“Girl. I got a 2 in maths, nine in literature, nine in language…” Aleezeh goes on.
We’re currently in photography class (im actually trying to go school now i kinda missed it) just before lunch, mostly not doing the work and just talking about shit that went down.
“Ew. Literature. What’s wrong with you?” I ask. Personally, literature is a massive waste of time. Why should I fucking write 2 fucking pages on some story of a random cunt becoming king? What do you mean I answer the opposite of the question too? Bullshit.
“It’s so easy, you just waffle.”
“Maths is so easy too, you just waffle correctly.”
“Shut up…”
“Dumbass.”
“Hey, at least they didn’t disqualify me from french for breaking a window.” She replies, wittily. Really going there?
“Ad-hominem.”
“Surprised you know what that means with your 6 in English.”
“Come talk to me when you get within 2 metres of a boy that isn’t fictional.” Two can play at ad-hominem
“Kuro is very real! In my heart.”
“Well, unless I rip your heart out here, I don’t see him much. Also, isn’t he like 20? You’re 15. And a victim.” I tell her.
“Age is just a number!”
“I’ll make sure you know about numbers when I’m counting how many times to kick your head in.” Disgusting behaviour, though not unexpected from Aleezeh.
“Girls. Keep working.” Our photography teacher, Mr. Williams, sternly says. He’s a nice man, albeit like every teacher in the design subjects, is a bit odd at times. “Amaya, you’ve been off for weeks. You need to catch up on your coursework, or else that grade 8 predicted will drop.”
“Yes, sir.” I reply. Just agreeing with him is usually the best option.
It feels a bit odd opening up my coursework powerpoint, but I can feel everything coming back. All that laying down in cold dirt and soiling my blazer (to the massive disappointment of the care workers), just to get a single good shot. And, I mean, it worked? Consistently high grades on every project, and my work is even showcased on the display boards around school.
Though, I can’t say that for the rest of the class. Aleezeh does alright (she’s the only one rivalling my grades), but everyone else is, to put it bluntly, fucking stupid. Half the class is filled with “roadmen (they steer clear of me now after the news of the shooting got out to them, but no one else believes it soooo :3)”, and they consistently get failing grades. It’s almost impressive.
They spend about an hour taking photos, and come out of that with a couple hundred out of focus, highly blurred images. And then those images are the ones they edit. And it looks like shit. And they fail (lol!).
Sometimes I’m genuinely baffled by how absolutely braindead some people can be. Case in point, Trump fans. How can you even think about supporting that cunt after everything that's gone on? Maiming migrants, oppressing minorities, apparently being on the Epstein list. Disgusting. I hate being involved in politics, but I can’t fucking stand cult followings for such a sick fuck.
Sometimes, I consider whether or not assassination would be a better fate for him.
I used to think I couldn’t make the decision on whether or not to end a life.
Clearly that’s not the case anymore.
“Ayaaaaa, it’s lunch. Wake up.” Aleezeh nags at me, shaking me out of my thoughts.
God, sometimes I think it’s a curse how I can just zone out.
“Fine, let’s go.”
The hallways are absolutely crammed when it’s time for lunch, with movement slowing to a crawl (apart from the weirdos who run for lunch and barge everyone out the way).
“Oh, yeah, we changed catering companies. Again.” Aleezeh informs me as we slow to a shuffle.
“Well, is it any good?” I ask.
“Food is more expensive, but the hot portions are bigger, and the cold food is better in general.”
A welcome change, for once. Not like the time they decided to repaint the yellow corridor orange.
The trundle to the cafeteria is slow, but bearable. It’s genuinely been ages since I’ve been in there, eating the slop they call food.
I’ll admit, some dishes are nice (please come back fiery fish i loved you so much), but the vast majority is barely edible, not helped by the fact I don’t eat all that much anyways. Doesn’t stop me from eating it though, food waste is bad.
Everyone at my table is quiet, with it being 2 random boys sitting next to me and Aleezeh (whos playing enstars on her phone what a femcel). I don’t get why so many of the boys are socially anxious. It’s not as if I’m gonna publicly humiliate you if I reject you. Hell, I’d think it was cute. And if I think you’re cute, I might not reject you.
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Even if you don’t like me romantically, I still want friends? Though, a couple of my other male friends have confessed to me before, and it’s always such a sickening feeling. It’s always the same few lines, “i have something to tell you”, or a conversation trying to lead to crushes, too. Atleast be original, ya twats.
We’re being called to get our food.
Sometimes I wonder how I’d react if my male friends confessed to me. It’s good to have contingency plans, y’know? People like Meharab (hey theyre serving fried rice today), I know wouldn’t confess, so I don’t bother. Meharab is a proper muslim, he would not DARE. But, people like Hassan, sometimes I wonder. He’s always been flirting with girls every chance he gets, and he actually tried flirting with me at the start too. He hasn’t done it after, but I know I would definitely, immediately, and real bluntly tell him I’m not interested. People like him need no sugarcoating.
Sometimes I also think about Jay (the rice doesnt taste all that bad), and it makes me feel weird. I hate how I don’t have the immediate urge to reject him. It’s not as if I like him or anything, but, I wouldn’t hate the idea of being with him. His birthday is in September, too, so our age gap is literally 2 months. Nothing bad…
I shouldn’t even be thinking of him in that way. I’ve practically been parenting him for a few days, it’s a power imbalance.
Still, I can’t get the idea out of my head. His hair, his dainty limbs. It’s strangely appealing to me.
Maybe I just have a thing for boys who don't try and act tougher or bigger than they actually are, as it's common for most boys his age. He’s different.
Then there’s the fact I also like girls, but no one else that I know is lesbian, so I repress it. It kinda slipped my mind till now…
Well, considering the fact I would be endlessly harassed and assaulted if it got out, I think it’s better that way. I only really like girls sexually anyways, so looking for a girlfriend isn’t what I want.
It’s a warm day out, and the lunch time playgrounds represent it. Boys with their blazers off playing football, girls sitting against the astroturf fence talking, and then those who do a bit in the middle. Jay and Isabella aren’t actually in today (jay has somehow externally mostly gotten over his brother, but we keeping him at home under supervision just in case), so I’m left with the coalition of idiots.
“Salam, retards.” I announce. I’m not muslim, but everyone else is, so I say salam anyways.
“Amaya! Where’ve you been?” Meharab exclaims, coming over to violently shake my hand.
“Ill,” Meharab has bags under his eyes. “Are you good?”
“Yeah, I just had to deal with some stuff last night.”
“We all have our issues.”
I start walking around the field, and everyone follows suit. It's a weird quirk, they just kinda follow me.
“How’s things?" I ask no one in particular.
“Mocks are over, so kinda dead now.” Humera replies.
“Mocks were dead.” Hassan says.
“Hassan your grades are absolutely fucked. I saw your discord presence say you were on GTA at 2am before the science mock.” Maaz interjects.
“I don't give a shit about science, all that mitosis and Fleming’s left fucking toe rule.” Hassan replies.
He is not the brightest.
“Aya, do you think we could lift that gate out its hinges?” Hassan says, while pointing at the school’s secondary entrance.
“Maybe. It looks about, what, 120kg max?” I reply.
Words aren’t needed. We both run over to the gate, and get into position to lift it.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yep.” He responds.
“Lift.”
The gate easily slides out of its sockets, and rises with us.
Unfortunately for me, Hassan is a fucking retard, and drops it before we can replace it, letting it crash to the ground. There's now a route out of school, and we’ve got the attention of the whole playground.
“Amaya!” Shouts the deputy head, Mr. Khan. I should’ve spotted he was on duty.
Well, what can I do but run?
###
“I’m back.” I say, walking into the apartment. Jay’s eating a bowl of cereal, and Isabella is cleaning the rifles from yesterday.
“About time,” replies Isabella. “Control called on the big radio, they want us to search the phone. I’ve already got a warrant to search and got it decrypted by Samsung, so it’s all yours.”
“You stayed busy.”
“Not as if I had much more to do. Phone’s on the table.”
I grab the phone and plug it into the laptop on the kitchen counter (there are literally like 7 laptops just scattered in the apartment). On these laptops is a custom made software to extract data from smartphones, and organise it in a readable format. It’s actually really basic, the source code is only 350 lines of C.
The progress bar slowly ticks up, folders creating and naming themselves.
“What’s on it?” Isabella inquires.
“Shittons of SMS messages and calls to one number…” I keep clicking through the folders, skimming through the .log files. “Tons of transactions to ‘JFK Constructions’, but there’s no other mention of anything regarding construction related.”
“Read through the SMS,” Isabella tells me. “Sounds like a stereotypical brothel.”
“I’d fucking hope not, but it’s sounding more and more like it.” There’s shittons of these damn messages…
22:23 02/06/2023
+447823809657: how many workers u got
+447433326873: 7 active
+447823809657: imports?
+447433326873: south east asia, eastern europe, africa
+447823809657: good i got 3 clients on the way
+447433326873: rooms ready
“You were right,” I say. “A brothel is all it can be.”
“Get a location.” She commands. Stealing my job.
More frantic typing (literally just ctrl f) and searching.
“Runfold Avenue. 61B”
“I’ll get the floorplans ready.”
“Lamenting won't be enough to save them.”