Hearts Don't Break Around Here

Chapter 8 - Wedding Cake

Sophomore Year (College)

Roseanne stares down at the essay in front of her. She spent seven dollars getting this piece of shit printed out and spiral bound, only to have it marked up within an inch of its life with angry, red pen. The small, aggressive yet elegant cursive on the corner of the paper reads 'See me after class.'

Roseanne's hands shake. This is the third assignment she has gotten back this week with a grade below a C. It's only Tuesday. She has somehow managed to fail three times and the week isn't even halfway over. She glances up at her professor, who is laughing at a joke that a student told in the front row of the lecture hall. A very unfamiliar emotion--something between anger and bitterness--coils tightly in Roseanne's stomach. God, fuck this professor. Fuck that asshole who always sits in the front row, kissing ass and answering every single question. Roseanne scoffs to herself. She bets that the essay on that guy's desk isn't scribbled on with red pen. Maybe it's in blue pen instead. Maybe it's got a giant A+ on the front cover. Maybe the teacher's note says, 'great job', instead of the unfriendly message Roseanne received.

The professor proceeds to tell the class that she was very impressed with how the essays turned out. Roseanne clenches a fist. Everybody in this room did well. Everybody but her. They probably all know, too. They all can probably tell. They are probably judging her. The anger swirls around in her gut, mixing dangerously with the large dose of self loathing that was already settled there before she walked into the room. She feels so frustrated she could cry. She thinks about her family for a moment; how they are paying for her education. How she is squandering it because she's just not smart enough. She thinks about her fleeting optimism; how seven days ago she sat down to write this actually thinking it would be a success. How stupid does one have to be to keep failing, and failing, and failing before they realize that maybe, that's all they can do?

Roseanne doesn't realize she's stood up until she notices that the class has fallen silent, all eyes looking back at her. She looks down and sees her books and papers piled messily into her arms, and she holds them close to her chest. She knows she's scowling. She can feel the strain in her features. Everyone needs to stop looking at her like she's some kind of wounded animal. She needs to get the fuck out of here. Her fists clench even harder against her books. She wants to shout. She feels the overwhelming urge to toss her textbook at her professor. To scream, "Fuck you! Fuck you fuck you fuck you-- " because she's so frustrated and she's so fed up with failing and how is it fair that some asswipe with a bad comb-over can make her feel like such horse shit?

She's storming out of the classroom angrily before she even realizes it. Frustrated tears fill her eyes as she pushes out the door. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest. It thumps against her ribcage. It vibrates in her ears. She feels lightheaded. She knows that these are signs of an anxiety attack. She knows, deep down, the this is her anxiety talking. That things aren't as bad as they seem.

But it doesn't matter what she knows, because what she feels is so much more real.

She keeps pushing forward and doesn't stop walking. She doesn't know where she's going. She doesn't care. She tosses her essay into a trash can and continues past it. Her heart still thumps angrily. Fingertips burning with the urge to curl into a fist and smash into the nearest expanse of drywall. She fights the urge.

Fucking anxiety medicine. She's going to flush it down the toilet when she gets home. It hasn't been doing shit. Why is she still miserable? Why can't she get these stupid, stupid thoughts out of her head? Why does she still feel like she's dying when she's literally medicated to feel better? Is she really that untreatable? Is she past the point of no return? God, she hates that medicine. She hates the medicine, and the rapid beating of her heart, and the fuzziness in her vision. She hates the anxiety, the sadness, the anger, the loathing, clawing at her heart and splitting her chest open, painful and unforgiving. She hates it. She hates it.