Chapter Seven:
My Creative Writing teacher is named Mrs. Samberg. She's a petite, young woman with bronze-and-golden hair and round blue eyes. She had a vocabulary that stretched for miles and she seemed wise beyond her years.
It was a small classroom, dimly lit, with a blackboard in the front and a few tables around the room. At each table were two chairs. On each chair was an index card with a name on it.
I found my name on a chair in the back corner of the room, next to the walls. I loved it. I settled down as a few more students came in and found their places. I looked at the chair next to mine.
TRIM BALDWIN was neatly printed onto the index card. I snorted, wondering if this person's parents were high on shrooms when they named their kid. What kind of name was Trim?
Finally, after a few more minutes, all the seats were filled. There were only about a dozen people in the class, including me, which I liked. Small classes were pretty nice. I also liked that Mrs. Samberg turned the lights off. I liked dark rooms. They matched my dark soul.
Next to me sat Trim Baldwin. He was tall with longish, stringy dark blonde-brown hair that came down around his face, which was angular. His mouth was curled down into a frown, dimples framing his lips. His eyes were dark, but I couldn't tell exactly what colour they were because they were trained intently on the floor. He sat on the edge of his seat, hands folded primly in his lap.
That's when I knew he was like me.
He was depressed too.
He wanted to die, too.
It was odd, though. Here was this boy, who was somewhat handsome, I guess, if you went for that type of guy, but I knew that he was dating Whitney. She was popular.
Why was this popular boy with everything so depressed?
It didn't make sense. At least, not to me.
But I forced myself not to care. I couldn't care about whatever madness resided inside Trim Baldwin's shaggy blonde-brown head. I couldn't care about anything anymore.
Only death.
I made myself not care.
And in that manner, I passed the next ninety minutes of class going over the syllabus for Creative Writing class with Mrs. Samberg and ignoring Trim Baldwin because he meant nothing to me. Just like I meant nothing to him.
I only cared about the day that would come. I only cared about the day I would die.
YOU ARE READING
Thirteen
Teen FictionShe's waiting for the day when she can sink the knife a little deeper, throw herself down a little farther. She is tired. She wants rest. She is waiting. He's waiting for the day when his stomach shrinks into nothingness, until he can take his last...
