"Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?"
Frida Kahlo.
Dragging my feet along the marble floor, I keep my head down as I navigate through the mindless crowd. Avoiding confrontation at all costs, I shield my face from their perceptive and judgemental eyes. Wanting to cry at that very moment, I take several deep breaths whilst praying that this day will soon be over.
Many whisper and stare, many curse under their breath, yet somehow I manage to restrain myself from breaking apart. Nothing seems right anymore. Each word appears to be carefully planned out, each sentence consisting of meaningless phrases. I can only listen as their remarks pile themselves on top of one another, creating a mountain of daggers which strike at my heart.
I feel as if every chapter of my life is fabricated. That all the sincerity has diminished itself into one, infinitesimal point. That sincerity is only a promise waiting to be broken, that love is a fraud no matter how you look at it.
I can no longer cope with any of this. It's swallowing me, engulfing me, taking me by the hands and leading to a dark destination. For now, all I know is one thing:
Life is complexity at its finest.
Let's sit back, and let the train wreck unfold.
...
Sitting in English class, I can't help but glance at Wyatt a couple of times. His green eyes have lost there shine, his smile has vanished and what's left behind is a stoic expression. My stomach turns and twists at every rejection, every failed attempt in which he avoids me or has to awkwardly acknowledge me.
"Just talk to me!" I internally scream. "Just talk to me one more time!"
To my disappointment, Wyatt makes no interaction with me. As he sits and closely listens to the discussion taking place, I sigh and decide to leave him. Maybe he needs some space.
"Love isn't a simplistic subject," Mr Thunderman states, "it's a subject of great tragedy, great agony and of course, great happiness. Are you all following?"
The class groans their reply as Mr Thunderman rolls his eyes.
"Anyways," he continues, "some say that to be in love, is to fall in love. This expression may be used to incorporate the fact that love is abrupt. Sure, the process itself is gradual, but when the realisation hits you, that's when things can get a little messy and 'Romeo and Juliet', proves my point exactly."
Then, Mr Thunderman proceeds to write the word 'torn' on the board.
"Have any of you experienced a moment where you are torn between how you feel and what is right?" He asks.
Silence fills the room.
Sighing, Mr Thinderman runs his hands through his hair.
"If not, let's set the scene. Imagine you had to forgive someone, although it wasn't that easy. The person you had to forgive, had committed a great act of wrong against you, causing you to be utterly heart broken. Granted, what that person did, hurt you immensely. Yet, depending on their circumstances, the decision on whether to forgive them or not, could become a burden. Especially if you're their only friend," Sir rants.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I witness Wyatt flinch and twitch at every words that's been uttered. Fumbling with his hands, taking deep breaths and doing all sorts of rituals in order to stay calm, I find myself quite worried as I watch these peculiar mannerisms play out.
Whilst this is happening, Mr Thunderman strolls around the room, casually staring at our notebooks and occasionally nodding if he reads anything he likes. Often, Sir would rectify our mistakes and make sure all the necessary info was in our books.
"This week," he announces, "I am assigning you homework to do with the discussion we had. It's an essay which revolves around the question of how Shakespeare portrays being torn between decisions in his play. You can work on it by yourself, however I don't mind if you work on it with someone else and send it to me via email."
Briskly, Mr Thunderman takes a moment to look at the clock.
"You have about half an hour left," he says. "So I suggest that you use this time wisely and start the homework now."
Instantaneously, chairs scrape along the floors as students begin to move to their friend's desk, in order to work on the assignment. Evidently, it's quite hectic but I open my notebook and begin to write.
"Oh Wyatt..."
Miranda?
She stands in front of his desk, pink lips pouted, hand on her right breast. The free hand twirls her dark brown hair and her eyes connote mischief.
"I was wondering if we can work on the essay together?"
I freeze.
"He won't seriously choose the girl who humiliated me in this very classroom to work with him, right?"
"Sure, why not?"
My heart sinks.
"Great!" Miranda squeals. "Let's get right on it!"
Upset, I stand up and stumble towards the teacher.
After asking him to be excused so that I can get some water, I walk out, immediately wanting to cry.
...
The water from the fountain soothes my dry throat as I rub the back of my hand over my wet lips. Observing the empty play ground, I sigh before telling myself that I should probably head back. Just then, I hear a noise.
"You are so dead!"
Three boys burst through a green door, pulling one blonde boy by his red hoodie. As one of the boys with dark skin and a high top staggers in front with his hands behind his back, the other two males holding the guy in the red hoodie, quickly approach him and drop the victim which was once tangled within their sharp claws.
"Listen, I didn't want to have to do this," says Mr High-top, "but you left me no choice. Boys!"
The boys nod before punching the guy in the red hoodie. They proceed to kick his ribs as well and thrash his face towards the ground. I quietly hide in the dark corner of the water fountains, thankfully remaining unseen.
Soon, Mr High-top raises his hands, signalling the boys to stop.
"So, are you gonna give me my money?" He asks.
"I don't have it!" The guy in the hoodie splutters.
"Liar."
"It's the truth!"
"Liar!"
Again, the boys continue to beat him up and as much as I want to, I can't pull my eyes away.
I need to help.
"But you can't," I think. "Your whole objective is to stay low, get through school and achieve exceptional grades, in order to leave this town!"
"But if I let him get beaten up," I think again, "it'll go against everything I stand for. It'll go against my value of always treating others right."
"He wouldn't do that for you! None of them would!"
"I am not like them!"
The boy grunts and moans as more punches are thrown his way, blood seeping out of several cuts.
"Time's running out, Val. Are you going to choose what is right, or what is kind? Are you going to choose the feeling in your chest, or the cruel fact and truth which is inside your head?"
Taking deep breaths, I look around, trying to find anything that will help me. Fate seems to be on my side, because my eyes quickly spot a fire alarm.
Without thinking twice, I pull it, listening as the sound resonates through the school.
For now, I'll choose with kind.
I'll choose the feeling in my chest.