Wonderland in Turmoil

An Interruption in Class

My name's Rebecca Lewis. Everyday I get up early, in my minuscule room in the tiny house that I share with my father and 10-year-old brother Blake. That house is right by the forest. Everyone hates that forest. Everyday I get dressed, shove down some soggy cereal and walk to school in the gloomy weather that my small hometown in England gladly provides us with. At school, some say I don't think much of myself. Others say I think of myself too much. Out loud I'll say to them that I don't care, I'll walk down the corridors with my nose in the air, back straight, like I don't notice the whispers and snickers between people as I walk by. But really, if I'm completely honest with myself, I'll realise that really I do care. I care about what they think because, if they thought nothing of me, it would be worse than the negative thoughts and spiteful glares directed my way as I flounce past everyday. They believe that I don't care and that's exactly why they try to make me care about what they think. I pretend I don't take what they say to heart, but I do care, with every part of me I care.

One nondescript Thursday morning, I woke to the sound of my blaring alarm going off on my run down bedside table, as I do every morning. I lifted myself out of bed and as my feet hit the cold, hard floorboards, I realised I had another day of sitting through class, listening to the teachers drone on to the sea of students who weren't really listening, me trying hard to ignore the loud whispers circling around the room. I sighed, trudging across the room. I pushed open my bedroom door just a crack, to check that my father was still sleeping. I could hear snores, but there was someone crashing around in the kitchen, so just to make sure it was Blake in the kitchen, I strode down the short hallway and peered into my father's room. Sure enough, collapsed on the bed like he'd just bungy-jumped off a tall building without a harness was my father, still wearing yesterday's clothes, an empty vodka bottle by his side. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I did not enjoy talking to him when he'd been drinking. I trudged down the hallway into the kitchen to greet my brother, who was attempting to make toast. I think he'd succeeded more in creating a charred black sand-art thing on the kitchen bench with the burnt crumbs of what had once been bread. I chuckled to myself, going over to help him.

Six burned bread slices, one frantic school bag packing session and one quick goodbye between siblings later, I was on my way to school. For the first time in months, it wasn't raining. It was, however, extremely dreary and the sky overhead was filled with clouds waiting to unleash their misery upon us. I reached the school's front entrance, which was buzzing with students gossiping about whatever interesting things had happened the night before. I went inside and wandered past them all, causing them to stare and whisper behind their hands sporting perfectly manicured nails. I rolled my eyes and made my way to class.