“All that crap you hear on TV about communication and expressing feelings is a lie. Nobody really wants to hear what you have to say.”
w/c - 841
The school bus is a sun bleached, rusted metal can that smells like cheap body spray and anxiety. It bounces violently over potholes making the windows rattle as it drives along. Every jolt vibrates through my skull as I press my head against the cold, smudged glass of the window. I am the only person sitting alone. I want to dissolve into the vinyl floor and disappear. Everyone keeps throwing sharp glances at me. Girls in the back whispering, I couldn’t make out the words they were saying but I could feel the heat of the conversation burning directly into the back of my head.
My throat feels like it’s been lined with coarse sandpaper, raw and completely dry. I swallow hard but the heavy lump in my chest won’t go away. Over the summer I became the girl who ruined everything. One desperate phone call from an upstairs bedroom at a party to sudden blue and red lights flashing through the windows, my entire life changed in just a few minutes. My friends became hostile strangers, and the rest of the school turned into a sea of unexpected side eyes. I don’t speak, if I shut my lips tight enough I won’t have a chance to mess things up again. And nobody can force me to explain the one thing I am trying so hard to forget.
The rest of the morning is a blur of bright lights and chaotic hallways.
During science class, the teacher goes over the syllabus which takes over the whole painfully long period. I stare at my desk tracing my finger along the cold, black science table. When the bell rings for lunch, I hide in the last stall of the upstairs bathroom, lifting my feet so no one can see I’m there, scanning all the drawings on the stall walls until the period is finally over. Out there in the cafeteria, the loudness of everyone’s conversations mixing together felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. Every long side glance, every burst of laughter is a reminder that I am completely alone.
By the time sixth period rolls around, my shoulders feel tight enough to snap off. I look down at my crumpled, sweat stained schedule. Room 535. Art.
The moment I enter the room, the air changes, it smells like wood, wet clay, and a chance to try something new.
The teacher, Mr. McNulty, is a tall partially bald middle aged man who looks like he belongs at a millennial burger restaurant. Standing in front of a huge canvas with chaotic slashes of every color you can think of. He has a piece of white chalk tucked behind his ear and charcoal smudged against his forehead. He doesn’t look up when the door squeaks open, he is too busy looking for something on his desk.
“I’m supposed to read you the safety handbook regarding X-acto knives, but I lost the packet”, he says his voice flat, echoing off the walls. “Just don’t stab each other. Find a stool, grab a sheet of paper from the back counter, and don’t look at me until the bell rings, i’ve dealt with enough already today.”
I slip into a seat at a table in the back corner. The table is scarred with decades of carved initials and dried paint.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
The voice is quiet, I flinch slightly, and look up.
A boy is standing there, leaning slightly to avoid a low-hanging display of paper mache masks. He’s tall, tall enough that he has to hunch his shoulders a bit. He has long blonde hair that falls right below his chin, a few strands tucked carelessly behind one ear. When he looks down at me, his eyes don’t hold a single trace of the judgment I’ve seen all day. They are just green and curious, waiting for an answer.
I can’t find my voice. My vocal cords feel rusted. Instead, I just shake my head.
He smiles, a small easygoing tilt of his lips. He slides his long legs under the stool next to me. “Hollis,” he says, introducing himself softly, conscious of Mr. McNulty’s sudden speech on the “agony of expression”.
I hesitate. I want to pull away, to retreat back into my silence. But something about the way he sits, not crowding me, just occupying his own space quietly, makes me pause.
I grab a charcoal stick from the bin in the center of the table and carefully trace four letters onto a scrap piece of paper.
E-D-E-N
Hollis looks down at the paper, then back at me. He doesn’t ask why I didn’t speak. He doesn’t give me the pitying look my guidance counselor gave me this morning, or the glare my ex-best friend threw at me in the hall. He just nods.
“Nice to meet you, Eden,” he whispers.
For the first time all day, the tight feeling in my chest loosens a bit. I look down at my charcoal stained fingers, and for a split second, the silence doesn’t feel so loud.
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a/n: More to come soon, comment if you want to be on the taglist :)
titsay
prguitarman
gracieabrams
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline