𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥

The Ink on the Wall

Former cover by: AlateSchmetterling 💖

Current cover by: ii_mermxid 💞💞

The tip of my pen clicked against the desk at a steady pace, making up the only noise—although faint—in the office. But in my ears, an invasive pulse rang. It was suffocating, waiting to hear the response to my application. To manage it, I could only tap the pen to the wood, wobble my foot side to side, and brush through the ends of my hair, awaiting the news. 

My mind focused on the possible outcomes. I could be rejected; there were thousands of other applicants to the program, and I was likely an amateur in comparison. Or, perhaps I would be accepted as an alternate. But even then, the thought of the school announcing this "accomplishment" was somehow more terrifying. I could foresee my peers hearing the news and translating it as inadequate. 

However, if I won... what then? The possibility filled my body with a rush of excitement. I could picture myself squealing in glee, my parents celebrating, my friends congratulating me, and my classmates applauding me. It would be a dream come true to be accepted. 

But I had to remind myself that it wasn't likely, and more importantly, I didn't deserve it compared to the other applicants. Most of them had probably worked on the application in advance, not at the last minute like me. And they doubtlessly held a superior skill level to me. Even if I was accepted, I knew I wouldn't be satisfied. Anyone else would have procrastinated less and worked harder for this, so I didn't doubt I'd be unhappy with success as well. 

What did I want then? Failure? No. Semi-success? Definitely not. Complete success? Somehow, also no.

My thoughts—but certainly not my fidgeting—were interrupted with a glance at the pen. An obnoxious black blob of ink rested directly where I had been tapping the tip of the pen to the desk, and although the wood was already dark, it didn't bother concealing the stain. I gasped and hurriedly wiped the spot with my fingers, but the ink smeared more across the surface and smudged on my skin. 

Before I could start cleaning it, the office door opened and my counselor strode in. In a swift move, I covered the mark with my stained hand and faced her with a posed smile. She made her way to her desk, unaware of the permanent mark tainting it. My panic to clean it faded, and replacing it, the anxiety returned. She asked how I was feeling, and I replied—as usual—that I was "doing well." But my stomach lurched with every internal reminder that failure was anticipated. 

The counselor sat in her chair, various books and files blocking her view of the ink splotch, yet I was too anxious to move. She shifted slightly before steadying herself and making eye contact. I struggled to maintain it. 

"Are you excited? Nervous?" she questioned. It was innocent, but it riled my nerves more.

"A little nervous," I admitted. Why couldn't she get to the point?

"Well, don't be." Easy for her to say. "I'll be proud of you no matter what the results are."

I swallowed. Would I be proud of myself, though?

The counselor sighed. "Are you ready to hear it?"

I clenched my jaw, hiding it behind a tense hand. I nod, and the rest of my body stills as her mouth opens.

"I'm sorry," she states, "but your application was rejected."

I took in a breath, but it didn't seem to end. My face was steady, unwavering, but my mind was in shock from the news. I should've seen it coming—why even be surprised? But I just couldn't contain my thoughts. I wanted an explanation, but simultaneously knew I was just incompetent; what explanation could I possibly receive besides that?