The Corruption Of Our Souls

I

Present Day

School is such a tiny spec on the timeline of your existence yet the most stressful, it all revolves around who follows who around, getting to the top of the popularity list and trying not to fail exams while experimenting with relationships and friendships. Hold on, all of this for what? Most people want to stay in school for the rest of their lives so they can keep being football players or top bitch, me? I can’t wait to leave all these ass holes.

I stand there with my back to my locker staring as all the drip heads walk by discussing pointless things, staring at the clock for it to somehow miraculously spin forward to 3pm so I can run home, but no. If anything it drags on even more trying to make it faster, but who cares at least I get to spend my precious hours of the day being surrounded by lovely caring people... Sense the sarcasm? Me too!

‘Oh god’ I hear as a group of girls walk past me sniggering amongst them, staring at me like some form of disease. What is it about me which makes bitches magnetise to pick on me. I’m not here to ask for sympathy from those who don’t but seriously – cut the shit out. I look down at my outfit to find a fault, I stand there in a woven grey hoodie, black jeans and my black Docs. Just because I don’t flutter around in crop tops and blue jeans like everyone else doesn’t mean I have a sign on my back saying ‘Bully me because I’m not like you’.

I stare back replicating their eyes actions ‘What?’ I snarl in their direction. One of the girls, presumably the ring leader with ‘perfect’ brown hair swings back round to the rest of her friends before giggling uncontrollably.

The day drags, more stupid comments, more ‘dogging up’ and a hell of a lot more ass holes. As soon as I reach home I flop on my bed and drown myself in music. After about two hours I sit up and pull out my journal. 

Trapped in my mind

A prisoner to my own thoughts

I cannot make a sound

For words I am lost

How to make things right

Without breaking the fort

Is like trying to bend time

By staring at a clock

I'm accustomed to write

About how I feel

But what happens when words dont suffice

The tears that yield

How am I to be immortal

When I can't help but bleed

This level of vulnerability

Is one that can kill

‘Savannah, come on, im by the door’ my mum stresses at me. For fucks sake, i can’t deal with these asshole sessions with Dr Chapman, one more and i might kill myself. Quickly, i slam my journal closed and tuck it under my pillow, i chuck on my Doc Martins and effortlessly walk down the stairs in my worn through baseball top and black ripped jeans, sighing loud enough for my mum to hear with each step. She stares at me in disbelief

 ‘Savannah, have you even tried to make an effort? Your hair isn’t even brushed’ i snarl at her in the ‘omg shut up already’ way

. ‘you look great Savannah, come on lets go. Oh thanks mum you don’t look too bad yourself’ i sarcastically mumble at her. I reach the bottom of the stairs flinging on my denim jacket and bringing my hair round to one side exposing one ear. She gives me one last sigh then opens the door. You know somehow i feel, id feel slightly better if when i leave my room im not bombarded with all of my faults, so what is it, am i not allowed to feel comfortable in my own skin now? Im clinically depressed and ever since my parents found out they’ve changed, they seem less relaxed. stare at me as if im a broken corpse, treat me like im a time bomb, and today is a great example. You see every Wednesday im literally (and i mean literally) forced to go to sessions with Dr Chapman to ‘talk’, even though its more of a me talk and he take notes scenario.