You are the desire to hurt
You enter the room with a detached air. You’re not apathetic, far from it. You are worried, you are stressing, and you are almost crying with the fear. Pushing it away is the only way to deal with it.
You watch the people milling around the classroom as you wait for the bell to ring. You hope it does, because then you will be saved from the conversation ahead for a little longer, and you hope it doesn’t because during this class you have to do something you cannot.
You cry inside as she sits down next to you.
Hey.
Hey.
How are you?
Fine. You?
Fine. Is something wrong?
No.
Something’s always wrong.
You’re angry. She shouldn’t pry like this! This is what you were afraid of, she is trying to know you, know what no one else does. It itches under your skin like a mosquito bite. You know she means nothing by it, but your hatred does not.
Stop asking!
Your yell is covered by the bell, but it’s a close thing. She knows what you said, and she looks sad. You apologize a thousand times silently.
You think it’s the frown. It’s hidden most of the time by her hair, white blonde and ethereally wispy, but she hasn’t worn that expression for weeks. Before it was constant.
You feel the anger grow as the lesson goes on. Why does she have to keep asking? Why won’t she just leave you alone?
Your notes are crap this period. You cry again, next period is your worst class and you have it too with her. This period crap notes are fine, all of the notes are in the packet purchased at the beginning of the year, and online.
Your hand shakes as you try to copy down the information in the slideshow. It’s not something anyone else would notice, but you can see it. Especially in the “g” and “y” letters.
You push the pencil against the page harder, and it tears through. Then the graphite breaks.
You stop, take deep breaths. Push the button several times; get a bit more graphite out of the mechanical pencil.
You take more notes, not bothering to leave a space where you missed notes. This class is easy. English always has been. Literature is no different.
You’re already afraid of the bell when it rings. You pack quickly, but struggle with the zipper of the backpack. Take out the lit book; carry it in hand. Shove the pencil in your pocket, hook the clip over the edge to remove it easily.
What’s wrong?
Everything.
Why?
Stop asking questions!
You bless the silence, and glare at her sorrowful expression.
You are the desire to hurt.
You watch the people milling around the classroom as you wait for the bell to ring. You hope it does, because then you will be saved from the conversation ahead for a little longer, and you hope it doesn’t because during this class you have to do something you cannot.
You cry inside as she sits down next to you.
Hey.
Hey.
How are you?
Fine. You?
Fine. Is something wrong?
No.
Something’s always wrong.
You’re angry. She shouldn’t pry like this! This is what you were afraid of, she is trying to know you, know what no one else does. It itches under your skin like a mosquito bite. You know she means nothing by it, but your hatred does not.
Stop asking!
Your yell is covered by the bell, but it’s a close thing. She knows what you said, and she looks sad. You apologize a thousand times silently.
You think it’s the frown. It’s hidden most of the time by her hair, white blonde and ethereally wispy, but she hasn’t worn that expression for weeks. Before it was constant.
You feel the anger grow as the lesson goes on. Why does she have to keep asking? Why won’t she just leave you alone?
Your notes are crap this period. You cry again, next period is your worst class and you have it too with her. This period crap notes are fine, all of the notes are in the packet purchased at the beginning of the year, and online.
Your hand shakes as you try to copy down the information in the slideshow. It’s not something anyone else would notice, but you can see it. Especially in the “g” and “y” letters.
You push the pencil against the page harder, and it tears through. Then the graphite breaks.
You stop, take deep breaths. Push the button several times; get a bit more graphite out of the mechanical pencil.
You take more notes, not bothering to leave a space where you missed notes. This class is easy. English always has been. Literature is no different.
You’re already afraid of the bell when it rings. You pack quickly, but struggle with the zipper of the backpack. Take out the lit book; carry it in hand. Shove the pencil in your pocket, hook the clip over the edge to remove it easily.
What’s wrong?
Everything.
Why?
Stop asking questions!
You bless the silence, and glare at her sorrowful expression.
You are the desire to hurt.