1993, the old schoolhouse. I hate these old school walls that have become my jail.
The walls must have seen so many people come and go. The old, green-stained carpet, the smell of lavender vacuum perfume used to hide the many odours and spills, its offensive to my senses, my hand is often found, shielding my nose and mouth from this unfortunate reality. This room must be some kind of health hazard. “Yuck.”
The small, round wall clock near the doorway is my greatest enemy. It’s slow, laborious ticking, laughs at my discomfort every time I shift impatiently in my chair, or glance its way. There is nothing loving or pleasant here, so why do I have to be here every day. Only six more years left, and then I will finally be able to make my own decisions. I hate this place, I don’t care about anyone here. I just want peace, away from all the drama and masks that teachers use to hide their own damaged hearts. I see right through all of you.
I hear laughter coming from down the hall. Someone thinks something funny has happened, but I highly doubt it, funny in this place usually means belittling someone else. At least the sun is out. It’s a warm summer day. Soon I will head outside to eat my apple, and feel the sun’s radiant warmth on my face, breathe in the fresh air.
I could plan a great escape. The teacher isn’t here now, maybe if I forge a note from mum, claiming I have an appointment to attend, and leave it on her desk, I can finally be free. I will walk to the park, near my house that feels more like a place where kids with crushed dreams go to soothe their souls. Oh well, I will swing on the swing, I love the feeling of the breeze on my face, the dip in my belly when I go a little higher than I should, when the chains jar, and I am nearly unseated, only to swing again, and feel the breeze kiss my cheek.
It feels like, freedom.
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