By: Celest (Alanna Le)
I walked into the building. It hasn't been long since I was last here. Well, I've spent more than half my life here and still have 8 more years to go. The scent is familiar. A scent I've smelt more than once. The sweat and smell of all the students and teachers combined into a smell. A smell my brain now associates the feeling of despair. My cheeks turn hot, my hands shake, my heart beat, all at once. The air feels like thick honey; slowly suffocating me. With each breath, it gets harder to speak and things get hazy. But nonetheless, I greet everyone with a smile and laughter. Saying "I need help, please help me" doesn't come out the same way anymore. The years in this hell hole have turned everything I say into ironic phrases and laughter. My cries for help slowly shape and form into false happiness; like some sort of hellish filter for my emotions.
Friends. Greeting and smiling at old friends that I just yelled at over text. Ignoring all the past drama as best as I can. People greet me with rumors spread about me from the previous year. All the amazing past memories soiled in rumors equal to TV lies. I try my best to smile and hide the feeling I'm having inside. A dark, black figure eating my insides up until there is no more energy left by 3:50. Attacking at random moments, anytime, anywhere. Bringing tears to our eyes we try so hard to hold back.
"I'm sorry." I can't learn this way. I can't see the problem like she can. I can't read the book like he can. I can't think the way the guidebook can. I can't follow this road forcefully paved into my life. Everything I do is controlled. Everything I do is independence. Everything we do is so we can all grow up and work like slaves in a factory line. "How is the history of Spain going to help me with being a Doctor?" "How are algebraic expressions gonna help me with my dream of voice acting?" "How is learning about cells going to help me pay my taxes?" Questions we aren't allowed to speak. Questions I have that I can not express.
This system forces us to be independent slaves. But, people like me shouldn't think this way. People like me have something wrong with them. Because we have a chemical imbalance in our heads. Or what they like to call "a phase" or "being sad". The words "get over it". Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Over and over and over again. But, I am not supposed to be different from these kids. I am not supposed to trail in my own thoughts. Only the thoughts of others. And with the voice inside it just makes it harder. With the voices driving me to the point of death. To my hope and will. In the end, I have to do it all. Again and again, until the release me and I have no idea what to do without them.
