Intertwined

The Grey Area

Emalia

2030

Often times when I read, the words blurred in my eyes. They ran together in a whole jumble of black symbols that made it impossible to decipher what was written. My teachers didn't believe me when I attempted to explain this sensation to them, and, in retrospect, the blame can't necessarily fall onto their shoulders. I know they had uncomfortable armloads of other pupils to concern themselves with, yet it still frustrated me. They would assign us two dozen pages to read for the next day, and no matter how intensely I hunkered down, dedicated myself to the completion of the task, I just couldn't focus, and the cycle was repeated all over again. I can't tell you how many conferences I'd had about it.

That was before Grey, however. Grey managed to make the challenge far easier, fun, even, but I wasn't placed in his class until I reached the age of ten. The time spent in school prior to his presence was a dreadful bore full of barely-passing grades and instructors' feeble strives at convincing me to "try harder" and "do my best, even though the odds may be stacked against me."

Coincidentally,  I never believed it to be a matter of faith, because according to Grey that concept had grown outdated long ago, but that's mixing my time frame up. Before I knew about faith, I just didn't enjoy the word very much.

I can recall the day they told me I was changing instructors very clearly, however, because the ordeal involved me moving house and switching to another schoolhouse. This teacher who they believed was the best fit was located in another Civilian District. I wasn't particularly bothered by this, for the group home I'd been living in for the last several years simply continued to get worse (the head caregiver wanted my head on a stick, in flames), but when I learned I wouldn't be staying with other children anymore, just one sole independent caregiver, the nerves began to settle in. But this change, too, occurs later in the tale.

During that last day of school in Civilian District Four, I felt as though something was wrong, something in the air, something about me. Even as I'd been getting dressed and cleaned up for class that morning, there was a swell of dread in my gut that made my hands tremble and my thoughts wander farther than usual. Ms. Arnold, that head caregiver I mentioned, never found the need to rush me; I was ready before the others for the first time in the history of our relationship.

On the public transit bus to school the subtle jingle of music made me mad, driving me to dare to talk to someone in a desperate attempt to alleviate my throbbing head, but the woman I'd sought out seemed perturbed by the little girl speaking to her, so I soon shut my mouth, settling instead on tapping my foot on the metal floor. I needed to vent that excess energy somehow.

As I vacated the bus at the stop in front of school and began advancing quickly up the cement path leading to the doors, a small fire decided to start burning the back of my head, the result of what had to be someone, or multiple someones, staring at me from all directions. An unfair bombardment of gazes had ensued. I remember with the utmost clarity the massive scramble of students up ahead, conversing and chatting like there was some kind of word count they had to reach before the loudspeaker indicated that class was starting. Their noise was very overwhelming, even from the distance I stood at.

In the funny way I barely managed handling children my age's presence, I allowed a surge of stress to lodge in my throat before preparing to carve my way through their lively ranks. My fists were clenched, jaw tight.

And, fortunately, my efforts proved successful. Once I'd swiped my school ID card in the register at the front door, the large glass structures swung inward and allowed me passage. I tried to stroll with as much leisure as I could muster past the main office with the circular desk and perky secretaries, gazing through the large window in the office's door in an attempt to wave hello to anyone who bothered to pay me mind, but, sadly, I earned no friendly reciprocations, forced my hands back into my pockets, and smacked on my juvenile brave face, as though I hadn't been phased by their passiveness.