Unstoppable: Revitalized

-01-

God, I hate this place...

I've stood here god knows how many times, glancing over the same image I always did, and yet nothing changes. It still leaves me with the same numb, sickening feeling it did when I first arrived. As always, I felt as reluctant as ever to cross the barrier. The barrier that separates the individual from the crowd, the free man to the slave, the happy and joyful people to the despairing and anguished souls: The school gates. I know, I know, no one likes school that much, but personally, I loathed it. I loathed thinking about it, seeing it, hell, even smelling similar scents gave me a sickening and sadistic reaction. The entire place is simply a factory: You take a human, drain them of any features, teach the basics of work life, and let them back out, devoid of any meaning and purpose beyond searching for work. Again, I could be exaggerating, but that's how it feels: Draining. Mind, body and soul draining.

I hate it. I hate this entire fucking place.

The main structural piece of the place that always manages to catch my eye is the gate: It's previously been painted over in a night-themed black, yet even with my hazy vision I can still see the cracks and peel forming on each bar that surrounded the entire school, a fence keeping it's prisoners inside. Each bar was tipped with a sprayed gold spike, the sharp object standing high and mighty above, guarding against intruders and potential escapees. My eyes continued to gloss over the place, trying to find either something unique or a reason not to enter, and with both options I came away disappointed as I left my standing area and slowly moved towards the entrance. Many other kids were doing the same. Some looked carefree, talking with their friends, laughing, keeping a smile plastered upon their faces as they strolled through. Some stalked through the gates, distraught, their faces still trying to piece together either the patterns in their life to leave them feeling this way, or why a place so respected made them feel so insignificant and lost. Sure, we all went into this hellscape for the same reason, but most days we all left with the same question: Why am I here?

I feel that feeling. I don't 'belong,' nor do I 'fit in.' I'm just here. I have nothing going on in my life, no prosperities beyond passing my exams, no excitement to go home to each day, nothing. Hell, these people have exciting lives, things to do when they get home. Friends to catch up with. I have nothing. No one. And it's starting to get to me.

Just as I almost passed the point of no return, I felt some sort of force heavily slam into my backpack, sending me stumbling slightly towards the gate. One of my arms ended up fine, but the other managed to catch itself between the bars, pulling on the rest of my body roughly and causing me to grit my teeth to avoid making any noise indicating pain. With all my attention being focused on getting my arm out of it's individual prison, my entire body was open to attack, which is why the fist to the side of the face connected so smoothly, leaving me slumped next to the wall, looking at the concrete and gently checking my jaw with my free hand for damage. Immediately, the numbness creeping over my face told me that it was going to sting, and bad.

"Move out of my way next time." A voice, one I knew too well, scolded me as it walked past, stopping just as it passed through the gates.

"Scared? You should be. People like me shouldn't have to look at people like you." Spit landed next to me as a few people laughed. I left myself in a heap for a few seconds before (painfully) removing my arm and turning around. As I did, I confirmed my suspicions on who'd attacked me: None other than Liam Stall, one of the main people who had decided on one random day that I would be their punching bag. It could be physical, mental, anything, as long as it hurt, Liam would do it. Bruises littered my body from him, his voice echoed through my mind, and the way he'd beat me still appears in my dreams. I could never understand why he decided I was to be the one who needed his fists laying into them, but every time I used to ask, he'd just punch me harder and harder until it hurt to breathe. By the end of that day, I didn't know, and I didn't care, all that mattered to me was surviving each one of his rigorous torture tests. No teacher, nor autorotative figure believes he does it. They seem to think Liam is perfect, or someone of 'my stance' wouldn't be touched by him. But every single one of them is wrong: He hurts me. He takes a little bit more of my soul away from me every day. He pollutes my sanity.

And I can't change it.

As i finally made it through the gate, I could see a few faces turn my way, amusement clearly visible on most as these goons got their first taste of enjoyment for the day. No matter how I tried to reason with myself, all I could see is sheep: Simply following the person next to them or in front of them simply because they know nothing else, nor want to try to. I know, it's stuck up of me to turn my nose to those around me, but they didn't live the same life I did. They didn't have to trouble themselves with the same problems I had.

These people go home, see their parents, and drown their small problems with advanced distractions, I would kill for that.

Feeling a sudden sharp pain, I winced and stopped to check my arm. Visually, there was no pain, nor could I see any cracks in my skin, but my arm was currently numb,just like my face, the only feeling being a dull throbbing pain as I closed my hand into a fist. Practicing it a few times, I came to the conclusion it'd (Unfortunately) be alright to spend the rest of the day here, and resumed my walk to class. Clearly, the kids who'd decided to spite me with their look of sheer joy at my expense had been late, as the school seemed suddenly empty and beautifully quiet. The only sound I could clearly make out came from my shoes crisply connecting with the concrete ground, my mood slightly lightening up due to my isolation. Even if I was late, I wasn't going to start running towards something I despised. As I passed classrooms, I glanced in each one, noticing the faces of joy on the younger children, and pure stress and panic in the older ones. Some looked interested, others looked miles away, yet each teacher looked the same: Stiff, robotic, pale imitations of a human, marching between rows, sticking a pointed hand out, or even shouting above the noise of the rabble, trying to force authority onto a group of people who really do not care.

They have to give the illusion. The illusion that they care. That your grades are more than you. That, to them, you are more than a number next to a letter next to a piece of fucking paper. Those same numbers next to those letters that dictate my life. Where my life goes. How important I'll be. If I'll be successful in life. A prime example of something that doesn't need to happen, but is done simply because, collectively, we're all too lazy to re-invent the wheel. It still rolls forward, even if it gets stuck in the mud.

I looked at my fathers watch, a simple make of metal and steel, clocking how late I was, and steadied my shoulders, already bracing myself for the lecture I'd get from them. It had happened so many times over the past few months that I'd learned how to tune it out. Criticism came constantly: My way of talking, walking, or even standing, but after a while, these words become mindless noise in the area. Some people gave me a pass for a few months, concluding to themselves that this was a phase, a part of me that would simply pass, but it didn't. The pain I held still sat fresh in my soul, unmoving for anything or anyone. People tried, therapy, previous friends, even members of family who no longer talk to me, but every time they tried, my thoughts were always the same.

You haven't been through what I have. You have no clue at all.

The final turning met my face a lot faster than I'd wished it would, my classroom a few steps away. My walk became even slower, shaving precious seconds off the first lesson I was still debating on going to. It was taking every piece of willpower I had to not spin back round and go home. Only problem with home, the same problem that had really been eating away at me, was removed by school:

It's silent. Too silent for a person to think straight.

Finally accepting my fate, I sighed, picking up the last few steps, and leaning on the door, the weight of the oak frame somehow feeling immovable. I steadied myself, before glancing down at my watch once again, bracing myself for a flurry of fury from my tutor, who never game me any slack.

Fuck, Nusanda is going to kill me.