𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜

show a smile we're rather bored, nothing lines up anymore

[the chattering lack of common sense - ghost and pals]

[10]

        When the day first started, you had assumed the churning, aching pit in your gut was just your everyday anxiety, nothing you hadn't already been well aquatinted with since middle school. Maybe it was your upcoming tests, or maybe the caffeine you had begun to abuse on the daily was catching up to you, or maybe it was simply nothing at all. But then it got worse. But then, you were constantly sneaking glances over your shoulder, feeling countless pairs of eyes all trained on you every second of the day, no matter where you went, and no matter what you did. There was always something haunting the very corner of your eyes, the bare outskirts of your vision. Just vauge enough for you to start to question your own reliability. 

        Against your better judgement, you even convinced yourself to talk to the counselor when you were positive this suffocating, dreadful smog was at it's peak (you'd soon discover it wasn't, but hey.) 'I'm feeling really anxious today.' You had explained. 'I can't eat anything, I feel nauseous-- I just don't know what to do.' 

        She had placed her hand atop yours, her thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin as she hits you with a soft smile. When you hesitantly, almost shamefully, meet her kind eyes, you let your hope bubble up that maybe someone will finally be able to empathize with you.

       'Well, why don't we take a look at the grade book?' You tuned the rest of her words out, her feigned concern slowly slipping out of her once seemingly honey coated throat. 

       You're pulled back to the present, leaving those fresh memories to simmer till you need something to feel bad about later. You feel something scracth at the back of your throat. You cough, just barely causing a disturbance to the very enticing lecture on The Cold War and decolonization. Granted, his voice sounded like nothing but white noise to you. You tried your best to focus in on his voice, put meaning behind his words, but they all just came out one after the other, and it was too much for your pathetic brain to keep up with.

       It very quickly becomes apparent that this isn't just a silly little cough you can wait out, no matter how many times you try to tell yourself that 'Its only twenty more minutes, it's eighth period, no need to disrupt the class.' You feel a warm, thick liquid coat the back of your mouth.

        As if on autopilot, you shoot your hand up, interupted Mr.Wright mid sentence. You're holding down your cough, your clammy hands gripping at the desk. For once, you pay no mind to way everyone's eyes snapped to you.

       "Yes, [L/N]?" 

       "Can I use the bathroom." You're question is more of a demand, much sterner than you intended (and certainly much sterner than you've ever talked to a teacher before). 

        He answers 'Sure, go ahead buddy ol pal' or something along those lines. You don't care. You push yourself out if the desk, grab the hall pass hanging besides the door, and bound down the hall. You're body grows heavy as your feet echo through the lifeless corridor. 

       The one break you could catch was the very close proximity between your class, and the bathroom. You burst through the heavy door, throwing yourself over the sink. The second you allow yourself to cough, you don't stop. You can't stop. Your violent hacking tears apart your throat till all you can taste is pennies and blood is splattered all across the bowl, slowly seeping down the drain, thick as rancid milk. All you can do is bear with yourself as tears prick at your eyes. You prayed no one would walk in to see your feeble body choke out what felt like a shower if blood relentlessly pouring from your mouth.