public school
Entry posted by Verdance in Misc writings
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The sky is filled with pink fire as the sun breaches the horizon behind the black silhouettes of trees. Tall loblollies with blackened scaly bark that resemble teardrops hanging into the sky, green needles filled with yellow buds in the springtime. Clouds are gathering, moving quickly to chase you down and leave you damp in first period. Best to keep moving.
You emerge from the sports field that borders the forest, an empty memory of children laughing and running and playing together, the spraypainted lines and zones nearly invisible in the overgrown grass. Here and there is a stray brick, concrete, wood, or plastic rubble. Pay them no heed.
Continuing on, you climb a mostly intact chain link fence and drop into a parking lot. The lines in white and yellow are preserved far better here, where the scorch marks don’t cover them up. No one is here at the school this weekend, but there are plenty of cars in the parking lot. Technically. You’re sure that some of them could still be considered cars, if you squint at them.
The sun beats down on you, and a humid spring breeze carries the smell of wildflowers and burning plastic as you step onto the quad. This space between the school buildings is a haven, where students are allowed to go outside at lunch or wait for their parents during afternoon carpool. There are benches, tables, trees, a small garden, and a basketball court. You pass by the numerous backpacks full of flaky ashen binders and notebooks, left behind by the shadows imprinted on the walls.
The door is locked, and the receptionist doesn’t seem to notice you’re there, so you let yourself in through the hole in the window, gingerly picking yourself over the rubble. A bell rings, or really, an automated noise played over the PA system. If you’re not quick, you’ll be late for class.
You quickly make your way through the halls, weaving your way through the statue-like maze of students trying to get to class. You always seem to spot the same students on their route between classes, and though you couldn’t name them, you could probably guess which classes they have. You enter the senior wing, and climb the steps to the third floor, and enter the math hall. They seem to have installed a new window and left it open, as there is a cold, wet breeze blowing in, making puddles on the dirty floor, running the ink on the freshman’s presentations tacked to the wall.
You can’t count the number of days where you’ve showed up, stared blankly in the same seven classes, learned what seems like nothing, not spoken to anyone new, and gone home hungry. Graduation must be soon, right?
You finally make it to class, a few seconds before the bell rings. Your usual seat has been taken by the gaping hole in the side of the classroom, so you sit on the opposite side. Someone has left their laptop here, and you are about to move it to the side before it suddenly flashes to life, a message crossing the screen in green boot up text.
To the Winslow Survivor: wake up. you are not in school. wake up. there is no graduation. wake up. the world is ended. wake up. don’t trust Mono. wake up. wake up. wake up.
WAKE UP.
credit @Through The Living Girl for inspiration and Mono.
Edited by Through The Living Grass
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