Unstoppable

The First

'Here we go again' I thought as I lingered at the front of the gates, reluctant to cross the barrier of freedom into an almost wasteland of hidden despair and anguish. I mean, no one likes school that much, but I despised the place. The amount of life I waste away in this place, the lost time I'll never get back that I voluntarily give up, give away, to learn about things I don't even give a shit about? Yeah, not exactly my type of fun really. Even then, half the things they teach you are useless. The biggest thing I notice half the time as I stand outside is that the gate really needs a new paint-over: the charcoal, strong black colour that convincingly coated over the fence was slowly peeling off of the bars itself. The hard outer layer revealed a pristine, shining metal layer. The bars were never looked after, but the hidden things are always the brightest when revealed... maybe that's a metaphor for life or something. I dunno, I was never the metaphorically clever kid

As I stood there pondering this, all sorts of kids strolled past me. A few spoke with their friends, calmly meandering into the place. Some stalked in with distraught, confused looks on their faces as they try to work out why the fuck they seem to still be here, and a select few bounce in, real smiles on their faces. Me? I stand outside for as long as possible, trying to find a reason not to walk into such a place as this. A place that tells me I don't fit in, that I'm stupid, that I have nothing going on in my life. I can't 'relate' to all these other kids. They have so many friends, and such a comfortable life, and such an amazing future to discover. Me? I'm here to get some sort of grades and move on into unemployment or depression. Or both.
"Move, dipshit." A voice I recognised well interrupted me whilst shoving me aside into the bars. I throw my arms behind me to protect myself, but the bars still slam into them anyway, bringing pain into them instantly. The left arm is twisted into the bars, and I can't remove it without giving it proper attention. As I bring my head up from looking at the crumbling concrete, a fist hits the side of my head, jarring my vision and making me jolt my arm further into the gate panels.
"What? Scared to enter? You should be, stupid. You won't do anything successful in your life." I heard him say snootily as he spat on me and walked through the gates.

That guy is Liam Stall, one of the main guys who likes to pick on me. He takes a lot of joy in hurting me everyday, whether it be physically, mentally, or psychologically, he loved doing it. I never understood why he would do it in the first place, but that's not my place to ask, of course. Maybe his life at home was shit, maybe he just had problems of his own, maybe he just loved it. I don't know. I don't care. All I cared about was getting through each day of his rigorous torture tests. I can't tell anyone he's doing it: they don't believe me. They don't think anything of it. They think I'm lying. They think a 'kid of my power' couldn't be smashed up by him. They're wrong. All wrong. Everyday is the same: he hurts me.

And I can't change it.

I spent a good few minutes wriggling my arm through the bars, much to the amusement of all the goons who follow him and the others. All they are are sheep: puppets controlled by one big string, moths to a fire, mice to traps. They follow whatever it is blindly, no matter how outrageous or stupid or unpredictable the repeat might be. I thought it'd broken, because I felt nothing from the arm, but I felt a dull throbbing pain ebb from my wrist up to my fingertips, causing me to wince when I bend them into a fist. By this time, the bell had rang, and all the people who'd been jeering me had ran off to get to their first classes.

I was left. Alone. Outside. Well, there really was nothing for it now. I have to go in. If not, I'm gonna find some bullshit excuse to never go again. Pushing against every single solitary cell in my body, I managed to cross the gate and head towards my first class. As I walked through the desolate, silent grounds, I realised how much nicer it was when everyone wasn't screaming about something or other, or running around like they've just been possessed by a demon hellbent on making as much fuss as humanly possible. Every step brought me into a deeper state of thought, as the only sound I could hear well was my shoes crisply rining out on the tarmac, leaving no marks and making no other noise. Yes, I could still hear the muffled, extremely ignorable hell that erupted inside the school that the place desperately tried to hide. They had to create the illusion that you matter. That they really do care. That you aren't just another number to add to the list of good drafts the students themselves sweated constantly over, all the time. GCSE's are the most stressful things a human has to go through, due to the impact they have on our lives.

Just think about that.

A number, on a piece of paper, actually dictates how impressive my life is going to be. How successful my life will allow me to be. How amazing my whole experience will end up as. A number on some paper. It's a prime example of something that just doesn't need to happen, but does. All I am, all anyone is, is a number.

You think about that. That's all you are.