Just Dreams

School's a Blur

The next day I could barely get up out of bed. Last night’s dream plagued me with its oh-so ominous vibes that it gave off. I could still the one girl’s voice, “I swidda God…If she dies you die.” I shuddered. Usually my dreams were more high stakes action adventure getting scared shitless and not really remembering what was so scary.

But this dream was so serious and every detail was engraved into my mind.

I ended up just shrugging it off. Everyone gets those crazy as hell dreams every once in a while.

After the usual morning drowsiness vanished I showered, ate, and brushed my teeth before heading out to the bus stop that felt like it was located miles from my house. Oh wait, it was. Welcome to wonderful countryside, where there seems to be nothing for miles and miles. But at least the bus driver, Kurt, knew me well enough to wait a few extra minutes at the stop for me.

“Hey Jin!” he greeted as I ran into the bus, chest heaving. No matter how early I get up, I can never arrive before the bus, and I hate to keep people waiting so I always have to sprint.

“Heyyo Kurt,” I replied, wandering to the back of the bus, passing by everyone else in the process.

Let’s just say I don’t look normal and I don’t act normal, so I am the prime target for relentless and unnecessary bullying. Though, my looks are really the big thing. My once-blond hair is dyed a deep magenta and is pulled up into two short pigtails and my boring hazel eyes are outlined by jet black eye shadow. Even though everyone has to wear uniforms at my school, I always add my personal touch. I have a decked out belt that is patterned with skulls, cats, and bows (strange trio I know) and I have a plethora of necklaces laced around my neck, all of them some metallic color. I have rings on every single finger, even my pinkies, and each is flashy or punk. I also have a whole collection of bracelets running up my arms that can be annoying sometimes because of how loud they are when they clank together. And my shoes are large black clunky boots that I love, partially because they’re great for kicking sobs into the snow.

As I walk by kids give me sideways glares, whisper a snide remark, giggle, some even throw wadded up paper balls at me. I reply by sticking out my tongue or inconspicuously flipping them the bird. I don’t care what they think because they all try too hard to be something they can never be: normal. Because no one’s normal is the same, therefore normal isn’t something that can just be defined. But these spoiled kids think they magically made that definition.

After 20 flip offs and 30 tongue stick outs I take my seat at the back of the bus, right next to the emergency exit door. No one sits back here because of the fact that it smells like piss and if it’s raining you get soaked because the windows back here don’t close but it doesn’t matter for me. At least people aren’t calling me a circus clown, or some girl who tries too hard for attention.

Soon we reach the school and everyone spills out of the bus. I am the last to leave, saying goodbye to Kurt before doing so.

First period is a blur of dates and battles for me. History isn’t a big thing for me. Second period goes by the same way except with complex math equations. Third period brightens up a bit with art classes.

I think I have a friend there, maybe. His name is Triad, pronounced TREE-AD. He has a mess of orangey red hair and a think smearing of freckles, that look almost like a coating of mud, covering the bridge of his nose. He’s the only other person that sits with me at the back table.

I have no real artistic talent even though I love art, but Triad is amazing at it. The only thing is, when he’s really working on something he doesn’t utter a word unless it’s “May you please get me more paint, Jin?” or “Please try not to shake the table, Jin.” But I still try to get him to talk.

Today we were painting scenery. My painting was supposed to be of the fields around my house, but it ended up just looking like cat barf. Meanwhile Triad was creating a spitting image of the school’s parking lot during a rainy day.

“Why when it’s raining?” I ask, giving up on my ‘painting’.

He doesn’t answer, he’s too busy concentrating on making the cars, getting the shading just perfect.

“Do you like things better when they’re darker?” I continue.

Still lost in focus.

“I like dark things sometimes, but I also like lighter things too. I like balance.”

No reply.

I give up and stare out the window for the rest of the class.

Lunch is a lonesome affair. I sit down with my back against the school’s very back wall, with the river only maybe half a mile away. I can see the sun glinting off it. No one comes around the back of the school because there’s nothing back here. Not even an exit.

I don’t really like eating back here, but there’s nowhere else I can eat in the cafeteria because all the tables there have been ‘claimed’ by a clique, and I don’t have any money to go out to lunch so my only option is here.

But I have a little secret about this place. I write messages back here, and no one sees them except me. Sometimes I etch little poems or songs into the bricks with my metal fork, or when I really want to write something I bring my brother’s pocket knife.

Today I’m in a kind of strange mood, sort of inspiring yet sort of gloomy. I set the tip of my fork to the crumbling brick behind me and begin to write.

And you say you can save her now

You say you can save her now

But who are you to tell me that?

You really can’t save her now

Letting her slip through the cracks

Who’s fault is that?

Are you really just gonna let her go?

Who’s gonna save you now?

Who’s gonna save you now?

I puzzle over the words for a moment, wondering where I got them from. It was probably that dream…I’m surprised I still remember that. But the words seem to hold a sort of weight to them and for the remainder of lunch I sit with my back against the words, as if trying to smother them.

The rest of the day is an uneventful blur. Language Arts after lunch, followed by science and then home I went. When I got back my mother was already home, but she was shut in her room with the lights off. She left a note on the kitchen fridge.

Jinny-

Got another migraine, got so bad had to come home early. Going to the doctor tomorrow. Money is on the coffee table, order dinner.

-Mom

I sighed. That was the third one this month. She was starting to get really bad, I hope these migraines aren’t hinting at some bigger medical problem.

That night as I tried to sleep I couldn’t help but feel a little worried. I didn’t like the kind of dream I had last night, it made me feel so unsettled. Was I actually afraid of dreaming? Maybe I was. I just hoped there wouldn’t be anymore talk about death and swirling pretty colors.