peace

our coming-of-age has come and gone

It was rush hour of the lunch break in the cafeteria at the Walter L. Cohen Highschool. There was no room available at any of the long tables; more and more newcomers joined behind the metal barrier beside the food distribution. People with trays in their hands, try to find a free spot, in which they could squeeze in, or someone who is willing to give up their seat, but in vain. The dish clinking, backing chairs, the noise of voices, shuffling feet and the krack-krack-krack of the turnstiles, in the large room with its bare walls, sounded like the noise of a single big machine.

    I ate nervous, the latest notes of geography, opened in front of me, leaning against a water bottle. »Climate and vegetation of Asia« reads the title. I wrote down the notes last week when I had my first day of school this year. I already learned the things about the climate and vegetation in Asia, but I have nothing else to concentrate on, to master my nervousness in the canteen. And again, I read about the three different climates: medium-width, subtropical, tropical. About the different amount of rain and the constant heat in the tropical and subtropical; I ate the dish of the day – a kind of lasagna with gray minced meat, a thin tomato sauce topped by yellow, almost orange cheese and a cardboard bowl filled with salad and lettuce. I play with the fork and twist it slowly between my fingertips. To this school belongs a little room to pray, a school nurse and also a little shop. This school is strangely organized like a jail and sometimes Im afraid that Im a part of it.

    I turn the notes and look through the room, towards the windows to think about something else. The beautiful white patterned dress, which I saw at the store around the corner and want to buy for Florence, if I doesn't find a prettier purse than the ones, they have for twenty dollars. The window on the other side looks like a Painting from – what was his name again? Mondrian. The small quadratic window in the corner and white sky. No birds, flying through the scene in front of my eyes. What a picture. But who would take a picture of this? From this school? Here we are, at the point where we started from.

    But it's different with you, y/n, had Florence always said. It's already clear to you that you will graduate from school and become an artist in a few months. Florence said that I could learn, no, that I will learn from the best artists in Europe. Florence wants me to join her on her trip to Europe. She also told me that her Friends Margaret and Billie have a job for a few months for me in France. I haven't met Margaret or Billie yet, but the confidence that the two will give me work is low. Since February, I had searched all over New York, literally combed through, without any result. Who should have a job for a prospective artist in the middle of spring, who was about to gain her first experiences? It also seemed so unreal to me, to be in Europe with Florence this summer, to sit in sidewalk-cafés with her, to roam Paris with her, to visit the places van Gogh had painted, to choose cities with Florence where we wanted to stay for a while so that I could paint. And in the last few days, since I go to school again, it had seemed even more unreal to me.

    I knew what was wrong with this school. It was something that I would never tell Florence. It has to do something with the fact that everything which was wrong in my life was withdraw and with this new school everything comes reinforced. The useless executions, the useless detentions, which prevent me from doing something good and useful. Detentions are punishments. They don't only steal our time, but also prevent us from doing mentally valuable achievements. It makes us feel like theres no connection to our peers and classmates and that the message of love and affection means nothing anymore.

    I ate almost the whole piece lasagna. Only a few meat crumbles are left and some yellow oily dressing from the salad is covering a part of the plate. I take minute before I give up my seat and stare at my geography notes again. The corners of my mouth are hanging down, like my shoulders and everyone who takes a closer look at me, would notice the lack of motivation and inspiration. I've been painting portraits and landscapes for a few months. The paintings are good. The technique is also good, but the motives are just so depressing to look at. Most of my portraits represent young women having her seasonal depression. Those women reflect my childhood. Living in fear makes everyone tired and this tiredness is expressed through depression.

    I snap out of trance as someone takes the water bottle and my notes slip away. A not audible »sorry« is heard and an unnecessary wave with his hand is seen. His hand structure is rough, and his fingers are so plumb. Under his wide, short fingernails is a rim of dirt. They are filthy and he should definitely clean them. It's unattractive and makes him look dirty. He opens the plastic bottle, snips the cap away and takes two huge sips as he squeezes the thin container.

    »Why didn't you eat with us?« a young male voice speaks to me. The voice of a man who hurt me. He doesn't know that he hurt me, but he did in most awful way. As I noticed it, the glass shell around my heart broke in pieces and ripped it in half. My heart is bleeding, and it doesn't stop as long as I'm in this relationship. This is Mark, my current boyfriend. He never laid hand on me or hurt me physically, but he hurts me mentally in every way possible. It all started after I quit playing basketball and started to concentrate more on my art. He told me everyday how cool it would be to play basketball again; how nice it would be to have a girlfriend who plays basketball. That was harmless at first. It got worse. He made comments about my body. He said I doesn't look as fit as in the past. He made comment about the gained weight. But you know what? – I simply don't care. It is my body and it's okay to gain weight. Everyone does at a certain point of life. – look at the moon. He loses and gains weight, but he is the most beautiful at his fullest.

    I never argued back. I just listened to him and supported him in every decision he made. I never changed my body for him. Who does he think he is? God? Definitely not. Soon after, he found someone - Charlotte - He met her at the gym. At first everything was normal. A friendship, nothing more. He even told me everything about her, but one day he fell silent. I knew something was off. It felt like he was on mute. Not a word was exchanged this evening after he came back home.

    He changed that day. He changed his behavior towards me and never spoke a word about her. He's seeing her ever since. He's fucking her ever since and I never had the courage to say something. I keep it to myself, but it's hard. It's hard to live everyday with the knowledge that he enjoys the company of someone else more than mine. It hurts me. Thats why I decided to put an end to the pain.

———

I broke up with him this afternoon. I put an end to it. I never told him the actual reason, that I couldn't bare that he loved her more and that I actually liked Cordelia. I never met her back then, but she was a nice girl. Perfect in every way you could imagine. She was just a clueless girl in the right place at the wrong time. She had no idea about me and Hank and she shot her shot, like everyone would. She shot - and it hit me. I was the one bleeding and I was the one who had to suffer. I told him, that I couldn't bare the lack of attention he was giving me lately and that I know I could have loved him, but he would not let me. 

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A/N: Hi, I just came up with the idea about a new story based on the lyrics of the song peace. You might find some lyrics and clues from other artists as well. Please let me know your thoughts on that :)