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Box I - Part VIII

I leave the bathroom with a light feeling. Not because I quite literally threw up all I ate today, but because now that the monster is out of the way, I can finally start to change into the person I've always wanted to be. The past me.
Walking towards the canteen to do my cleaning duties, I see Bint and Mitawasidun sitting on one of the tables staring at me.
"Shujaaca. We need to talk to you." She says. She wears no smile and bears no air of joy like everyone else today. Obeying her orders, I come closer. Mitawasidun starts,
"You okay?" He asks.
"Em, yeah. Pretty good." I reply.
"Are you sure?" Bint says.
"Wait, I don't understand why you guys are worried. It just a stomach bug or something. I'm fi-"
"But we're not here to talk about that." Mitawasidun explains. "Were you being for real just now?"
"What do you mean?"
"The whole, 'I killed the monster' thing. It's random, man. Are you sure the upper years didn't force you into this? I know how crazy Yahmii can get too."
For a while I don't speak. What they say is reasonable. Even I would probably be suspicious if I were them. But I'm not. And they got it all wrong.
"Yahmii's fine guys. Don't worry. He..he even helped me." I say. Mitawasidun scoffs.
"We are talking about the same guy, right? I don't know if you're the only to not notice Shujaaca, but Yahmii ain't that fond of you."
"He's right." Bint adds, "Why would he suddenly believe your monster nightmares? It doesn't even add up."
"Are you saying I'm lying?" I ask. They don't reply. "You are, aren't you? Everyone always does. And another thing," My hands are squeezed into a fist, and I grit my teeth to stop myself from shouting.
"The monster isn't a nightmare." And with that, I attempt to leave, but the bells ring. Great, now I have to do the dishes at lunch.

I head to class, Bint and Mitawasidun close behind me. Miss Amik is already there, waiting and smiling. It's odd. I've never seen her smile as naturally as this. Taking my seat, we all wait for the class to fill up. Very quickly, lessons start.
"I have wonderful news everyone." Miss Amik says, "Wonderful news indeed! This is mostly relevant to the upper years, but it is worth mentioning to you all that the government has released some new content you must learn."
The class groans but the complaints only widen Miss Amik's smile. "You will learn about Society in your last years at the home. And one of the topics in this material is about Luptonige, or the Anti-Lag drug which you all have proudly named: 'the juice'."
The class erupts with whispers and curious murmurs. This is the the answer to the question many have wondered, and fewer have dared to ask about. No one received an answer of course, other than the constant reminder that we needed it.
"Awesome!" Mitawasidun quietly exclaims. I forgot he sat next me.
"So, we are going to split the class in two. Lower years, you will continue you exercises, and if you finish, you will move on to the next activity. Ask each other for help before coming to me. This is only for today, as this lesson is very restricted to those fifteen and over. Middle years, you will write some poems today. The themes are:" she turns around to the board, "joy, sadness, fear, hope, hate, and love. You must choose at least three and write three poems about each. Be prepared to share with the class. Now, I know that I will be teaching the upper years something which you have all questioned at some point here, but I want to make it clear that if you are caught listening, not only will you have to spend time in detention with me, but you will miss your chance to see your parents or carers for the Visit next week. Even if they have already paid. They are aware of this, and hope that none of their children will misbehave." The class stays silent with the threat hanging in the air like heavy smog. Miss Amik registers this, and clasps her hands together. "Good. We're on the same page. Upper years, move your tables to this side of the room, and everyone else, get started." She says as she points to my left. Everyone begins their work. I look at the board. The words don't mean anything to me, yet everyone seems surprisingly inspired, writing down ideas for each of their poems. I look in front of me. Even the smallest of children understand the severity of Miss Amik's words. What's worse is that Hazaa, the rich kid whose parents are going to see him every week anyway, is working harder than me. I think he might have started his first poem already. I refuse to lose to him.