Hated

Voices

50 minutes of long and boring talks about the revolutionary war, we finally headed to writing class. Writing is the only thing that keeps me from cutting my veins out. I have filled over two notebooks of things that would scare anyone that were to read them. If they were found….

I don’t bother to pull out my notebook just yet. I just sit and listen to the calm music Ms. Sadowski always puts on before class. A fast piano solo kicks on as soon as Ms. S. walks in from the bathroom, I’m assuming. She turns it off with a flick of her skinny bleached blonde wrist. She’s the type of person anyone would love to be.

She spins around the room looking for her computer. Her shoulder-length black hair bobs up and down as she finally finds it buried underneath all of the papers she still needs to fill out from a meeting yesterday.

“Okay class. You will not need your notebooks today. All you will need is a sharpened pencil.” I pull out the sharpest pencil I have that hasn’t been used for cutting. Brand new, right out of the box. I won’t need it anymore. Hopefully.

Ms. S. passes out blank notebook paper, and asks us to put our names on it. I sign at the top in small cursive.Jenna Makena Avery.

“As you know, we are going to be talking a lot about bullying in the next week or so. It’s mandatory for the school system, so don’t take it personally.” She walks back up to the front of the room, almost touching the whiteboard with her back.

“Now. No one is going to see these, not even me.” She turns with her back to us and picks up a bright pink marker. With her large and beautiful handwriting, she writes Write What You Are Afraid Of… 3 minutes. Begin Now.

“Do what the board says,” she says as she walks back over to the desk.

Don’t you dare. Keep me to yourself. You know you love me. Without me you would be nothing. You would still be the worthless, fat, pathetic thing we left in the dust. Don’t mess this up for us. The voices in my head collide together as the room starts spinning again. I close my eyes and take slow but deep breaths before opening them back up again.

I’m afraid of myself. I’m afraid of my body. I’m afraid of my hands. I’m afraid of my scarred up legs, of shorts, of my mouth, of the scale. Everything. Judgement. Being laughed at. Raising my hand. Eating. Eating. Eating. Why does everything take effect on me? Why do my legs take the blame? Why did my father leave? Why can’t I trust myself with razors anymore? Why me?

I put down my pencil while everyone keeps writing. The voices are fighting against each other again. Trying to please all of them is not something that can be done. There are the ones who tell me how pretty I am, then there’s her. The one that hates everything little thing about me. And I agree with her.

“Okay. Pencils down, and crumple up your papers.” With gratitude, I crumple up the paper with all the strength I can force out of my weak hand.

“Now. All of you are going to throw your paper into this trashcan,” she says as she pulls out a small trashcan from the corner of the room. She points to one table at a time. They walk up to the trashcan, some slow, some fast, not wanting to make a scene.

She points to our table halfway through everyone else. I walk up, holding myself vertical so I don’t pass out. My stomach is killing me, hurting so bad I want to just lay down and curl into a ball. Push you little wimp, you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to lose ANYTHING! You’re pathetic.

When I finally get up to the front, I toss it in and walk to Heather’s table, one that has already been called on.

“How many things did you have on your paper?” I ask, showing more weakness than I wanted to.

“More than you probably.” She whispers.

“Doubt it.” I whisper into her ear as I walk away.