"If the world ends tomorrow, I hope Neil trips over his own arrogance before it does."
That was the first thought that crossed my mind when my eyes reluctantly peeled open, the dim morning light bleeding through my broken blinds like some cheap horror movie effect.
My head was pounding, my throat dry, and the cruel reality of another day felt like an insult.
And yes, it was Neil's fault. That bastard dragged me to a goddamn museum at 2 AM to stare at paintings like two haunted idiots chasing ghosts and some memories from last night are a blur.
"Perhaps it's the alcohol"
I groaned and shoved my face into the pillow, half-hoping to suffocate. When I finally forced myself up, the sting on my wrist pulled me back. A fading line. Thin, angry. I didn't even remember doing it. Or maybe I did. Who cares?
The apartment felt too quiet. Even the walls seemed to sneer at me. The clock mocked me with every tick.
"Great. Just great."
I squinted at the clock. 7:42 AM.
"Neil, you absolute piece of—AHHHH" I screamed punching the pillow.
I was supposed to be in class by 7:30.
---
By the time I am at school, I could feel the static in my head worsening.
"Fuck, I should've taken more Aspirin"
I pushed open the classroom door. No one noticed at first.
"Wow. Look who's alive." I didn't even bother identifying the voice.
I sat down at my seat, head low, bag dropping to the floor with a heavy thud.
"I need sleep" I said smacking my head onto my desk when my fingers brushed something.
A cutter. Forgotten or deliberately placed, I didn't care. I grabbed it. My grip tightened around the cold metal. The sharp edge caught the light. It was stupid how natural it felt.
"Oi, Noir. What's that? Planning to finally off yourself in front of us? Save us the trouble of pretending to care." My eyes snap up.
Three of my classmates are standing at the edge of my desk, snickering under their breath. They've probably seen me grab the blade. Great chance to poke fun at me.
"Didn't know you were into that kinda thing, Noir," one of them says with a laugh. "You planning on doing something fun with that blade? Or are you just gonna keep it as a toy for when the voices start talking?"
One of them, probably the one who has the worst taste in humor, laughs awkwardly. "Nah, he can't stab us, man. The only person he's gonna hurt is himself." He chuckles while tapping my shoulder "Right, Charssein?"
For fuck sake what are they 12? I can't help it but to slighty giggled on how silly they look right now.
They flinched. Enough to amuse me.
Before I could mentally debate whether it was worth it to bleed on school property, Neil's voice cut through-- like a curse summoned by my misery
"You guys always this obsessed with other people's wrists, or is it just a hobby?" He said as his lips curled into that annoyingly smug half-smile.
Leaning lazily against the doorframe, he looked at the scene like it was mildly amusing entertainment.
The classroom went quiet. The teacher arrived right on cue, giving Neil a warning glare as he slid into the seat beside me, dropping a strawberry lollipop onto my desk.
"You're late again, Mr. Noir," the teacher said. "And Mr. Varian, you too."
Neil just shrugged.
"Morning, ma'am."
The class moved on. Or tried to.
I wasn't listening. My head was a mess. Neil nudged my elbow.
"Still alive in there? You look like a ghost someone forgot to exorcise."
I wanted to snap at him. Or thank him. Settled for neither.
Then the teacher cleared her throat, holding up a flyer.
"Attention, everyone," she started, voice slicing through the murmurs. "As part of the annual Arts Division showcase, there will be an inter-school art competition next month. Mandatory for all advanced students."
A collective groan rippled through the room.
"Great," Neil whispered, grinning. "Another chance for you to paint something that makes people question their sanity."
I rolled my eyes.
"Do we get extra credit for surviving the trauma?" a classmate joked.
"You'll be grouped, but you're expected to submit individual pieces. Theme to be announced tomorrow," the teacher continued. "Failure to participate affects your final standing."
The class devolved into scattered conversations. Bets on who'd win. Who'd chicken out. Who'd fake an injury-- and hey I can do that
Neil tapped the lollipop against my temple.
"Bet you fifty you're gonna win."
"I'd rather choke on this."
He laughed. Loud. Bright. Like this world wasn't falling apart.
I pocketed the cutter in case I need to stab this bastard if he gets on my nerves again.
The bell rang, sharp and shrill like a warning.
Everyone scrambled, conversations cut short mid-sentence as they grabbed their stuff. The classroom always felt colder after the noise left — like a carcass picked clean by vultures.
I stayed seated.
Neil, of course, didn't move either. Still slouched in his chair like this was his throne and the apocalypse could wait.
I stared at the lollipop on my desk. Strawberry. Always strawberry.
I don't even remember telling him that's my favorite. I don't even think I ever did.
And yet — here it was. Every damn time.
"You gonna keep spacing out or…?" Neil raised a brow, spinning a pen between his fingers.
I opened my mouth to fire back, but something at the edge of my vision snagged me.
A flicker.
Near the window.
A figure — just for a second — watching.
Same half-formed face as the others. Another thing my brain cooked up. I don't know them. I don't need to. It's easier that way.
I blinked and it's gone. My throat tightened.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Did you see—?"
Neil was already standing, stretching like a lazy cat. "See what? The consequences of your terrible life choices? Every day, buddy."
I clutched my bag and forced myself up. The room was almost empty, except for Reid — still sitting at the far end, pretending to be buried in his notes. His leg bounced. Jaw tight.
I didn't miss how his eyes flicked toward me when the teacher announced the competition.
Pathetic.
The hallway outside wasn't much better. It was filled with collage students drowning in debts.
Posters about student leadership and self-care hanging on walls where no one cared enough to look. The air smelled like old floor wax and desperation.
Neil caught up easily, falling into step beside me.
"Y'know," he mused, unwrapping another strawberry lollipop and popping it into his mouth, "I could've handled those idiots for you."
I snorted. "Yeah? And what? Snap your fingers and make them disappear?"
A pause.
His grin stretched, teeth white and sharp. "Something like that."
The way he said it — half a joke, half a promise — made the hairs on my neck rise.
We passed the art room. Inside, paint fumes clung to the air, canvases leaned against every wall. My stomach turned.
Didn't want to feel that strange pull of a place I used to love before it was tainted by obligation.
Neil glanced at me, as if reading my thoughts. "You're gonna have to paint, you know."
"I'll fake my death."
"Try to make it convincing this time."
We reached the courtyard. A patch of dying grass and two vending machines that only took exact change.
I leaned against the wall, feeling the ache behind my eyes build.
Neil stood across from me, lollipop stick hanging from his lips.
"For what it's worth," he said, softer now, "they're not worth the skin you're in."
I hated how sometimes — just sometimes — he could still say something that stuck.
I looked away.
"See you in hell, Varian."
He grinned, stepping backwards into the crowd. "Save me a seat."
And then he was gone.
And I was alone.
Again.
Another day in purgatory.
---
TO BE CONTINUED.