30 sharp to attend your detention, alright? No slacking this time, or there'll be trouble"
I simply shrug in his general direction, saying nothing more as I continue chipping away at my bitten black nails, long past caring about the empty threats teachers threw at me day in, day out. I was a lost cause, and by fuck did they know it.
And by fuck did Fletcher know that I wouldn't be attending his detention this afternoon, just like every other one he gave me.
At 1:30 sharp, I turn briskly out of my art class, making my way to the locker hall discreetly whist avoiding as many people as humanly possible on the way.
I fish my iPod out of my skinny jeans' - lime green and black stripes today - pocket as I walk, searching for the right song.
I shove my iPod back into my pocket as the familiar tune of Astro Zombies fills my ears, nodding my head to the beat as I walk.
I scan the familiar hall breifly for a moment, looking for the locker I now share with a kid called Frank Iero; a short little punk kid with awesome hair, a surname nobody (bar me) could pronounce properly, a lip ring, a nose ring, ear stretchers, a few tattoos, and awesome music taste to match. We'd been sharing the locker for a few weeks now, tops.
From what I know, he seems like a pretty rad guy, but he's usually too lost in his own thoughts or awesome music to pay much attention to anything else, let alone his locker-mate. I couldn't say I blame him though - my thoughts and music were much more pleasant places to be lost in than in this dump.
Speaking of Frank, he's stood at our mutual locker as I catch sight of it, switching out his books and binders for what looks to be a notepad and a black hoodie, his headphones jammed firmly into his ears as I make my way across to him.
"Hey," I mutter our usual greeting, knowing that I'm close enough for him to hear me - I know that he has his on music loud enough so that he can hear it clearly, but quiet enough so he's aware of what's going on around him too. A little weird, but still. Thank was Frank in a nutshell I guess. It was cool.
"Heya," He murmurs back after a moment, plucking his slightly squashed pack of Marlboro Reds from the locker with his nimble, tattooed fingers, a sheepish grin gracing his face as he shoves the carton into the front left pocket of his skinny jeans swiftly.
"I really fucking need these babies today, Christ"
"You can say that again," I sigh, pressing a hand to my back pocket reflexively, feeling for my own smokes.
"I think I'm all out today though,"
"You could-- um... You could come out back with me? I'll let you bum a smoke off of me? It gets pretty lonely by the smoker's tree when you're by yourself," Frank offers shakily, glancing up at me through his lashes with... Is that a blush? Maybe it's just a tick of the light.
"I'd like that," I reply, flashing him a grin as I kick our locker closed with the toe of my battered old converse.
"Lead the way,"