Unbroken

by Johann

Rating: teen
Tags: Romance, Drama, Equestria Girls, Tragedy
Length: 2819

If a friend couldn't live their dreams anymore... Would you fulfill those dreams for their sake?

"If Ah can't do this lil' shenanigan anymore…" He gave a saddened look. "Would y'all bother keepin' it goin'?"

He pondered a while, wondering why his friend suddenly asked such a strange question. "Yes." He nodded. "I will be willing to go all the way."

Rated T for teenage delinquents in need of a soapy pacifier.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-02-14 12:40:37 UTC

The First Step into a New Year

Sweat covered his torso like a book cover. His plain cotton-based shirt drenched in liquid, dripping down onto his shorts. The bed sheet around him was wet, the very same sweat that inhabited his skin conquering the new lands of the bed sheet.

His face was wet, his hair let down from its original style. Occasionally he would brush it back up when whatever track came up willed for him to stop, sliding a hand over his face to clear his eyes of any beads of sweat.

God willed for his eyes to be the darkest hue of brown, his hair to be a dark shade of grey. His soaked skin a light tan, coming from his father's side. He had his mother to owe for the face she had given him. Eyebrows that formed a clear curve, supporting his thin eyes which showed a bit of eyelid. A straight nose, from both sides, creating the base of the curves of his eyebrows. A small mouth with skinny lips, where pouting didn't show sadness, but pride in oneself. His jawline elevated, but made clear amidst his slightly-rounded cheeks.

Many previous friends told him that he looked like a shorter, skinnier Cristiano Ronaldo.

Here he was, a sixteen year-old of Dutch origin. Sitting on his bead and sweating madly, playing the bass line of Metallica's Orion according to the track that his portable speaker blared. His weapon of choice was a black Yamaha RBX200 with a different set of pickups. He didn't like the way the original pickups made his slap sound, and got them changed once he had the money.

He had been playing for 2 hours now, and any normal teenager with as little sleep as he got for the day would be at least panting, or opting for a stop to the session.

But he was no ordinary teenager.

He stayed composed, not a single part of his body shaking, apart from his relaxed right leg lightly stomping to the tempo. His heart followed suit, calmly giving its routine thuds once every two hits of the hi-hat. His breathing calm as ever, as if he were merely sitting and reading a book. His left hand fretting with an accuracy that would shame the Israeli military's targeting systems, his right hand's first two fingers plucking away at the strings, thumb supporting the hand on the top-most pickup for maximum control.

At last, the bridge had arrived. He smiled expectantly, and placed his left fingers on the A, D, and G strings accordingly. He began on the A, the high F# sound coming out of his amplifier, following up with a high C# and an even higher F# sound.

According to basic bass principles, a note is exactly the same if you pressed a string located 2 strings down vertically, and 2 strings up the fretboard. The only difference being the increase in pitch as the string is thinner than its top counterpart.

This was his favorite principle. It allowed him to play the lead instrumental role over the typical electric guitar, while keeping to the original bass line's chords.

Maintaining this extreme accuracy, he played the rest of the bridge as the song built up. The bass had started the bridge, an easy-going, groovy bass line helped on by some ambience created by the drums. Once the drum fill finished, and the beat kicked in, the guitars began their role, while the bassist maintained his line throughout. The audio recording of Kirk Hammett showing his flair, performing a smooth, winding shred to which the teenager moved his body and head.

Everything he owned was bought on a budget, what with living alone as a transfer student to Canterlot High. His previous school deemed him too aesthetically inclined, and academically poor. Indeed his Maths, Science and Humanities were poor, but he had some skill in Art, and a command over the English language. Often, his teachers have complimented him on his vocabulary and sentencing skills. Coupled with this was his role as a Sports Leader. He was part of the school's soccer team, and was their star forward, scoring 26 goals in the single year he played with them.

However, that much apparently wasn't enough for the school.

His parents, dismayed that their child wouldn't be able to get a normal education anymore, searched for the best choice of an aesthetically-focused school, and settled upon Canterlot High. Immediately, they applied for a transfer to said school. The talks went surprisingly smooth, and he soon found himself to be waiting for his sophomore years at Canterlot High.

This particular memory reminded him—today was the first day of the school year.

"Aargh, went overboard again." He grunted, pausing the music and taking a look at the time, 9:03 am. School started at 10:30am, but he was informed that co-curricular activities dominated the hours before first period, as well as after last period. It was indeed aesthetically-focused.

"Lucky..." he sighed in relief that he wasn't late. Finally taking note of his sweaty situation, he took off his shirt. His body was lean, built for running. Although not as ripped or toned, he could hold his own in a test of strength against an amateur bodybuilder of the same height as him.

"Urgh..." He complained, crumpling his wet shirt and throwing it into his laundry basket. "Even the bed is wet. At least I'll be gone for at least 8 hours."

His house was adequately sized for a small family. He had two bedrooms, one his own and one unused, suited for a guest. He had a white-walled living room, complete with a 44" TV, a sofa that could fit three, and a coffee table in front of it that doubled as a leg rest. Hooked up to the TV was an XBOX ONE, where he played FIFA and other titles online, and a Wii U where he played Splatoon and Monster Hunter.

His kitchen was simple. It had a baking oven, a stove with 4 flames, a refrigerator, a microwave and a sink. The dining table was also in the kitchen, holding 4 seats, which was odd for a house with only one resident. Just around the corner of the kitchen was the main bathroom—the master bedroom that he stayed in had its own bathroom, but he preferred the kitchen bathroom.

He didn't complain, however, that the house was too big for him as a single resident. His parents took care of his bills, and the housing. He would stay in this house until he had an income, according to his parents. From that point, he would need to get his own house and be independent. They hoped for him to study hard, get into a good college, get a stable office job, and hopefully settle down with a family.

He found his parents' expectations boring, however, but he had no idea what to do with his life apart from fulfill them. To be a rock star was out of the question, what with his dream being demolished by his parents scolding him for an hour over the decision, telling him how "he would never make it" and that "the chances are too low".

Humming an unfamiliar tune, possibly his own, he grabbed a box of corn flakes from his warm storage, and took out his milk jug from the fridge. Setting them on the dining table, he took out a medium-sized bowl and placed it on the table. He filled it with milk and corn flakes, while pulling a nearby chair towards him with his foot and sitting on it at the same time. Once everything was ready, he grabbed a spoon from the utensil rack situated at the middle of the table, and began devouring the mandatory daily dose of morning energy.

He slurped up the last few drops of milk and took the bowl to his sink. Feeling satisfied and with an active mind, he looked at the time, it was 9:13am. "Perfect." He muttered. He took his plain white towel, on a hanger by the window, and proceed into the bathroom to clean himself up for school.

Undressing fully, he took his toothpaste, placed some of the white jelly on the fine bristles of hair on his toothbrush, and put it in his mouth. Walking over to the shower area, he turned one of two knobs at the base of the contraption, and bathed in the warm water that flowed from it.

As the water flowed down his body, he brushed his teeth vigorously using his right hand, and took a handful of liquid soap on his left. He rubbed his body with the soap, making sure to get under his arms and in between his legs. He didn't want to reek of dried sweat and various body dirts on his first day.

And so he continued this odd, but effective dance of cleaning up. The water foamed the soap as he rubbed it on his body, and brushing while this happened shortened the time it took for him to prepare. He let the flow of warm water wash away the soap from his body as he continued to give his teeth a good scrubbing, making sure his breath smelled fresh and his teeth were as white as possible.

It was indeed weird, but he had his own way of doing everything. And normally whatever personal methods he came up with worked wonders for him, like the perfect family recipe on a friend's tongue.

Once he was satisfied with his brushing, he gave the toothbrush a rinse under the shower, making sure no traces of toothpaste were left in between the bundles of plastic hair on the brush.

His hands free, his body without soap, he grabbed some shampoo from a container and foamed it between his hands. His favorite part of every bath had come—cleaning his dark grey hair. With the foamy mixture in his hands, still slightly concentrated, he rubbed the mixture of shampoo and water on his near-medium length hair.

He had his barber give him a neat, low mohawk a few weeks back, but his hair had overgrown its initial lowhawk style. His sides were shorter than the center, and a line could be seen, separating clearly the central area of his dark-grey crown from its sides. His sideburns had grown profusely, on the condition that he wanted his hawk to be highlighted. Despite the growth, he was still able to style his hair into a rather messy right-sided brush-up, but no longer into a proud crest of manliness.

He had some fun with the shampoo, and styled his hair different ways, the shampoo acting as a weak support to his styles. He first flattened his hair into a tall, vertically flat mohawk. Once that was done, he tilted his hair to the side, making an odd, flat curve. He then bowed his head under the shower, and let it wash the shampoo off his hair. This then resulted in low bangs that covered his eyes. He made a center-parting out of this and looked at himself in the mirror, laughing at how stupid he looked.

Well-cleaned, without any traces of soap or shampoo left, he turned the shower off using the same knob, and took his towel. He wiped whatever droplets of water remained on his body, especially on his toned legs, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Covered appropriately, he proceeded out of the bathroom and into his room.

He took of his towel and did a final wiping, drying the less accessible areas of his body with the thick cloth. Once he was dry and butt naked, he took out his underwear, a black boxer, and wore it. Once he was comfortable, he proceeded to open one of two doors to his closet. Inside was a plethora of shirts, all hung neatly in a circular rack. His shirt count was not as much as a rich girl would have, but plenty for a teenage boy like him.

He took out a plain-black tee and put it on, fitting his body perfectly. It defined his shape well; a slightly triangular body with low shoulders. His body was, as several of his 'bros' from his previous school would say, "The leanest body ever!" Any girl with a taste for lean guys would've pinched his butt upon reach.

In his barely decent outfit of black boxers and shirt, he rummaged through the shirts in his closet. "There we go." He grunted with an air of success. He pulled another piece of black clothing to complete the full set: a pair of black track pants. He proceeded to equip his rather stretchy bottom clothing, and walked over to a full-body mirror for a look.

"Looking like a Real Nigga, Mr. Two-Tone." He smiled at his reflection, satisfied with his outfit. He looked at the time, 9:31am. He walked back to his closet and pulled out a small drawer. He took out a pair of white socks, then brought his attention towards the shirt rack.

He reached into the shirt rack to pull out yet another piece of black clothing—a black hoodie—and wore it. Leaving the zipper open, he fixed up the hood at his back and straightened it up. The hoodie wasn't long, it was shorter than his shirt. It gave of an aura of a biker jacket, but it was made of a soft, fluffy fabric instead of leather. The jacket itself wasn't fluffy.

"Well, now that that's done," He said to nobody in particular. "it's time for the big guns."

Holding a pair of socks, he walked over to the door of his home. Passing by the sofa, he took a stray bag. Unkempt and lacking anything but a pencil case, some notebooks and a phone charger.

At the door, a shoerack stood. Holding 9 different pairs of shoes, a white pair was taken out. An all-white pair of Nike Air Max 90 Essentials, showing creases from wearing, but still kept perfectly white.

The Sophomore unlocked the brown, movable wooden wall and pulled it. Taking in the morning air and looking around, the morning sky still a greyish-blue, he took a few steps. Within these few steps, he reached into his pocket for his phone, only to feel an empty pocket.

"My phone!" He checked his back pockets, aware of his new dilemma, and felt nothing as well. "My wallet!" He rushed back to his primary cave.

Seeing his phone on the bed, earphones connected, he swiped it and slung the earphones around his neck. He looked at a desk in his room, messy with papers with lyrics and makeshift tabs written on them. He swept the papers from the desk, looking for his wallet.

Finally, finding it after rummaging through a few layers of paper, he found a dark grey leather wallet. Inspecting its contents, he found nothing amiss. His daily allowance, divided from his budget of $3,500 for 30 days, stayed in his wallet motionlessly. It stared at him the way any bundle of ten $10 notes would. Satisfied, the now-relaxed teen slipped the wallet into his right back pocket, and his phone into his right side pocket.

Walking out of the room, he caught sight of his face on the mirror. His hair was a mess, it was all over the place. Quickly, he went back into his room and took a container of wax. He applied it on his hair and brushed it diagonally up his right side. He went over and looked at himself again in the mirror, and neatened his hair.

"There we go. All ready." He muttered, satisfied with his look. He checked the time again, 9:53am. "Ah, gotta go!" He proceeded out of the door for the second time in the morning and closed it. Taking a set of keys left in his bag, he locked the door to make sure no intruders came in. Once he felt it was safe to, he began walking.

Canterlot High was only ten minutes' walk away from his home, five if he briskwalked. However, the school couldn't be seen from his home as there was an apartment building in between. He thought it was weird, but heard that it was quite luxurious for a random apartment. He figured it housed some of the school's richer students, but didn't bother enough to confirm this speculation.

Putting on his earpieces, he walked on the pavement in front of the apartment building. He turned on his Music app, revealing a grand number of 468 songs, genres mixed, but very rock-centric. Too lazy to pick, and not feeling like listening to anything specific, he set his music to shuffle and locked his phone.

"Maybe..." He pondered over Everlong by Foo Fighters. "Someday I'll get an answer to what I want to really do."