• Sorry Nicola, I don't talk sick with you anymore. I try, but you know. "moods" not there.
• Sorry everyone, I keep shouting at you.
• Sorry Jackie. You sit next to an negative emotion radiating emittor.
• Sorry Rachel, I can't be happy for you, I try, but I've been faking. Sorry.
• Sorry Averyn, you're sad, I'm sad, but I can't help.
• Sorry for constantly forgetting the key. I only started now.
• Sorry for "acting emo(?)" because, I don't know, you people make it sound bad.
• Sorry everyone, for not living up to your and my standards..

I never said I wouldn't do it. I just said I wouldn't do it now.

- Quotable (Richard) quotes.

I wanted this to be all dreary and such, but it won't, cos I don't want it to be.

Well, welcome back to blogging Richard, it has been 3 weeks since you touched a keyboard..? I mean yeah, it's not exactly been self-restraint that you've been practicing, nevertheless, rewarding it is.

~~~

He didn't like the way the room looked blacker in way artists cannot perceive whenever he woke up. He didn't like the way his alarm ringtone failed to make to perk him like it used to. He sat up in bed, with the blanket draped over his bare chest, and listened to the song..

"Hear the sound of the falling rain.. Coming down like an Armageddon flame.."

The rain pattered against his window. Soothing sounds, like a lullaby telling him it was not yet time to wake up. He shook his head with shaky vehemence. Pushing himself up with his arms, he got out of bed in into the steaming shower.

He was not supposed to take longer than 5 minutes in the shower if he wanted to catch the bus that came at 6.25am every morning, but this morning as different. He closed the small window that supplied air to his bathroom and watched as gradually the steam envelope the tiny cubicle. He could actually see the drifting clouds sift here and there finally pillowing over the opening at the top of the cubicle. He noticed that they dissipated before they reached the floor. Never reaching their goal. He stared for another 2 minutes before bending down and pumping shampoo into his palm. He massaged the solution into his hazel, shoulder length hair with a shudder at how alien his own hands felt. Maybe today was going to be like the rest.

The bus ride to school was usually welcomed. Even though he took his time in the shower, he made it in time to catch the bus, but this time, maybe the ride there wasn't going to be as relaxing as it once was. Staring at his ex-classmate from the corner of his eye, he noticed that he, decked out in an all white uniform, unlike him, who was in white and blue, seemed like he didn't notice his best friend was desperate for him to say hi. What happened to them? Best friends made in a year, differences put aside, one an artist, he other a guitarist. Now, strangers, separated by a different coloured uniform and school name. Frustrated, pulling up the long sleeved shirt he had draped over this right arm, he reverted his attention onto his music.

"A flower red as a rose, that never wilts away, is only a fake.."

Maybe today was going to be like the rest.

In school, his head once held high, was now unconsciously concentrated on ensuring he stepped in only the white tiles of the red ones that lined his school floor. He reached the two step stairs that connected to the canteen. For a moment he was confused, where did the white tiles go? Before looking up and with quite a blow (he wasn't used to being so blurry), realised where he was. Plodding his way over to his class table and maneuvering over bags and just let go of his bag, feeling satisfied in a sadistic way how his bag seemed to let out a groan as it allowed its weight to drop heavily on the floor. He put the shirt on as his classmates watched. They always watched, it was getting irritating. He knew very well he was not supposed to wear any other clothing than the school's jacket, but if he knew.. Then why would he defy the rules? Man, these kids were stupid. Of course he knew he was defying rules.

He sat down as far as possible from his classmates. But still he couldn't get to the desired distance. The canteen was divided in class, and each class was allocated a certain amount of tables, and the farthest he could go was a measly 1.5 metres away. He took out his math homework, he didn't do it, again, this was not the first time, and it was maybe the 4th time of a succession of bad habits he was developing. Usually, he'd care, he'd sit up, take notice, wonder why this was happening. Today was different, nonetheless, even he could tell. Who cared if he was the chairman of the class, who cared if he was breaking he school rules, who cared if his hair needed a trim? C'mon, you've never seen guys with shoulder length hair? Then again, who cared about anything nowadays? Shifting the pen to a different side of the lined jotterbook, his right arm - the one he was sided with, was dragged with a high pitched sound across the table.

"Ah, ah, ah, aaaah.." Pain shot up his arm from the entire stretch of the soft flesh under the wrist to the elbow.

His classmates stared again, he gave them a quivering glance, because it hurt alot, in and out. He continued with his work, as he was about to continue to the third line of the morning, he felt a funny tingling wet sensation where he scraped his arm. Confused, he stopped for a while, pondering this feeling and letting it spread. Then something made his heart skip a beat, he lifted up his arm and sure enough, the blue table was now purple, because of blood. He slammed his arm back on to the table. Had his classmates seen? Oh no, oh no, oh no, even if they didn't see now, what was he gonna do later?! The blood was soaking through now, it was gross, "squlechly" he would later describe it. It was like sticking your hands into a glove full of blood, pus and plasma. Okay, he wished he never thought of that, ew. He looked left, looked right with a comical sense of direction. Maybe just maybe if he lifted his arm and wiped the whatever thing was there away with his another sleeve.. No one would notic...

"Eeeiaaaye!! Ohmygod, what is that Richard..?!!"

Shit.

"-cough cough- ahem, sorry ******" He faked a sniffle, "but I'm allergic to bullshit."

The girl, ****** looked at his with a mix of concern and anger. So maybe now the whole canteen was looking now. Right, so, he didn't care about secrecy anymore. He stood up and wiped the blood off with his clean sleeve, the left one, with maybe just everyone in the whole canteen in a muted hush. What a show.

"Thanks ******, I've always wanted to be Oprah", he continued, hastening Jiamin's bursting temper.

He, with a sigh, proceeded to take of the shirt. He did so in one swift motion, just a sweep and it was gracefully off his shoulders, collar brushing the long hair people had so much prejudice about. Tiny muffle screams and gasps came from behind him were, half his class (the early comers), stared as if he really was Oprah. He looked dead centre, eyebrows furrowed, trying to remember what ******, the girl who sat behind him, had told him yesterday.

"You always look so angry. No wonder no one likes you"
"But you like me right Rachel? As a friend? Right..?"
"Yeah, of cos'. I sit behind you sooo.. I guess you just look angry right? Doesn't mean you're a bad person."
"I guess so.."
"But then you should do something about your hair."
With that, he scoffed a gave a rare laugh that usually had the whole class's head turning.

He gave one teeny little glance at his arm and even he was shocked. Whatever was left was now oozing a multitude of yellows, oranges, and vermillion. He could not supress a gasp as he touched it. Ow, it did sting, bad! He began to panic. This wasn't what was supposed to happen, it was just supposed to be a normal day at school, on his heels he soundlessly turned to face his seemingly shellshocked classmates. Then, he barely whispered, more like mouthed, a word he never said to anyone in this school before,

"Help."

~~~

Haha.. Typed for fun, maybe it explains.. Sorry..

If don't wanna read, don't, cos it's long..

-CCC