Jan 19, 2016 - Creative Writing    No Comments


Sat at a grey desk in a grey room with the mundane world of secondary school spinning around me, someone else raises their hand to ask a snarky question. It’s funny really, the contrast. Pens scribbling, people talking, pages turning, a dull explanation from an unconscious teacher. I finally raise my hand.

The room begins to spin faster than usual as attention falls on me. My heart sinks and my stomach lurches but it’s okay because they can’t see me.

I have to go.

A patronisingly sympathetic look and a muted nod later and I’m on my feet. I reach down and hoist my bag onto my shoulder feeling only the weight of it as my arm hangs by my side, devoid of energy.

As I move towards the door, I can feel the unspoken confusion wash over the room. Sensing that, I move faster and my vision blurs around the edges, turning a murky purple in colour. The fascinatingly blissful solitude that follows pulling the door shut behind me is initially relieving, even comforting. Well, until I have to think again…

Footsteps always have to be loud when you least want them to be and as I tread on the bumpy blue floor the noise seems to reverberate through the entire building. One day I’ll find a way to just silently drift through these corridors.

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