do you sleep anymore? [open] Nov 23, 2014 8:35:26 GMT 9.5
Post by Styxe Burnham on Nov 23, 2014 8:35:26 GMT 9.5
"I'm getting sick and tired of the smile that I fake every day"
MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS
|Unscrew some rusted screws. Take a look at what’s inside. If nothing’s obvious, actually do some work. These were the monotonous thoughts that ran through Styxe’s head as he unscrewed some rusted screws on an old air conditioner that had reportedly been smoking earlier. His technical expertise hadn’t been much to begin with, but it didn’t take a genius to read a book, look shit up online, and learn how to fix problems like the one he was currently taking care of. There were jobs for the people who educated themselves in fields like this and then there were the jobs for people who couldn’t be fucked to care and who would rather have a “well-paying career” than do grueling labor all day.|
Styxe didn’t mind doing things with his hands. His hands were currently delicately moving through wires, sifting through them so he could make sure everything was attached correctly and in the right place. The Academy was kept in rather nice shape so rarely were there any problems that called for his immediate attention. It was a simple job that made his other job easier. The class had been moved to another room so he could fix the air conditioner, but idiot students still popped their heads in and asked where their class was.
And Styxe would respond with something along the lines of, [tangent="Your fucking professor ought to have sent a fucking email. How am I supposed to know? It’s not my job, kid."]“Youh fokkin’ prufesah oughta ‘ave sent ah fokkin’ eemail. ‘Ow am oi s’poseda know? Is noht moi job, kid.”[/tangent] The rich snobs would get indignant with his foul mouth, the painfully shy recluses would get red in the face, and the smart ones would just roll their eyes and walk away. Vermin, all of them. The University wasn’t smart. They were training these kids to “hone their powers” and push them to become their own personal soldiers, but these kids weren’t fucking stupid. Most of them kept their hatred for the system a secret, but Styxe could see it in their eyes—they were slowly growing to hate this place. It wasn’t an Academy to them. It was a prison.
[tangent="And I’m caught in the fucking middle of it, aren’t I, Meg?"]“And OI’m cought in a fokkin’ middle off it, on’t I, Meg?”[/tangent] He shook his head and then yelped. His hand withdrew from the air conditioner faster than he could drop the words, [tangent="Fucking hell"]“Fokkin’ ‘ell,”[/tangent] out of his mouth. His wrist snapped as he tried to shake off the singes on his fingertips and he ended up sticking his fingers in his mouth and screwing the side of the air conditioning unit back on with a sloppy right hand.
He peered in through the air diffusing panels and saw what looked like a charred piece of paper. Sighing, he transferred the screwdriver back to his left hand (which still hurt like a bitch) and used it to dig out whatever was stuck in the air conditioner. The contents were a charred piece of ABC bubblegum, some roasted hair from a brunette, and a half-burned paper with the legible bits reading, “ex under tree and tequila.”
The findings were placed in the waste basket in the corner of the room and then the air conditioner was turned back on. A faint tinge of burning hair and sickly sweet cooked bubblegum still wafted from the air conditioner, but at least it wasn’t billowing out smoke. He coughed into the crook of his arm and scowled. Wiggling his burned fingers once, he packed up his toolbox and settled into one of the classroom chairs. A cigarette was produced from a beaten-up box in the back of his black jeans. He brought it to his lips, flicked open his lighter, and took in a drag. Wisps of smoke curled out from his parted lips and wavered in front of his face.