Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

He sits in his desk, absentmindedly listening to the soft calming touch of the rain as it kisses the rooftops. They fall from the gray skies above, where the faint outline of the clouds melts into the shapeless skies. The shade from the cover of the formless blobs in the firmaments colors the world a dull monochromatic color. For the droplets that manage to fall unimpeded onto the ground, they crash onto the earth and start to congregate together, slowly but surely, creating large puddles of oceans that sporadically dot the ground. The wind whistles and howls, dramatically altering the path of these projectiles that fly from the sky. It directs them towards the windows and creates a cascade that distorts his view from inside the classroom. The streams of water that flow from the window cover every square inch of area, creating a dynamic wall that constantly changes shape. Its malleable form prevents him from getting a clear view of the freedom that awaits him.

It’s not that he doesn’t like being in class. He does, really. It’s just that the subject matter is of no interest to him. It’s the same routine, day in, day out. Wake up, head to class, sit and review last night’s homework, listen to a lecture about the new topic, get assigned homework, go home, complete the assignment, and repeat. It’s all become trite after so many years of schooling. They never bother to try and make class interesting, never bother to try and engage the students in any classroom activity. It’s as if they love listening to their supposedly melodious voice that is really an annoying monotone of drabble which lacks any substance at all. And they wonder why kids these days are so bored out of their minds.

She starts writing tonight’s assignment on the board. He automatically, robotically even, begins to mimic her movements, transposing the white-chalked text on the blackboard onto his white piece of paper. He rarely thinks about these actions; they just occur after four years of being in the same classroom with the same teacher. It makes no difference. So long as everything is done to both her and his satisfaction, everyone’s happy.

And that’s the end of her instructional period. She’s finished early, again. The class erupts into a cacophony of noise, every little group breaking out into their scattered discussions about life’s pointless issues. An occasional scream breaks out from somewhere, which corner of the class, he can’t be too sure. He doesn’t bother listening into the myriad of baseless topics they indulge themselves in. Instead, he stares off into the distance, just, pondering. His pencil adds a little rhythm to his thoughts. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Every thing else seems to fade into the background as the beat consumes his wandering mind. There’s simply nothing better to do at school. They expect him to learn? Fat chance. If this is learning, then no wonder everyone else has a better educated population than us. But that’s besides the point.

The annoying brrr-ing of the bell breaks him out of his reverie. All the students begin to rustle and bustle their way out of the classroom, shuffling their feet like drones onto their next location. With heads facing down, they mechanically put one foot in front of the other, having already memorized this daily routine of life, trusting their recollections to lead them to their next proper place of instruction. Even with the gloom of the rain, they proceed, not taking notice of the water beating upon their backs, slowly soaking all their articles of clothing. It makes no difference to them. As robotic beings, they are nearly devoid of any feeling or emotion.

He’s almost always the last one out of the building. There’s no point to being first, for who truly desires to get situated again for nearly an hour, repeating the same process in six to seven classrooms every day. Besides, even if he is late, it’s not like he’s missing anything important. And with that attitude, he, like everyone else, puts one foot in front of the other, trusting it to mindlessly guide him to his next destination.

Upon entering the hallway, his wet slippery feet make contact with the wet slippery tiled surface. As they touch, an annoying squeak squeak sound is heard. Almost no friction is to be seen between his shoes and the inundated floor. The water dripping from his hair, his backpack, his jacket, and everyone else’s collect to form a small puddle inside the building. No one cares. They just want to get to their next classroom, to sit down, to slowly watch the time dwindle down to the end of the day.

He turns the corner. Or rather, his feet turn the corner, and the rest of his body struggles to catch up to the robotic actions of this two limbs. Unlike everyone else, however, he doesn’t walk with his head down. Not for this passing period. His eyes scan the mindless crowd of zombies, searching for one figure that is always constantly full of life. Ah, there she is.

There she is, usually walking with a friend or two. There she is, talking animatedly, laughing and chattering and having a ball of a time, even within the wretched confines of a school campus. Even on this melancholy day, there seems to be a certain aura around her that brightens up anything and anyone around her within a certain radius. She is the only character he knows of that can add color to the moribund followings of life.

They’ve never met. Nor does it seem likely that they’ll ever meet. Sometimes their eyes catch each other and seem to have a hold on each other for a second. Two if they’re lucky. His sad brown eyes scream to her, give me something more to live for! Her vibrant blue eyes sparkle with brilliancy, wanting to welcome him with open arms. But that would mean they would have to break the flow of traffic. That would mean they would have to break out of the ordinary routine and attempt to try something new. The very notion, he scoffed, was laughable.

And so, they move on. She, as a bright beacon of light to the destitute, shall go on, leaving that poor wretched soul untouched. He, the tortured soul that feels no compelling reason for motivation, shall continue in his programmed steps of redundancy.

The skies seem to open up their floodgates even more, allowing even more of the cold wetness to blanket the sad earth. Both parties weep at the loss of chance, the failed opportunity that both he and she have decided to pass up. More formless shapes move in, hindering the path of the dazzling sunlight even more. The chromatic scheme of the earth seems to fall down another notch.

He doesn’t notice. Soaking and dripping of wetness, he trudges into his next classroom, ready to repeat the lifeless motions that he’s converted into an unbreakable habit. He sits down in the same place where he was yesterday, takes out his pencil and begins mulling over random thoughts again. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. The bell rings. Class begins.

The droplets from the sky continue to fall down upon the rooftops. It continues its soft pitter-patter with every collision that takes place. The windows still provide a distorted view into the outside world resulting from the overwhelming flow of water. The wind continues to whistle and howl, stripping any and every shrubbery of its foliage. The flying debris collects at the entrance of the drains. The flowing water gathers, unable to continue its course to the outlets. It stagnates.


02.27.08, 7.45-8.40pm

[edit] 03.14.08 - Mr. Hoague gave this an accolade. Swt. xD