He sulked away.

    Stiffly lounging on his couch, his housemates walked through the front door, allowing a swirl of crisp air to brush his face. The tickle of the autumn air made him uncomfortable, but he was no more comfortable in the warmth. He put his stereo headphones on like earmuffs and the world became nothing more than a silent movie drowning in electric guitars, power chords, and bashing drums.

    The water only had two settings: scalding hot or icy cold. He chose hot; burning to death suited him better than freezing. The intense touch of the scalding stream beat his skin raw. His pruning fingers didn't bother him; that's what he would look like in 40 or so years anyway. A bead of water dove into his eye and he stepped out of the shower and stood naked on the bath mat. The terrycloth towel bound him. He needed to buy more laundry detergent.

    A day-old bowl of macaroni and cheese flailed into the microwave. Thrashing melodies blasted from the headphones cradled around his neck as a housemate walked into the kitchen, a drawer now looted for a take-out menu. He lifted his head in a half-nod. Opening the refrigerator, he gulped from the milk carton; it was only expired by a few days. He decided not to join them. The housemate spread the menu out like a treasure map and located the numbers to dial. He left before his macaroni finished heating.

    He mechanically drove his little black car down the residential streets. The back right tire needed a little air, but there were only two more turns. Though the heater dial pointed to the hottest setting, the car felt like a refrigerator. His scarf was still hanging from his desk chair at his parents' house.

    Hands fisted deep into his pockets, his dark, spiky hair stiffened in the cool air. His olive skin melded with the brilliantly colored leaves. He walked into the parish and strategically sat in the last pew. There was a crack running down the length of Jesus' side on the Crucifix. Maybe Jesus would fall apart someday, but it had been that way for many years, so maybe not.

    Shaking hands with his neighbors, the few who were around him, he turned to acknowledge someone on his left who had started towards him, but the Mass had continued. He did not finish turning and instead faced forward.

    He began to leave and dipped two fingers in the holy water when another did, as well. He glanced up to see a light-skinned girl with blue eyes and curly, dark brown hair. He walked out and held the door open for her. She smiled and walked away.

    His guitar sang emotional melodies as he caressed and fondled it. Its rush consumed him. The TV and conversation from the living room tried to include him, but he was ignorant. Abusing the time of day, he refused to respond to the plea of his bed. Hands ticked on and finally sleep seduced him.

    Slowly opening his eyes, the bleeping alarm stabbed into his consciousness. Exacting his revenge, the alarm clock banged against the opposing wall and shut up. His sheets released him from their tangled grasp.

Frankenstein would have walked lighter down the hallway. The gray toothbrush labored over his teeth like they were its children, while his eyes crossed as they tried to focus on his reflection. His reflection glared back at him menacingly cock-eyed.

Crossing the threshold of his room into the jungle of his clothes matting the floor and his closest scared him. There were no clean clothes in sight. He wrestled away a pair of pants and some shirt and wore the same boxers as the day before. He collected the rest of his belongings for the day and left the house.

His headphones warmed his ears from the chill. The temperature instantly changed from biting to throbbing as he entered the building and, walking down the hallway, he unzipped his jacket. He had never noticed her before, but she walked into a classroom a few feet in front of his. A butterfly burst from its cocoon in his stomach. He disliked butterflies, and moths, so he accustomedly ignored it. She walked out of the classroom and stood against a wall talking with a friend. Fleetingly, her blue eyes looked into his brown ones. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, scratching his knee through the hole in his jeans. He didn't want his mom to fix them.

Clocks warned that he only had a minute and was walking in the wrong direction. Punctuality only made guest appearances on his professor's list of virtues. He pivoted toward his classroom. And then pivoted away.

The bench from the vacuum of the women's restroom beckoned him and he was sucked in, collapsing in its lap. Men's restrooms never had a bench. Thoughts of ditching danced in his mind, but they were clumsy, so he left the restroom and entered his classroom just after his professor. Tardiness suited both of them well.

The lecture droned. The girl fluttered in his mind and left almost as quickly. She didn't want to be in his mind and he hadn't invited her. Drowning in forbidden music seemed like the perfect death for him at that moment. Music is the expression of the soul. From the high, waning, melancholic tunes he listened to, he had a whiny, piss-ass soul.

Students materialized in the hallways. He crashed into his cymbals and guitar riffs, his headphones matronly encasing his ears. His feet stuck in invisible quick-drying cement when he saw her. She wasn't talking, but her friend's jaw continually moved fluidly up and down. The friend would probably die if she ever had her jaw wired shut. He looked at her as he walked past and her eyes took him in. He kept walking. Glancing over his shoulder, she still looked at him and her friend shut up. His backpack jolted with the impact of someone's momentum and he stumbled a little. Regaining his balance, he robotically continued walking. His backpack zipper needed to be fixed. The comfort of his headphones pleaded with him. Winged-things be damned. Her window eyes invited him innocently.

He did not care.

He walked up to her and discovered her name.