junk of the heart. paris & prince blitz
Aug 14, 2020 20:05:06 GMT -5
Post by nolan goode 10m / kaitlin. on Aug 14, 2020 20:05:06 GMT -5
P R I N C E |
The school you and all your cousins attend is a funny thing.
Here, in the big, beautiful dining hall with doors that opened onto the quad when it was spring time. Polished floors and vaulted ceilings, veined through with gold trim and old wood that by all means should have been blasted through by a bomb during the uprisings all those years ago. And at the center of it all, the place where every friendship was catalogued and filed away for later, where every interaction had an equal and opposite reaction. The collection of beautifully wrought tables where people clustered in little groups and made sure to seem like they weren't paying any attention to anyone except for themselves. You know it's a thin veneer, the waxy skin of an apple, weeks overripe.
This place is the rotting core of it all.
It makes you roll your eyes.
It's quieter in the hall now, late for most people to still be eating lunch, and it only half surprises you when you see Paris sitting at a table eating her lunch. It only takes you half a breath before you decide that you're going to sit right down at her table, two chairs over, but still—a thing that you don't usually do.
Three tables away, Daria Bitchwhatever whispers to her friend, but you pretend not to notice.
"You think you could help me with this essay I gotta turn in next period?" you say around the mouthful of food that's already in your mouth somehow. "I don't know what the fuck Mr. Roth is ever saying through all that—" you gesture vaguely to your mouth, remembering the way he tends to spit when he talks. "You know."
Here, in the big, beautiful dining hall with doors that opened onto the quad when it was spring time. Polished floors and vaulted ceilings, veined through with gold trim and old wood that by all means should have been blasted through by a bomb during the uprisings all those years ago. And at the center of it all, the place where every friendship was catalogued and filed away for later, where every interaction had an equal and opposite reaction. The collection of beautifully wrought tables where people clustered in little groups and made sure to seem like they weren't paying any attention to anyone except for themselves. You know it's a thin veneer, the waxy skin of an apple, weeks overripe.
This place is the rotting core of it all.
It makes you roll your eyes.
It's quieter in the hall now, late for most people to still be eating lunch, and it only half surprises you when you see Paris sitting at a table eating her lunch. It only takes you half a breath before you decide that you're going to sit right down at her table, two chairs over, but still—a thing that you don't usually do.
Three tables away, Daria Bitchwhatever whispers to her friend, but you pretend not to notice.
"You think you could help me with this essay I gotta turn in next period?" you say around the mouthful of food that's already in your mouth somehow. "I don't know what the fuck Mr. Roth is ever saying through all that—" you gesture vaguely to your mouth, remembering the way he tends to spit when he talks. "You know."
