Sitting in the front row, just another face in the crowd, I read a book. It's a sci-fi classic from the fifties.
I hear the mumbling and laughter in the distance. They both come crashing toward me in a tidal wave of insults and rude remarks. I block them out. Transfixed in the world of a writer I love, I'm able to make it through one more class.
"Two more to go..." I think to myself. I walk through the crowded halls quickly, my backpack filled with everything I'll need for the day. The less trips I make to my locker, the less people I have to deal with.
"English then study hall..." English is okay. We're learning about Coleridge and the rest of the romantics. I wonder what it would be like to see the world through their eyes. Would it be any different? How were they treated by society?
My questions stay in the safety of my mind. If I let them out, the wave would just start again.
I wander ahead and finish the section, more questions forming. My protective shell keeps them in their early stages.
Trapped behind glass, my shell, my savior, my tormentor...The invisible barrier keeps me separated. I often wonder what it would be like to be mainstream.
Anti-social, suicidal, weird...Labels are stuck to me by adults, too, some with tape that I can easily take off. They didn't really mean much. Others, however, are nailed to my soul. I'd cry out in agony, but they've taken my mouth.
Silence is the pill. Overdosing, I stay trapped in my mind, venturing further and further into its depths. Sometimes I don't want to come back to the real world, but I always do. They push me in and pull me out. My glass cage is smeared with fingerprints.
Fright, anger, utter disgust...form when I grow stronger. In the security of my shell I flourish. With each journey inward, I come out with more understanding.
I don't fit in, but I have a place in life. I nurture this thought for a while. It grows stronger.
Study hall bell rings. School is over. A long walk home lies ahead. I stand and stretch.
Empty looks, hidden glances...I walk out the back door, across the lawn, and into the park. The sounds of the birds shatter my vision of a cruel Earth for a second. The second passes and I continue walking.
I have two more miles and nothing to look forward to, a roof over my head, food, and
clothing. Love and affection not included.
Paul, 18, currently resides in Valley City, Ohio, the frog jump capital of the state. Twain would be proud...maybe not. His work also appears in The Pinehurst Journal.This is his first story published in Sign of the Times.
For more stories by Paul, click here.
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