"The kids want to grow up,
And the grown ups want to be kids, "
I stare at the flimsy piece of parchment, numbers fixated in vertical order.
'Why?' was my first thought.
99, 97,95,100,88, and 98.
88.
After all my damn studying. Fear plagued me.
I didn't want to go home.
I didn't want to hear the disgusting croak of my mom about the numbers.
I didn't want to hear the tirade of my dad about the numbers.
How long has it been since I've been like this?
Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months, or Years.
Times going too fast.
The click of the clock seems to be at full volume.
The air is molasses and slowly into my nose.
"How's your grades?" "Good, yours?" "No way man!" "What, why?"
Sounds of my classmates seemed to ricochet off the wall in steady rhythm of the clock.
More time passed.
More,
More,
And more.
If it was going to turn out like this, why'd I spend all my time alone?
Why?
Why didn't I study with the friends who are now lost?
Who all left because I was nothing more than my grades?
It went too fast.
My brain pounded, and pounded, and pounded with each tick of the clock.
I hate this. I'm overreacting.
"But the children were stressed,
And the adults had their wings clipped."
