September 17, 2009

  •      The walls were white. Not an off-white or near-white, either: pure, blindingly white. As far as the eye could peer down the hall, white and sterile walls constructed for keeping in. He had looked for it, too. The second he had showed up, he had searched for any sign or evidence: mold, residue - some kind of fungus, at least. Yet the place was spotless, the same and constant pearly white stretching as far as one could walk within the building.
         It came flooding back to him now, standing in the midst of them. The same constrained breathing, the constriction which seized his limbs and muscles. The chattering and laughter was nearly more than he could stand, at the moment. He kept his eyes locked in front of him, refusing to move, refusing to interact with such a system. Somewhere to the left of him, he heard a scream, followed by more laughter.
         And yet...despite himself, he glanced downward to notice Dora the Explorer glaring back at him, mocking him, with a sarcastic smirk at his peril. He was sure that if he could see the backpack in full, the simplicity of Swiper would rear his ugly head, draped across the fabric in his flaming colored plastic, flaunting his inanity.
         Bitterly, Jonathan looked ahead, aching with anticipation as he waited with these 6 and seven-year-olds for the bus to arrive.
         The underside of his arm itching, he pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. The part which held the faceplate was metal, while the straps were a caramel-colored yellow. Most of the circles which fit the metal bar to hold the straps together were frayed around the edges; the faceplate, in fact, was utterly cracked, splitting and dividing the important information within. Despite this, Jonathan was still capable to see what time it was. THe watch had been given to him by his grandfather, the last thing he received from him.
         "Kaz," he muttered under his breath, "where are you?"
         Jonathan looked down the road. It was an incredibly hot day, uncharacteristic for early Spring in Illinois. As he stared down the gaping asphalt to the point that road disappeared at an horizon, the trees on the side of the road - and the horizon itself - shifted and waved in the enduring heat.
         He heard it first, before anything. It was a low type of rumble, the kind that builds steadily, increasing in rapidness as it eventually barrels down on those who witness its approach. In the next moment, it rose above that horizon, approaching briskly and going through the shakiness of the heat to solidity.
         With a wheezy screetch, the bus came to a hault in front of the crowd.
         The time for action was now.
         Wasting little time, Jonathan rushed both of his hands out in front of him and pushed with the force of a swimmer doing the butterfly what six and seven-year-olds he could get his hands on out of the way. The chatter which had originally filled the air melted away as Jonathan focused all to his mission: get on that bus.
         Another kid was buffeted by his rising knee as he charged head-long forward. The glowing yellow of the promised goal was near to blinding in the sun, the doors opening just as he was nearing.
         Plummeting another child toward the ground as the boy made a last ditch effort to enter, Jonathan slightly dove to make it in. "Go!" he shouted from where he had collided on the higher parts of the steps toward Kaz. "Go! Get us out of here!"