Story, Unknown

I.

The ink spills across the paper, slipping through the pencil's tip and coming out messier than parchment from a feather. It smears the thin lines, passing boldly through the pages.

This is my life now. For the next 10 months, this is all I'll be doing. And after that, I'll be doing it some more, with nothing but a few weeks to keep my long-lost sanity.

You might be wondering what kind of a tortured, dead-end life I must lead. If you are, dear reader, best stop right away, before it gets embarrassing. I am simply a student, with too little time to waste and wasting it anyway.

By this time next year, my future will finally be up for debate once more. And me being me, I'll close my eyes shut tightly until the very last second and then... The moment will be gone. I'll mutter something random like a child on the playground. And that will mark my destiny. My decision. My life. Undeniably, my regret.

But for now, it's only sophomore year. Applications loom over me, talks of joining clubs ruminating in my ears. I'm not joining any. I always said I would, in case something of interest showed up on the list. It didn't.

That's a lie. I do chess. Only day two and I already hate it. Hardly a wonder. I hate most things. That's just the curse of being good at something you despise, I suppose.

But this is my life. That much is true.

Each and every day, for the next 10 months, frequently including weekends, I'll be stuck at my desk, scribbling line after line after line of useless, random knowledge that reminds strongly of unhinged online fact accounts. Knowledge I'll never truly care about or begin to appreciate. Perhaps it's just human nature. Or maybe it's just me. I wouldn't say that matters.

Over the course of a few weeks, it will stifle me, drowning out that little self-definition I still follow. It'll break me down and pin me to the floor. Because you can't write out answers forever. You can't spend your nights watching the pencil slide against paper. Again. And again. And again. You can't sit still for hours on end, when you know you should be asleep.

I used to think you could.

Two days in. Five cups of coffee after four hours of sleep. You can't.

This is my act of quiet rebellion.

This tiny piece of myself that I'm not even fond of. But, maybe, it's all I have left. In the chaos outside, where I'd lost myself; a small sense of familiarity as I struggle to keep my head above the raging river. It drags me down, pulling me under the hard surface. It's only a matter of time before I plummet. To the very bottom, perhaps, and never back up again.

I refuse to let them take me away again. This time, I'm not letting them have my all. Bury me low. Erase me.

Never again.