Insurgency

I feel cognizant

I want to tell you why. I'm not the type that knows what they'll be when they grow up. But I'm aware. I'm aware that I need to know, to find out. I want to be everything. And nothing.

The day started like usual. Waking up with my cat sleeping at my feet, petting her, feeling her content purr. I got up, did my usual morning routine and headed off to school with my headphones in on maximum volume. I was ambling along the street, watching the sky as the clouds stirred, passing by. I hate school. I enter my class. It already smells bad and it's only 8 a.m. The pupils around me talk, I hear their muffled words and grow uneasy. I sit down at my desk and stare out the window. The sky is beautiful like always. I guess it's gonna be a good day.

I wanted to be a witch when I was in kindergarten. Then a detective, a pilot, a geologist, a marine biologist, an archaeologist, psychologist, singer, painter, programmer, astrophysicist, designer... and the list goes on and on. But I've always dreamed that I will be a known writer. 

I empty my backpack, fumble with some pages I teared,  grab my journal and my fountain pen and start writing. I describe my surroundings, I use sophisticated words, I pour metaphors between the inky lines, filling up the cracks and at the end I powder everything with aesthetic pensiveness. A soothing smile builds up and my rose cheeks rise. I lift my eyes from the private notebook and watch as the German teacher enters the class. All around me students stand up. I watch them with a bored glance and go back to my business. 

'Let's all wait until Mrs. Dorchè stands up and salutes her teacher as she is supposed to do.'

Fuck. I'm not the only one not standing up. Is she fucking blind? The three hoes in the front are just as guilty. This bitch always looks for an opportunity to bully me. 

I stand up with the class and deliver the same dull salute as everyone. Anger had made my ears ring, stopping me from concentrating for the next hour. When the class has finally come to it's end I grab my stuff and head for the exit. I stop in tracks. The hoes are blocking my path, smirking. 

Great. Another bullying session.

'You're not going anywhere, evil witch. You should've killed yourself back at the Toscan bridge. Shame...' The girl who spoke was Heather. My bully since 1st grade.

'Yeah, w-w-w-we w-w-will m-m-make y-you pay, witch' says Maria, Heather's side friend. They had a very weird relationship. Heather used to bully Maria so much but Maria kept coming back to her, begging for her to be friends.

The third hoe is the one I hate the most. She is the boss in the group. Her name is Simone. She has green, cold eyes and a fat, misshapen body that people somehow consider hot. We have an ancient relationship made of pure, deep hatred for each other. I thrust my way through, knocking Heather and Maria over and head for the courtyard. Back at my secret place I take out a cigarette. I breathe heavily.

I need to calm down. The three hoes don't have a clue where my spot is. I'm fine.

I light the cigarette, put it in my mouth and inhale lightly. I hold the flame to the tip for a moment, give it a few brief draws until it's well lit. My lungs feel like they're wrapped in a warm blanket. My lips taste like bitter coffee. I take a few long, slow draws and slowly blow the smoke out my nose. There comes that feel again. I'm breathing and holding my breath at the same time. I feel the tightness in my lungs, a light-headed, hazy feeling. It would all go so well with a clear glass of Grappa. My thoughts dissipate in the thick smoke around me. My mouth gets dry, and my teeth taste bad. I ash too often...

 I'm too stressed to go back. I need to escape. I need to leave and never come back.

I hear careful steps coming my way and brace myself for the worst. Liana appears from around the corner. She checks if she'd been followed and turns to me frowning. 

'What the fuck, Arja? You know you'll get in trouble with The Trinity' I smile in relief.

 'I don't care, Liana. They were gonna bail me anyway.' I throw my cigarette butt and step on it. She studies me with concern but says nothing. We head back together and the bell rings. A substitute teacher enters the classroom 5 minutes later. She goes through all the formalities and decides for the worst- a talk with the students. She asks us questions in alphabetical order. It will be my turn soon. She asks every student a different question. It's my turn now. The teacher studies my clothing and my shoes. A smirk spreads across her face.

I hope that this old hag isn't going to ask me something idiotic.

'Arja Amou Dorchè. What will you be when you grow up?'

What will you be when you grow up? The dreaded question that makes me despise a person in the instant these words left their mouth. They want to hear the answer to the question just to tease you and tell you that you are never going to make it. They want so bad to inflict their opinion on you, to change you, to shape you the way they like best. I will tell her the truth. They can all laugh, they can do whatever. I'll be fine. What in the world gives them the right to judge? 

'I am working on becoming a known writer.' As soon as the words left my mouth a weird feeling reverberated in my bones, perturbing the depths of my murky conscience. An ancient memory surfaced...