On The Inside

Stupid - sʜᴏʀᴛ sᴛᴏʀʏ

for luke

They think I'm stupid. 

They think I need help with adding seven plus eight, then divided by three. They think I need help opening the box I keep my book-bag in, and they think I need someone to walk with.

I don't get it. I want to tell them that I'm okay. That I can add seven plus eight, then divide it by three. I can open the box I keep my book-bag in, and I can walk by myself. 

But I can't tell them. They're adults. I am not an adult. I am smaller. Their feet click when they walk, and sneakers on my feet, tied by my mother, squeak when I stumble. They have pens and chalk, and I always have to write down what they tell me to. 

They say I'm stupid. They don't think I understand what they say, but I do. I understand that the other people in my class treat me specially and let me kick the ball in gym. I understand that they'll mark a question right that I got wrong. I understand what seven plus eight, then divided by three is. I'm not stupid. 

But I am. I am stupid, they say as they walk down the hall. They lead me to the box I keep my book-bag in, and open it after I told them that the lock won't turn. They grab my Spanish book, carefully hand it to me, and pat my shoulder and ask if I know where to go.

I know where to go. I know that the room they speak weird words in is by the bathroom they make me use every so often. They tell me to say hola and to write it on the board, and they switch the letters I messed up and say I got it right. 

They tell me not to walk across the street until somebody walks with me. But today, I didn't. I added seven plus eight in my head, divided it by three, and walked across the street as the blue car with shiny metal hits me in my side. I feel myself getting lifted up on a little bed, and then I'm not there. 

I'm awakened to legs that I can't move, arms I can't use, and a mouth of which I can't speak. I hear them. I know they're there. But I can't see them. I hear my father telling them that I'm stupid. That I don't know what the other boys know, and that they have to wake me from this coma.

I don't know what a coma is, but I think I learned about it in writing. 

I want to tell them that I'm okay. I want to use my voice and I want to tell my father I'm not stupid. I can't move, though. All I hear is beeping from a machine, and I listen as the sound gets slower, and I get more tired. There's seconds between the beeps that seem to turn into minutes, but I'm too tired to tell it to keep going. I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid.

The answer is five. Seven plus eight, divided by three is five. I know that. I'm not stupid.

Then the beeping noise gets as slow as it may ever get, but I'm already asleep.