Originally posted as a Facebook note in December 2010, I'm reposting this here because I just had another epic dream. Planning on writing up the new one sometime soon - stay tuned!
This story was inspired by - no, was based on - no, was a dream that I had the night before November 13, 2010.
Actually, the dream contained more action, more subplots, and more characters than I was able to remember. Even in what I did remember, I made a few editorial changes. 1) Since I can't remember ANY words from the dream, I had to come up with new character names and invented some of the dialogue. 2) I don't remember most of my personal thoughts from the dream (except from around the climax), so many of my thoughts, interpretations, and explanations of past events are waking-life additions. The facts, events, character descriptions, emotions, and details of the present, however, came directly from dreamworld.
That said, if you have time to read a 6000-word short story, enjoy.
The view out the 5th story window is one combining the dull grays and creams of a medium-sized town with the browns and dark reds of late autumn foliage. Leaning out further over the windowsill gives a view of a plain dusty field, with a concrete walkway down the left side. Bordering all three sides is a two-meter-tall concrete wall, a color not much different from the dust it contains. The wall is broken only by a rusty, solid metal sliding gate at the far left corner of the field, at the end of the concrete walkway. Beyond the gate is a road running parallel to the far wall; along the far side of the left wall is a pair of train tracks, which the aforementioned road turns away from to run along beside it.
The 6-story building itself is the colour of PVC pipe; slightly longer than it is tall, and slightly taller than it is wide. The longer end borders the bare field, with small windows evenly spaced both horizontally and vertically. It's the type of grid-like arrangement that, were a bored, hyper, drunk, or over-stressed nerd to stand on the field and look up at the building, they would consider the possibility of playing Space Invaders by lighting the appropriate rooms. The roof is completely flat, a sheet of gray concrete painted a different shade of gray, just like the rest of the building.
This sounds like an office building next to a soon-to-begin construction project.
The truth is that this is a school.
A school we've been trapped in for the past four days.
I pulled my head in from the window to resume trying to focus on Dr. Hemmingway's Philosophy Lecture. It wasn't that I thought his classes were boring; on the contrary, he was one of the most interesting teachers at Centralville High School. But somehow, every time I stepped out of his class, my brain would be in roughly the same state it was when I walked in.
What's that? Did he say something about evolution? Hm, he must be talking about naturalism. The syllabus said that he talked about some effects of nihilism on American society yesterday but I remember nothing from that.
The rest of the class, on the other hand, was riveted on the professor. Yes, Dr. Marcus Hemmingway was once a college professor, and in fact, taught philosophy in several colleges over a period of about a decade before suddenly deciding to teach the subject to high school kids, beginning this school year. Something about "rocking up the current system of secondary education," and "helping teenagers see what they're doing and why they're doing it," words from his self-introduction to the class - the one class I'm apparently able to remember anything from. And he sure seemed to be accomplishing his goals fairly well.
Dr. Hemmingway was in his mid-fifties; a tall, lanky man with thick circular spectacles and a slowly receding hairline. But he seemed to have the vitality of a man twenty years younger than him; he was wiry more than he was skinny (some students had even been discussing whether or not he had a six-pack, and how much they would pay Bruce if he went and checked), and he seemed to be able to see just as well without those iconic glasses as with. And he had passion - not the wild, arms flailing, unable-to-restrain-himself passion of the man who would like to convince the people around him that he is, in fact, alive, but an intense, focused passion; a mezzo-piano supported by more energy than the flamboyant fortissimo. This is the passion he used to teach his classes, the passion that kept everyone else in the class wide awake and attentive. Which is amazing enough for any high school teacher to accomplish at any time, but it's all the more incredible when you realize that, on this day, most of the students at Centralville High had slept through all their other classes. Without fail. The classes which, ironically, I was staying awake in and actually learning from. Yes, I would be the only one awake to listen to the teacher, and the two of us would be the only ones awake to listen to the snores.
And we couldn't blame them either. Most of the students at Centralville High School were tremendously sleep deprived.
You would be sleep deprived too, if you spent the last three nights in a cold concrete building.
And if you started each night knowing that it could very well be your last.
All right, I guess it's only fair I explained what's actually going on here. The school has been in lockdown ever since late morning three days ago; at around 11:40 AM, an announcement was made that no one was to enter or exit the school building. Everyone knew what that meant; either it was just a drill, or there was a threat in the community, and for our own safety, we were to stay behind school walls until the police could get involved and clean up the danger.
Hypothetically, this shouldn't take more than an hour or so. But it was around 3:20 PM the same day that another announcement was made, stating that the threat was still out there, that no one was to leave the school even though the school day was coming to a close. The groans and angry shouts were cut short by an added announcement - that it wasn't just any old drunk man with a rifle that was threatening the school, but The Chisel. Mass chaos ensued.
It took well over half an hour to reasonably calm down the panicked students, though the sounds of sobs, hyperventilation, moaning, and cell phone dialing still thickened the air - and no one cared about whether school was over or not. In fact, people were trying to get as far as possible from the school doors - at least, those people who hadn't collapsed on the floor quivering in shock or in lost hope. A reasonable reaction. There wasn't much reason to hope with The Chisel after you.
The Chisel had first made headlines several months ago when all the patients in a large hospital in Arizona were found dead in their hospital beds. Investigators found that all of the patients who had been on some form of medication had died from an overdose of the very medication that had been used to keep them alive; the patients recovering from broken bones were found to have every single rib snapped; those getting a burn treated were completely black; and very few people dared venture into the rooms where patients had been recovering from some form of cut or gash. Found stuck in the throat of a dead asthma patient was a small torn piece of yellow notepaper in a ziploc bag, with the words "just finishing the job - apologies for the lack of finesse." Below the perfect handwriting was what looked like a Star of David which had been squeezed thin, then had the top and bottom curved counterclockwise, as though it were made of shark teeth instead of equilateral triangles.
Since that day, strange deaths, along with equally cryptic notes, had been popping up all over the world. Each time, the yellow note would give a brief "explanation," followed by an objective evaluation of the work done. The killer never revealed his name, just the curvy symbol he left with all his work. Eventually the name "The Chisel" somehow appeared and stuck. I don't know where the name originally came from, but it's quite fitting. The killer is a lot like a sculptor, taking pride in his workmanship - only he uses his chisel to stab people in the back.
Recently, The Chisel had taken on a slightly different tactic - with each of his "masterpieces," he would also reveal his next target, along with a list of rules by which he would run the next operation, apparently to give himself more of a challenge. But no matter how much preparation was done to defend the place, somehow The Chisel would always find some weak point from which to pull off a brilliantly simple yet deadly attack, drop off a note, and run away without leaving a single clue as to his identity.
In short, The Chisel was evidence that people like the Joker do exist in real life.
And apparently, The Chisel's last note gave indication that Centralville High would be the next target.
The Chisel had never failed a mission. Every promise he made, he fulfilled. Every condition he set up for himself, he followed. Everyone he said would die, did die. So when we heard that his next target was Centralville, most people's hope for life was fed through a paper shredder. That lack of hope is probably the only reason the students continued wandering to class every day, and the why the teachers continued to exercise their vocal cords each class period. Sure, some people just wanted to lie in the hallway all day, but when an irritated, staff member would walk by and tell them to get to class (usually in less appropriate words and with more threats of beatings), what could they possibly gain by arguing?
And so, here I am, three days later, sitting in a philosophy lecture with a bunch of students who for some reason actually care, even when they know they're going to die. Or rather, maybe it'sbecause they know they're going to die that they're so interested? I don't know. I couldn't keep my ears open, at any rate.
About two hundred minutes later (really only about ten, probably), the buzzer went off signifying the end of class. I grabbed my unopened backpack and briskly trudged across the back of the classroom and out the door.
"Hey Jonathan," a voice from behind me said once I was around the corner. "Any luck?"
Before I even turned around, I smiled. Gavin and I had only met on the morning of the second day of the lockdown, but already we knew each other better than anyone else in the school. And the reason for that, simply put, was that we had hope that we might not actually die.
To be in the school building the first night of lockdown wasn't an extremely pleasant experience. After the first couple hours of initial despair and shock, there came a point when people started regaining their energy. About an hour after that point (it was about an hour I spent shuddering in the maintenance closet, the door locked behind me), the floors and walls looked like Jackson Pollock had entered the building with a can of red paint, and there were three or four people who should have been taken to the hospital but had to be kept in the nurse's office instead due to the lockdown. I was surprised no one died. In fact, I almost began to wonder if The Chisel's marvelous plan was to simply announce an attack, and let sheer terror breed a homicidal insanity which would kill everyone in the building without him having to lift a finger. That's probably what would have happened if (as I later found out from Gavin) the school PE teacher hadn't been incredibly strong physically, ethically, and in public speaking. He managed to scare the excited students (and some teachers) into submission, sometimes having to resort to physical force to get people to give in, and rather than taking over the school, he announced that school rules would still be in effect; that the principal was still the number one authority; that the teachers were just as much victims as the students, and yet that in order to have any chance of survival, there would have to be some sort of order, and thus, the teachers would stand united against any mutiny. Everyone either agreed, or was too exhausted or scared to argue.
Thus the night began. The cafeteria began emptying its fridges to feed the students a small, cold, complaint-worthy dinner, but no one complained. The air was beginning to get chilly, but people were more affected by the apathy pervading the air than by the temperature. There were no beds (except for a couple in the locked nurse's office, which were taken by bleeding individuals), but no one wanted to sleep. The hallways of each floor were dark but for a few empty faces illuminated by iPods and cell phones; silent, except for the sound of nearby breathing, a sporadic sob, and the occasional couple finding solace in a passionate couple of seconds of making out. Several people somehow did manage to sleep, either on the floor, or along a row of chairs in a classroom. But I can say with fair certainty that there were no sweet dreams.
I remember very little of the morning. Which is odd, because it was around dawn that I met Gavin. I remember glancing around the hallway in my position sitting against a line of gray lockers, right next to the stairs, when the building began to fill with a dim gray light, just enough for my surroundings to become barely visible and still dismally colorless. And then I remember wandering through the hallways with Gavin, me excitedly asking him questions, with a bright, mocking sunlight indicating that it was roughly 7 am.
It was just before 7 am that I passed from a state of lethargy and torpor to one of hope and purpose, thanks to Gavin. Gavin was a grade below me, and since Centralville High was a fairly large school, I don't remember meeting him before. Although I wouldn't be surprised if I'd seen him around. He was roughly 170 cm tall with a slightly muscular build, though if you were to see him for the first time you'd probably assume he was more into fine arts than sports. His wood-bark, 3-inch long colored hair was lightly curled, and parted at the side to reveal abnormally large hazel eyes. He had mild acne and a bit of a crooked nose, but a very straight, calm smile that made you able to trust him just at a glance.
This was the guy who gave me reason to expect that we could escape The Chisel, and perhaps even put an end to his exploits once and for all.
Anyone else in the school would have called us crazy. The Chisel could not be outwitted by the world's greatest intelligences, let along by a couple of naive youth. And if my mind had been working completely logically, I should have been convinced by such arguments. But somehow, I felt that between the two of us, there was something no one else had; something we could use to overthrow The Chisel's reign of terror.
My mind jumped back to the current situation as I turned around to respond to his question.
"I've talked to Mr. Kurston. He doesn't seem to know anything about a safe other than the one in the business office."
"You sure?" Gavin asked. "You realize that if he does know about it, he wouldn't go on leaking that information to any old passersby. Especially not at a time like this."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. But you haven't had him as a teacher; you don't know how easily he gives away secrets or unknowingly agrees to things if you ask him the right way."
Mr. Kurston was the school biology teacher, and the exact opposite of Dr. Hemmingway in everything but age and amount of hair. He was in his late 50s, with a waist size almost twice his height. He wore extremely thick round glasses that made his eyes appear to fill the whole frame when he was looking straight at you, and not appear at all if you were at any other angle. He always wore dark-colored plaid shirts, heavy brown shoes, khaki paints, and a plain red or green tie to school. He talked as though he were constantly chewing the very gum he banned from the biology lab, and had very quick, fidgety movements, and would often fix his glasses, rub his hands together, or straighten his pants. His official job at the school was teaching biology, as previously mentioned... but his role for the students was more of the butt of jokes, both verbal and practical.
But after a couple days of careful inquiry, Gavin and I came to the conclusion that he might hold a bigger role in the world than even he suspected.
"Well, thanks for letting me know," Gavin said. He seemed to be a bit disappointed, but I caught the trace of a smile on his mouth.
"Wait, is this actually a good thing?" I asked.
"No, no... I just had an idea. I'll tell you later. We have to get to class now."
"It's not as though the tardies they give us will actually mean anything..."
"Of course they will. The lockdown's going to be over any time now. If you end up going to Saturday school next week because of the tardies you rack up this week, don't come running to me."
"Although, after what we've been through, Saturday school doesn't sound that terrible any more."
We both laughed, exchanged a fist bump and some "see ya"s, and I headed off to my outdoor shift.
Wait, what?! you might be thinking. Outdoor shift?! With an unpredictable maniacal killer within a hundred meters? What happened to being in lockdown? And why is there a "shift?" My mind a splode.
Understandable. Normally, giving students an "outdoor shift" would be pointless, and in a situation in which a killer is on the loose, it would be absolutely stupid. But The Chisel had been able to do one thing that no other famous killer had ever been able to do - he had earned the trust of the people, in the sense that everyone knew that he would never break a promise. He held too high a sense of honor and beauty, he would be more likely to kill himself than kill a person he said he wouldn't kill.
The second day of lockdown, right after school started at 8:30 (and on this day, almost all of the classrooms were either empty or full of the wrong people - it took a while for staff members and a few helpful students - mainly the ones who felt that the situation was some sort of punishment and they would be rescued if they did enough good deeds - to sort everyone out), an announcement was made over the school PA system outlining the exact situation. The administration had felt that this would have been too much to handle at any other time, so waited until the morning to explain the situation. Apparently, The Chisel had left a list of conditions by which he would stand during his siege of Centralville High. The list included conditions such as "I shall not commit any act of murder between the hours of 6 PM and 9 AM" and "no one outside the school grounds will die of an act of intentional murder on my part." The most interesting condition that was announced (I suspect there may have been more that weren't read) was "There shall be but one attack, with but one weapon; with the exception that any person who steps off campus grounds will die immediately, with no bearing on the carrying out of the main attack."
The national defense force had taken several precautions, including blocking off nearby traffic, keeping heavy surveillance on all nearby houses and businesses, not allowing any trains past the school (diverting commuter traffic through a temporary system of buses traveling between the two stations along a detour away from the school), and several others, to keep the area as clear as possible.
After hours of their best minds deliberating over what could be very well explained as a riddle, the defense force had come up with an interesting plan, and had sent the plan by an encrypted email to the school office. The concept behind the plan was that if only one weapon was to be used, but no one off school grounds was to be hurt, then having the students as spread out as possible was the best thing that could be done until further information could be gathered. So to that end, at all hours between 9 AM and 6 PM, around fifty students should be selected to stay outside, preferably close to the concrete wall surrounding the campus; on the other side of the wall would be stationed defense force personnel. If The Chisel was planning on taking down everyone in the school (As he almost always was), having such a large portion of the school so close to the outside of campus would make it very difficult for him; if he were to use too large of an attack, it would harm the people off campus, breaking his self-imposed condition; too small, and he would miss a large portion of his target, breaking his equally binding sense of aesthetics - he never did a halfway job. Hopefully the dilemma would hold The Chisel off until further steps could be taken.
So I found myself walking out the glass front door of the very office-building-like school building, along with around fifty other very nervous students. Apparently, though they'd been told that outside was, in fact, actually safer than inside (since the building would be the main target), there was still a strong fear of the outdoors instilled by the fact that they were now in the same air as The Chisel was. The former shift saw us coming out and began running towards the door, pushing past us until they were inside. And so there we were, probably in direct eyesight of The Chisel, and yet more safe than anyone in the trap that was the building could be. And, with my knowledge of the situation, more safe than anyone else on the field could have known.
I began wandering up and down the concrete walkway leading along the wall running next to the train tracks, and let my mind also wander. I thought of all the data we had gathered over the past couple of days; the people we had gleaned information from; the plan we were beginning to formulate; the students we had gotten to join us with minimal knowledge of what they were doing;
To be honest, I myself didn't know for sure what the plan was. But Gavin seemed convinced that things were going well. Even the incident with Mr. Kurston didn't seem to spoil his mood. Of course, Gavin had tried to explain the plan to me before, but I couldn't really understand it, and after the fact, could only remember a few words here and there about what he had said, including "stop," "Chisel," "train"...
Wait, what?
My neck snapped upwards to see that a train had pulled to a stop right by the school.
Defense force personnel were already running towards it, pointing their guns at it and yelling orders.
My eyes swept the train, and stopped at an open window.
There, in the middle of an otherwise empty train, was a slightly heavyset man wearing a black suit and black sunglasses (he was also balding, from what I could make out). He was holding a trombone, and next to him there was a human-sized cardboard cutout of an iPhone.
As he raised the trombone to his lips, there wasn't even a sense of confusion in my mind; only a sense of panic.
"RUN!" I yelled to the others in the field, as I started dashing myself toward the large metal gate.
There were no others in the field.
Where are they?! They couldn't have... they must have gone inside.
NO!
And the man blew a long, loud note, a slightly sharp D3, and from the bell of the trombone, through the open window, flew a small speck of light.
The small light rolled behind the building.
And there was silence.
And then a very very big light.
================
Head. Head. Head. Head.
Every time my heart beat, my brain pounded against the skull screaming for escape.
And then I began to notice the smell of dirty smoke. And the taste of blood. And that I was in a very painful position.
I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled against the gate, head and upper back against the ground, legs up against the metal. The sky was black and speckled with floating white dots, and a faint tint of red could be seen in the clouds as well.
Then my ears began to work, and I heard a loud, continuous crackling noise.
Carefully, I twisted my head to faintly see the parked train through the smoke - now completely empty. I twisted it even further to face what was left of the school building.
How...? I thought Gavin and I had it all figured out...
GAVIN!!
I rolled onto my stomach, jumped up, and started sprinting towards the firey remains of the building, unaware of the excruciating pain in every joint, muscle, bone, and organ.
No, it's no use. He's dead. Like everyone else. Dead.
Despite the thought, and despite the clinging smoke, no tears came to my eyes. I just kept running, mind blank, but for the one thought cycling through my head.
Wait, what was that? Voices? From in the building? No, behind the building. That... that sounded like Dr. Hemmingway!
The heat was nearly unbearable as I ran between two cement walls, only a couple steps apart; one engulfed in flame, the other reflecting the light and heat. But I kept running until I reached the corner.
Dr. Hemmingway was standing against the cement wall that ran around the building in the back. And sitting on the ground next to him was -
"Gavin!" I screamed - or rather, tried to scream, but it came out as a whispered choke - "I'm so glad you're alive!"
"Heh, I wouldn't die on you that easily. But I'm glad you found us!"
As my breathing slowed, the dark borders around my vision gradually cleared, and I noticed something odd.
"Wait, Gavin, why are you holding a metal box full of cash?"
"Oh right, I almost forgot." He reached into the box and pulled out twenty or thirty silver hundred yen coins. "Here you go. Thanks for all the help. We couldn't have done it without you."
numbness.
Some part of me felt the weight of each individual coin as it dropped into my open right palm. But it wasn't my consciousness.
my senses were silent.
all of a sudden, my memories were very, very loud.
Dr. Hemmingway's classes - enjoying them. Paying close attention to them. Too close.
Gavin - we just met. Taking me to... Dr. Hemmingway's room.
The plan. It all makes sense.
But... it's the wrong plan.
No. What? I... I'm...
Listening to Dr. Hemmingway again. no, the rest of the class is asleep, like always. I am awake. I hear it all. All the insinuations, all the blatant
"we need your help."
stop... Chisel... train...
yes, of course everyone went inside.
WHAT?!
sworn to secrecy
me and Gavin and Dr. Hemmingway. "well, let me tell you something about The Chisel. Something very few people in this..."
The confidence... the purpose... the reason to live...
sworn to commitment
THE PLAN IS A SUCCESS
sworn to The Chisel.
================
Mechanically walking down the concrete walkway. Toward the gate? Still unaware of pain, heat, or surroundings.
"Hey kid," says a low, gruff voice. "How's about a game o' rock-paper-scissors, eh?"
I slowly lift my head and force my feet to halt. One of the defense force officers is towering right in front of me. I can only tell by the uniform; I can't recognize faces right now.
"huh?" I ask dumbly.
"Ya know, jan-ken, RPS, whatev ya call it. Heah we go."
And he begins the motions. Instinctively, I raise my right hand to respond...
no. wait. I'm holding something. Have to use my left hand.
My left hand throws scissors, beating his paper.
"Ah, ya got me." he says. I now see that he's eying my tightly closed right fist. "Oh, I's got a game ya might enjoy. I calls it Gold, Silver, Bronze."
I think I know what he's up to. I cross my arms with a look of interest, and as he starts making some dumb hand motions (gold is hands slightly out from your sides, silver is like your arms in a sprinting position, one in front of the other, bronze is hands on your waist - hands wide open every time). As he does so, I inconspicuously reach into my coat pocket and drop the money in.
right. the money. the plan. Why I'm even here.
as he finishes explaining, I get into the game's setup position, ensuring that my hand still looks like a full fist, constantly asking questions such as "is this right?" or "which hand goes up higher?"
Eventually he tells me to open both my hands, and I do. He frowns slightly, but finishes playing the game. I don't even know what happened, but apparently I won.
"Hey kid," he says, slapping me on the shoulder so hard the coins in my pocket almost jingled. "Ya might not want to walk around with a fist like that, ya know? Sum'un might think you's lookin' fo' a fight. Ya need ta lighten up a little, if ya know what I mean?" And he walked off towards the building, where firefighters, ambulances, and policemen had finally arrived at the scene.
I walked on a couple of steps, then stopped.
I just lied to that guy.
What do you mean? You didn't even say anything.
No, I lied to him. I kept him from knowing the truth.
So what? He doesn't need to know everything. You lie all the time, no big deal. What's the matter with you?
He needed to hear the truth.
What are you talking about? What truth?
The truth that...
And then I'm sprawled on the concrete, sobbing.
I...
I'm a murderer.
I had never cried so much in my life. I had knowingly taken part in a plan which cost the lives of hundreds.
But wait, I hadn't even been able to remember the plan while I was carrying it out! All the data I found - all the people I talked to - didn't I do it for good purposes? What I meant for good was used for evil.
But no. It wasn't meant for good in the first place. I was deluding myself. Convincing myself that I was saving people from The Chisel when I was really setting the very trap that would consume them.
Dr. Hemmingway: "The Chisel isn't just a killer any more. The Chisel is a thought process; a mindset; a goal. It is a group of people around the world who join together for the same purpose..."
"...the purpose to destroy a great thing so we can make something greater."
NO!
And the worst part was that I had been taken in by it. Convinving myself I was ok. Telling myself I was doing the right thing. When all along...
Gasping for breath, eyes swollen, tears evaporating in the air of flame almost as soon as they leave my eyes... I glance up and notice Dr. Hemmingway and Gavin walking alongside the defense force guy from before. Gavin crying about how the loss of his friends, and how scared he is; Dr. Hemmingway consoling him, hey, at least he survived. The officer believing it all.
I need to tell him the truth.
I jump up. Too quickly. I feel dizzy. "Excuse me, I have something I need to tell you."
"Yeah?"
Wait... I can turn myself in, but I can't turn Gavin in. I can't just drag him down with me. I'm not worthy to make him suffer.
He's worse than you are. If you're going to get in trouble, so should he.
No. He deserves to get in trouble, but I can't be the one to do it.
If you know what's good for the country, for the world, you'll let the government know every clue you can get about The Chisel. These people are guilty, and if you keep them from justice, then you're just doing more wrong!
He trusts me!
And he trampled all over your trust for him. He betrayed you and it cost you everything; you betray him, and he'll just get what he deserves.
"Speak up, sonny," the officer says.
But I suddenly feel the weight of everything that's happened; the pain, the heat, the despair... and it pushes me to the ground and forces my eyes shut.
================
Head. Head. Head. Head.
I wake up in a hospital bed. Off campus for the first time in days. But I don't just want to be off campus; I want to go home.
A nurse walks in. "Here, we need to take your temperature."
I accept the thermometer and she walks away. Leaving me to myself again.
The events of the past several days wash over me again.
The Chisel is still out there.
As are Dr. Hemmingway and Gavin.
Nothing has changed. The only differences between now and before the lockdown are that The Chisel is even more feared than before, and there are hundreds more deaths; hundreds more tragedies, hundreds more shattered families.
And another thing... I know about The Chisel. Too much for his own good.
A small grin crosses my face. Watch out, Chisel. This time someone really is after you.
The thermometer beeps. beeps. beeps. beeps.
And I pull my hand out of the covers to turn off the alarm clock, get out of bed, and prepare to go to school.
No comments:
Post a Comment