I walk around in a film's opening scene. There is everyone and everything watching. They are waiting in agony for the next big thing. My eyes are like lenses that blur before focussing on a single, exact point. The flash comes fast; I fear the dust in the corner; I fear shoes that stomp in front of me like alien battleships; I fear the slow, sudden slide into night. I fear that, when afternoon comes, so will my exam, bobbing on water like a small sail boat, which will surely snare me by the hand and pull me undersea. Where there are no answers at all.
Sitting is good. When I can curl up, it's better. When the teacher isn't looking, I fold myself in and knot bowlines. I curl up like a hair claw; snapping into place the moment their gaze releases me. I feel loud, I crinkle my body into chocolate chip cookies; one chip for every saccharine eye in the room. My throat makes sounds that are lost in the soft, afternoon wind, people are shaping play-doh mouths, without words, flowing out of honey pots and sticking to the outside of my peach jar; so I watch every movie with Andy Warhol subtitles on. Just in case.
They don't allow us in the bathroom during break. I'm currently a harboured fugitive, then; accomplice 1 and 2, the door and the gap underneath. Anyone who tries to peek will be stuck. I have done worse evils, along with talking and existing, so I'd say that hiding in a bathroom stall is not much of a crime. Neither is silence, but if silence was a law, then aren't we all imprisoned, here? Sometimes, I just want to sew up their big mouths so tight that their nose would finally be employed. Then I realise I cannot possibly be the victim if it is my mess to fix.
Smiling. Just... smiling.
I stay at my locker too long. Doors shut and creak above and around me, aiming for my right wrist, my left shoulder; books fall down in an avalanche with no warning. I feel like there is someone here, over my shoulder, so I focus on each spine of my paper books, letters blending and blurring, letting fog surround my head with white dew. I crack their bones in my bag, rip their skin with my teeth, pick at their lining when I'm bored, leave them here when I'm done. When I turn, I hear my footsteps echo in the hallway.
An average school day isn't exactly 6 hours. It's about 5 and a half. Bells ring, boards snap, numbers written on them as we rehearse our annual play; 'A Day in the Life,' because we all stood in the writers' room when they called for volunteers. We don't write subtitles. It's a news anchor, reality television, a cooking show, all at once. They smell with their lips before they bite. We cook hearts alive and eat them at lunch. Even when I do not go to their sordid banquet, I am surely as bad as the rest of them. Silence swallows my left wrist and sticks it on my neck. The script is carved on the back of my head.
We are apt volunteers. We are heroes, rascals, I am the very image of my mirror. I stick myself in my schoolbag before I close the door. I take myself with me as I walk out. My scarf is part of me, rough and weather worn from holding the sails.