Eleven Journeys

Beyond The Morning Light

Falling Into Focus

The morning light crept into the room, casting a pale glow over the chaos I called my bedroom. My head throbbed, and my throat felt like sandpaper—a dryness that only added to the discomfort brewing inside me. I knew I wasn't feeling well, but I didn't have time to dwell on it before the world tilted, and suddenly, I was plummeting from the top bunk. My fall was graceless, ending with a sharp crack as my head collided with the dresser drawer I'd carelessly left open. Double whammy.

As I lay sprawled on the floor, the dull throb in my skull pulsed in sync with the pressure building behind my eyes—a harsh reminder of my half-hearted attempt at organizing the night before. The balled-up socks I'd tossed into the drawer now seemed like the world's worst booby trap, mocking me from where they lay in disarray.

Dazed and disoriented, I called out for my mom, my voice barely a croak as it escaped my dry throat. Moments later, she appeared in the doorway, her eyes widening in that universal look of maternal concern. "What did you do?" she asked, taking in the scene with a single glance. I could barely muster a reply, still reeling from the impact and the growing realization that I was far from okay. "I'm not feeling well, Mom," I mumbled, "and I fell off the bed. Hit my head on the dresser."

It was a Tuesday morning, one of those ordinary school days that suddenly felt anything but. The idea of dragging myself through the day seemed unbearable, especially with the dull ache now pulsing in my head and the dryness in my throat making it hard to swallow. "Why don't you stay home today?" she suggested, her voice softening with concern. Instantly, a wave of relief washed over me, though I was careful not to show just how much better I suddenly felt at the prospect of escaping the day ahead.

There was supposed to be a test today—something about the French Revolution in Social Studies—but honestly, I couldn't be sure. Paying attention in class has never been my strong suit. It's been years since I even bothered with the comments teachers scribbled on my report cards—those stinging critiques that used to gnaw at me but now barely register. My parents haven't seen a report card in ages, so the usual threats and lectures have long since faded into distant memories. All that matters to me is not failing—anything but that. The thought of repeating a grade, of being trapped for another year in this monotonous routine, is a nightmare I refuse to entertain.

I've mastered the art of skating by with the bare minimum. Homework? Forget it. I haven't touched an assignment since those early days of middle school when I still believed that effort might actually get me somewhere. Studying for a test? That concept is as foreign to me as the revolution I'm supposed to know about today. Instead, I've perfected the delicate balance of doing just enough to avoid total disaster—never quite sinking, but never really rising either.

What I do know about Social Studies is the cast of characters—my classmates and, of course, Mr. Jensen. He's the football coach, a real hard-ass with a talent for sucking up to the jocks. But beneath that veneer, there's a cruel streak, a twisted enjoyment in singling out the quieter kids, the ones who don't quite fit in. He thrives on the power trip, the way the room bursts into laughter when he deems a student's answer unworthy or ridiculous. It's a sick kind of fun for everyone—everyone except the poor kid in the spotlight.

One day, I caught Mr. Jensen mid-gossip, his voice dripping with condescension as he mocked a boy in the class. The boy was the target of his ridicule because of something Mrs. Ellis, the English teacher, had done—she actually cared about her students, a rare gem in a school where most teachers seemed more interested in maintaining their authority than nurturing young minds. I knew her intentions well, having approached her after the gesture, when she confided in me. She had noticed one shy, quiet kid who always seemed to blend into the background, nearly invisible to everyone else. So, on Valentine's Day, she decided to do something special for him. She sent him a carnation, but with a twist—it was presented as being from a "secret admirer." A simple, kind gesture meant to brighten his day, to make him feel seen, included, and maybe even a little admired.