Back to school after being all weekend at home. Watching old movies, reading old books, following the old tradition of playing the flute. You put your hand there, you move your fingers up and down, then the melody drops and is flushed. A deep female voice asks me why I still didn't get out of there. Nothing Mom, I'm just taking a shit. Thank God they never ask where the laptop went.
You know, being the socially awkward boy is fun at home. Outside that it's another story.
I take my stuff out of the locker. Chemistry 9AM, Maths 10AM. Then a half-an-hour long break. I hate breaks, being alone and see the others in groups discussing what to do, and whom to do it -usually me or Fatass Jules- while walking up and down the yard. Start point: classroom. Then you go to the cafeteria, stop at the doors, then go somewhere else. Back to the corridors, back to the yard, back to the cafeteria. You have to move, always move, or you'll die. Like sharks, except that I don't have large teeth with which to threat the huge thugs. Stay alone for more than five minutes at the same point, the thugs will get you and invite you to visit the toilet. Upside down.
The bill rings. "You're gonna be late for Chemistry, fuckass!" I say okay, leave me alone boys. I still didn't make anything for you to treat me like that. You breathed, a deep voice whispers. You take our air all for yourself. You can't be that selfish. That's stupid, I reply. You can't tell me not to breathe. I would die.
Always bringing the wrong answer, since 1993.
"I think we'll take care of you after Maths, shithead."
That translated to my language meant another visit to the toilet, or to the corner in the end of the yard, between the empty beer cans and the smoke of the cigarettes; where you get a free punch in the face. Bam, glasses broken. Bam, black eye. Say thanks to Mr Finch for fixing your face.
Fuck you Finch.
Bam, right in the nose.
Three hours later, the school nurse twists it so the septum can heal and I don't look uglier than I already do. Broken glasses, acne face, black eye, and blood all over my pullover and jeans.
I think we'll have to call home.
I'm bored, so I wrote this; and since I have no premium membership... I though I'd share it here.
Oh, and I can't pay the Premium membership for reasons I can't make public. I don't look for deep critique or learning from this, I just made it out of sheer boredom.
"After a whole life reading, I realized books don't make you cleverer. They think for you.
So I started writing."