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Plastic School

The storm was brewing mercilessly over the grey horizon. The wind did not whistle, it screamed. The trees did not sway, they creaked. The rain did not drizzle, it launched down attacking every human there. The kids not stroll, they slid their feet off the ground like brainless zombies. It was a Tuesday morning and I was stuck in school, not wanting to go out. A thin layer of condensation covered the window and I wiped it clean. Ahead of me, was my reflection; the image that was painted by those around me. A shy, awkward boy who does not speak to anyone apart from himself. However, as I looked at myself, I could see my vision as well; a creative, striving writer who wants to achieve his dreams to the best of his abilities. I adorned a fake, warm smile as teachers walk past me into their classrooms. The clanging of their keys, the tick-tock of their heels, the slamming of the doors. Each and everyone of them were the same - unable to hear my silent cry of help. So engrossed in the badly behaved children, they forget to acknowledge the well behaved ones ;being grateful for their patience. Chained to the rhythm, every lesson was the same. Tired faces of students implanted at every desk, yawning in synchronisation, begging for oxygen. Teachers reprimanding the badly behaved students and overlooking the rest. Notes get taken and detentions are received. Not one lesson is extraordinary or indifferent from the rest. I put my head down and work, afraid to stand out. Terrified that they will be against my small protest. Petrified that they will think it's all a joke. This is why I have writing- the ability to thread words together without anyone giving me decimating looks or cutting glances. This was my escape, yet it gets taken away from me by everyone surrounding me. Tired of welcoming teachers with my plastic smile, I go to the library.