My teachers all think I have ADHD. Some of them think I have something called Anti-social personality disorder. My nanny makes me take adderall every morning with orange juice. While Katy submerges herself with her favorite articles on the web as we drive to school in our limo, I just look out the window at the others on the streets. Sometimes I wonder what their stories are, what their goals are and what their lives are like. Other times I wonder how their lives suck, how they fell to where they did; even how easy it would be to seduce them into going to that bad place- to where they'd be willing to throw it all away for fantasy.
I work on my evil sneer sometimes when I look in the mirror. Look, I'm not a villain. I'm nothing like the ones I hear about on the news. I hear of people like the Joker, Harley Quinn, green goblin and others on the news all of the time. I could never be like them. Ever. Trust me.
I'm just bored. Yep. I'm just bored. I feel like the champion of a video game, like I mastered every single level already and I've reached my prime. Now I just keep thinking about how to make the most of it.
So I cheer on both sides of the fight, even if it felt like our own private fight club, with the grunts and punishing blows exchanged under the amber lights of the parking lot.
Katy and Elibeth know that I go to hang out by my friends' houses afterwards. My parents, even while serving in other countries, know that I come home late, with my work done and my outfit untouched.
But they know nothing about this. We cheer and drink as the boys fight. We splash them with water between breaks. Girls even try to intimidate the other by necking boys in front of them. It's a mess. A glorified mess. Yet the only mess I'm truly interested in is the one between my legs.
My duffel bag, you sicko. Once the fight is done (no one really cares who won) and we all retire to one of their houses to listen to Slackhorse Nifty's EDM experiments sprinkled with even more gossip and laughter, I bade my time. I bade my sweet time while following the currents of what everyone wants to do. Sometimes the city is ours; other times it's just mine.
The party ends late every night, but I have a ride bring me home, all the while with my engraved Engrini Sofle duffle bag close by. Yet I don't come home yet. They aren't expecting me home. I learned to break the rules only when they find no proof that I did. So I ride up past the penthouse, up to the roof, past the water towers and solar panels and pull it out like a prized possession.
It looks like equipment from a forgotten sport. The suit is a mash-up of spandex, kevlar and speedo, a weird combination I got from a shady friend who had connections. I fold my clothes neatly and slip into the familiar cloth, without a care that I just publicly changed clothes atop the highest tower in the city. I strap on the marastrike 480 propulsion kit to my back, its 45 pounds weighing me down, with only the promise of it holding me up in a few seconds. As I slip on my trikkity three-sixty biker helmet, I begin to feel my life slip out from underneath me- in a good way. After finally finding something to do, my heart beats out of my chest. This isn't the first time I've done this though. This has become a ritual for me, to do something extraordinary.
As I fly, I think of myself as a psycho with wings. And it feels good. So I raise hell.
Why?
Because I'm bored. And I need something to do.
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