An Inspired Story

School

We were told to write about an unpleasant memory of school but I didn't really have one so, this occurred.

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Everything seemed grey; the sky, the grass, the buildings. Everything except for one looming building. It stuck out like a sore thumb, the bright colours contrasting against the horrific nature of it; a school. Designed to torment, the school was painted in a lie, a lie every student knew: although painted in the colours of an innocent child's drawing, the school would chew you up and spit you out like a piece of tasteless chewing gum.

Enclosing the emotionally traumatic prison, was a fence. An impenetrable iron fence, topped with foot-long spikes as if they were candles. Rising up and up and up from the thin layer of fog that lined the frozen ground, the prison wall promised pain; whether it be emotional or physical, only time could tell, time that would still bring torment and embarrassment and hardship. They say school brings the best years of your life but they never talk about the anguish woven into the fleeting moments of happiness. Perhaps life gets harder, but life is already hard in the concrete walls of education.

The concrete walls encompass classrooms, hallways, toilets; all places that hold the possibility of humiliation. The hallways especially,  the lockers not only holding belongings but also memories; good, bad, all memories that take place in the extensive hive of school. Currently, it's filled with people, buzzing about anything of notice; the latest gossip, the freak, the irrelevant happenings of teen society. With the diluted light filtering through the imaginary bars over the windows, the hallway is illuminated with glowing particles of everybody - past, present and future. This and the beeline of students waiting impatiently for class to start draws in and in and in, causing the colony to feel the undercurrent of claustrophobia, not necessarily real but to society, that everybody has and no-one mentions.

Just beneath the hum of changeover and stress, you can hear a mourning soul;  mourning the loss of normality. Not a real sound, not one that you can actually hear but something that the soul gives off, like a cat marking its territory, and everyone understands. There may not be a noise coming out of the hurting person but everyone can see her; curled up, head in between their knees, a bubble of space cutting her off from the populace. Silently, she sobs; knowing that if she makes a noise, even a sniffle, a person will go up to her and ask 'are you okay', turning the tap on, the waterworks running down her face.

The tears leave tracks as they fall, with her remembering a time when she was happy; a carefree, jubilant time. In her head, you can see the same corridor with just as many people, just as many lockers holding just as many memories, just as many classrooms coming off the lengthy hallway. The only differences are that the imagined bars on the windows are gone and the previously blue face is now as joyful as can be, laughing and smiling with a group of friends that were earlier just some of the many blurred faces, walking past the crying girl.

I remember that; the supposed friends I had, the supposed school that was meant to catch me when I fell. They didn't. They let me fall, and fall, and fall until I hit the rock bottom. The bottom where everything felt hollow, everything was hollow, where the skies were always grim and the grass no longer green. I remember when I took happiness for granted and paid a steep price for it. I remember the price. I remember falling, the feeling of weightlessness until you hit the floor. Nothing hurt until I hit the bottom, the bottom in the landscape of my memories, the bottom formed of all my bad and awful thoughts, dreams and memories.

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So? Am I a crappy writer? Pls, tell me! In the comments below! Otherwise, I might just, you know, break down in a hole and never come back out. Nope? Okay then, I'm just going to go my hole. Goodbye world.