Our Foundations from Decay

Gerards POV

Another cloudy morning, reminding me how early it was to be sitting at an uncomfortable, wooden desk and listening to teachers drone on. Im the type of person who loves to learn, but not like this. It was far too early, and I hadn't had my morning coffee.

Thursday: almost the end of the school week— yet still no response from the person who messaged me about trying out for the band.

I may as well give up...

But just then, I got reminded of how bad it burns to be carrying the burden of what I witnessed.

Now I was thinking about it. Now I couldn't stop.

The screaming echoed in my ears, and the smell of smoldering bodies filled my nostrils. Broken rubble everywhere and thick, black air that made my eyes sting. Countless bodies all either splattered on the ground, melting before my eyes, being trampled, crushed, or set on fire. I saw skin being melted off the bone, every fiber of cartilage being unwound, and the burning bodies almost resembled a yarn ball being un-woven. The fragile human body, being unpicked by Mother Nature— undone,unraveled until it reached its core,
Until they become nothing more than black, sticky, tar.

It felt like I was getting sucked right back into it, like it was happening all over again.
This happens all the time— I can only distract myself for so long. I pick up a good book and get into it, but the second I close that book, the visions creep up on me again.

Man, I thought to myself as I loitered outside the school entrance, a cigarette would be so good right now.

Cigarettes. They're addicting. I have been in and out of depressive states. The only thing that's helped me clear my head, calm my nerves, were cigarettes.

I stopped that habit a while ago but never truly quit. Although I'm proud to say that I haven't touched a cigarette in ages, I definitely had a justifiable excuse for having a smoke right about now.

I'd made up my mind: skip first period and head over to the cafe for a quick coffee and a smoke; if this band thing doesn't work out, I can pick up smoking again. I decided, very foolishly.

I stopped by the gas station and picked up a pack of cigarettes, making my way to the cafe nearby.

I ordered my drink, pointing to the one I wanted on the menu, cus I couldn't talk, and she handed me my coffee.

I took a seat outside under a tree since I don't think they'd allow smoking inside.
I flick my lighter on. It sparked a few times until the devious little flame finally appeared, lighting the end of my cigarette which was resting in between my lips.
I took a puff of the cigarette, then layed it down next to me.
Ah, I've missed this.
The taste of bitter smoke that filled my mouth instantly numbed my brain, putting it at ease.
I picked up my warm disposable coffee cup preparing to take a swig at it, but suddenly, a guy sat down next to me.
"Uh, hi." He said.
I turned my head to face the strange man, wondering what his purpose was.
I noticed the worn-out cast on his left arm and immediately knew who it was.
I open my mouth to say, 'Oh! It's you, hey.' But I forgot about the fact I can't talk.

It's like this: whenever I try to say something, the words are in my brain and my mouth is open, ready to talk but when I try talking, the words don't come from my brain to my mouth, they stay in my head and nothing comes out. The only thing it gets me is looking like a fool.

I sighed, remembering the side effect I had from being traumatised.
I slid my notebook out of my bag and began to write down the words in my brain.
'Oh, it's you. Hi.'
He stared at the paper, then at me with a loss of words, so I decided to break the awkward silence with awkward sounds of my pen scraping against the flimsy page.
'Thank you. The other day, when you saved me from that group of jerks.'