Colors (bxb) [DISCONTINUED]

bumpy roads

"I see your true colors, and that's why I love you!"

🔵🔴⚫️⚪️🔘

Monday comes along a lot faster than I wish.

I've always hated school. Even when I was a little kid, the teasing I endured because of my chromesthesia was . . . embarrassing, to say the least. And while I know that there are one-hundred-and-one things worse to be bullied for, it still doesn't take away from my own experiences. Not only that, but teachers always deemed me a trouble child; my snapping attitude mixed with my lazy tendencies were not desirable.

The weekends were the only time that I truly felt at peace. No stupid kids and no stupid adults. And my chromesthesia isn't always hindering; when I'm alone, listening to emotional piano music, the colors float around like leaves in an Autumn breeze. It's almost beautiful. Relaxing, even.

Sometimes, I really do want to believe this disorder I have is more of a gift than a curse.

But as I step into the doors of Riverwood High, the colors hit me square in the face, and it takes everything I have to contain my cringe. My body chills, my head aches, and my eyes burn -- but instead of digging into my pocket and taking out my earplugs, I clench my teeth and fight through the pain.

I've been running from my chromesthesia for my entire life. But on the days that I accidentally leave my earplugs at home, I . . . I can't explain the feeling. It's almost like I'm at peace with the world, and free. It hurts, but if I can just get used to the pain . . .

Maybe it'll help in me being happier with life. It's worth a shot, right?

Sure. The pessimistic voice in my head snorts, puffing out a cloud of misery. You can try. Doesn't mean it'll amount to much. You'll always be sad and pathetic.

I sigh. It might sting a little, but I've gotten used to my own defeatist nature. The thought doesn't hurt me as much it might hurt anyone else. One positive thing from always being so depressed is that takes a lot to hurt you; you've heard the worst from yourself.

And yet, if punctured at the right spot, all of your walls could come crashing down at the slightest of touches. It's weird how that works. Depression is weird.

I quickly walk to my first period of the day, which is Calculus. My entire body groans at the thought, but I continue walking, pushing and sliding past the multiple bodies in my way. After a short while, I finally make it to the classroom -- but of course, nothing is that simple. Ms. Miller stands in the way of the door, holding a stack of papers in her hand.

That's when I remember. I definitely had math homework. And definitely didn't complete it.

"Shit," I groan, smacking myself in the face. Why am I so stupid? Actually, that's not even the problem; why am I so lazy? If I had the motivation, I would have written it down in my notebook when she first assigned it. Even if I did think of it this week, I probably still wouldn't have done it, because I'm just so irritatingly indolent.

I must be standing in the hallway for too long, because Ms. Miller's gaze eases over towards me. I blink, panic swishing around my stomach. She's looking at me. She's looking at me. Shit, I'm so done for.

There isn't a real punishment for not completing your homework at this school. Sure, it goes in the gradebook as a zero, but homework grades don't don't count nearly as much as tests and quizzes. Most teachers just shrug it off, and most students just take the L. But knowing Ms. Miller, she's going to dramatize this to the freaking roof. After Justin defended me a month ago, and she realized how dumb she looked, the woman has been consistently trying to catch me slipping. Justin has been successfully keeping me afloat, but I don't think he can help me this time. God, I really don't feel like listening to her scream at me. And if she decides to give me detention . . .