AllFreeNovel
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I wish no one came to visit for the holiday because all that shit does is give the poor souls here false hope that their conditions will improve. I certainly hope my family doesn't come. It was bad enough to see my father at Thanksgiving. I'd rather not have the prick ruin the start of an entire new year as well. Plus, I need to devote my time to my Firefly.
Speaking of time, what time is it now anyway?
Is it early morning or still late at night?
How many more hours do I have to endure before roll call?
Maybe if it snows enough over the next two weeks, it'll keep my father at home and away from me. I hope so at least. I'll pray to whatever bastard I can that a blizzard comes and traps us all inside the Asylum. Snow keeps the outsiders away. Plus, you have to admit fire looks even brighter when it burns against bright white snow.
Tompkins is asleep on his bed across from me. My lucky roommate could sleep through anything. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him out of bed after 8:00 p.m. or awake before roll call each morning. The fucking alarms could be blaring, and a convoy of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances pulling up outside, and I guarantee he wouldn't so much as mutter in his sleep and roll over. I know that for a fact because I've literally seen it happen . . .multipletimes.
I, however, am not as fortunate as Tompkins, but then again, at least I can fucking talk. See, Tompkins is a mute, and from what I remember when he still somewhat communicated with me through the pen and paper he always keeps at his desk, it's something to do with a heavy dose of teenage trauma. I don't remember what, though. Maybe he wrote it down, I don't recall. It might be fucked up, but also, I don't care. It's not like Tompkins is regaling me or anyone else, for that matter, about his past anytime soon.
Thank God for his continued silence in times like these because I don't think I could deal with him interrupting my thoughts about my Firefly. I do that plenty enough myself, my mind skipping from one topic to another like it's playing jump rope with itself.
Everyone in the building is silent now except for the animals locked up in the hole, who fucking howl at the moon and try to turn into werewolves. When the wind curls around the turrets just right, you can even hear it carry outside the padded walls.
I remain in my bed, unmoving, and blink up at my ceiling. Moonlight enters in through the window in the stone wall behind me, scattering a thousand fireflies across my bed and onto the floor. It reminds me of her, not that I appreciate the extra kick to the balls right now, knocking me back to thoughts of her.
Always her.
Is she asleep?
Is she dreaming about me?
Is she wishing I was there?
I roll the lighter back and forth across my knuckles, going faster and faster and probably setting a damn world record. I continue that way until it's not enough and it hurts.
I stop abruptly, and my thumb flips the lid, and I start hitting the wheel, igniting the flame, and then shutting it off.
Off. On. Off again.
I'm playing a dangerous game, especially when I can feel the exhaustion starting to wear me down, weaving through the gray matter between my ears and telling me to give in to the pull. One little flame is all it would take to burn half this school down, and I have that in the palm of my hand. On a good day, I don't need an excuse to set shit on fire just to watch it crumble to ash, but during times like these, when I'm tired and obsessing over something I shouldn't be, the urge is multiplied. It refracts like slivers of light entering through a kaleidoscope until it's all I can see and everything I can think about.
I need to burn something.
A flock of fireflies plays across the floor too, reminding me of her.
Fuck.
I need to repress.
I need to stop this before it's too late.
Who am I kidding? It's already too late.
I smell her like she's right in front of me, sugar-coated strawberries cutting through the singe of the smoke from my lighter.
The game began the moment she sat down next to me, and I couldn't help myself. I needed a reaction, so I opened my mouth, professed my love, and started whatever this is.
My old psychiatrist used to tell me to put an end to it before it began, to stop obsessing as soon as I recognized what I was doing. That's how the cycle always begins.
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Repression.
