Skye’s P.O.V.
I continued to lie silently on my bed, watching my ceiling unfold into unknown crooks and crannies to entertain my sleepless night. I traced the air above me with my writing hand, resting my right on my chest. I could feel the cold autumn air drift through the open window, as if urging me to sleep but knowing I could never bring myself to float off into that peaceful oblivion. My head, spinning with thoughts and the feeling of numbness pressed heavily on the large pile already weighing on my shoulders, kept me from that undeserving luxury.
I saw a rabbit, painted with the flakes of white chips, slowly peeling away from its foundations, leaving behind the bare, grey wall. Even my interior decorating had started to resemble my personality. I suppressed my feeling to scream and instead, forced myself to ignore all other thoughts circulating in my head - but the one thing that kept coming back to me…was why?
I was annoyed beyond belief at that point and having to live with the fact that my head might just explode at any moment, was unbearable. And Saunters? Don’t get me started. You know that feeling you get when the only thing you want in the world is to not care? Yeah, I long for that feeling, but of course with Winter Exams, final preparations for the HG album and making an attempt not to pull my hair out, was a lot of work, strain and pointless stress.
Negatives. Negatives, negatives, negatives. Is that all my life has been made up of? It’s not fair, no, but even that itself is just another negative. I seem to find that they don’t mean as much anymore. Just another way for me to complain about all the things I don’t have, will never have and like the old- “I WAN’T A PONY! I DON’T HAVE A PONY! GIVE ME A PONY!” run when I was seven, I just continued to feel sorry for myself about it.
How many times must I slap myself in the face to remind me of how ‘It is over. Nothing will happen. Game over.’
I rolled to my side and tapped the glow button on my alarm clock impatiently. “4:37,” Oh joy.
At some point I must’ve drifted off to a dreamless sleep, which did not appear to have done any good. I got up groggily, not quite being able to avoid the mirror and having to look, unappreciated at my dark circles. “8:56” No time for make up today I guess.
I pulled on a hoodie and sweatpants before placing runners on my feet. I grabbed my book bag and made my way to a practical.
I was really in the mood to jab some long pointy pieces of metal into sick people. I’m kidding; I won’t take my anger out on them, just on some really sentimental ornaments sitting idly in my room.
Four minutes late and counting but Prof. didn’t mind as she thought I was mentally unstable (for a reason I couldn’t seem to comprehend) and thought it best for me to take “all the time I needed in these tough times.” She said this - to my face. This woman of about 5ft 2 with a short, dirty blonde bob and heels the size of Everest. She was only about 30 or so and couldn’t really be bothered with Medicine if it wasn’t for the “thrilling social aspect” she was, apparently, entitled to.
She was just one of those teachers that find your social life way more interesting than their own, also trying to find ways to expand your social circle by recommending different night clubs and the best party venues. I swear she will stalk your Facebook if she gets the chance. Nothing better than a “little bonding session” she says. You have been warned.
Prac. was cut short due to the lack of people attending clinic, maybe because it was a Thursday or because of wanting to pass on the ticket to an over-extended hyperactive convo. with Professor Pools. “You’re free to enjoy the rest of your day, without having to worry if you gave a patient an incorrect dosage” she chuckled, is this medical humour? Boy does it suck. “Don’t forget I want updates next week.” She chirped, her footsteps sending shock waves to the Bahamas.
