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The day dragged on, and by the time my Literature class ended, I was already on edge. Finding my Chemistry class—my second for the day—felt like navigating a maze. My brain buzzed with the overwhelming task of following the schedule, the fear of being late crawling up my spine like static electricity. But, to my surprise, I found the room sooner than expected.
Empty.
Relief and discomfort wrestled inside me as I stepped inside the silent room. My shoes squeaked faintly against the floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. I carefully selected a seat, one that wasn't too close to the front but not too far either. Routine. Structure. These were my anchors. I pulled out my textbook and lined up my pens, each with its designated color and purpose.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock on the wall hammered into my senses, each second a thunderous reminder of the emptiness around me. I glanced at my watch and then at my timetable. Four minutes left. Of course, I was early. Too early.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The sound dug into me, sharp and unrelenting. My fingers moved on their own, tapping against the soft material of the chair in a desperate attempt to drown out the noise. Tap. Tick. Tap. Tick. The rhythm became a lifeline, something to hold onto as the world outside blurred into a haze of overwhelming sensations.
My chest tightened. The ticking clock, the silence, the oppressive stillness of the room—it all clawed at me. Sweat prickled at my temples, and my breath hitched as I fought the storm brewing inside me.
Gradually, students began to trickle in, their chatter breaking the silence. My shoulders relaxed a fraction, though I kept my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me. I'd chosen my seat carefully, ensuring I was exactly where I was supposed to be. This way, no one would notice me. No one would question me.
But then the scraping of chairs began, sharp and jarring. Each screech sent shivers down my spine, making me curl my fingers tighter around my pen. I tried to block it out, pressing my feet firmly into the floor, grounding myself. Focus. Focus.
The teacher entered, his presence stiff and authoritative. Mr. Eduardo, with his furrowed brow and perpetually disappointed expression, looked like he carried the weight of the world—and the class's existence—on his shoulders. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he shuffled his papers, adding to the chaos of noises that were too much, too loud.
A student stood, their voice piercing through the classroom. "Salutations!"
The rest of the class rose like a synchronized wave, and I scrambled to follow, fumbling awkwardly with my skirt. My timing was off, my movements delayed. The noise of chairs scraping, students shuffling, and voices shouting in unison made my ears ring. My hands flew to my bag, searching for my noise blockers, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate. The cacophony swallowed me whole.
"Good morning, Sir," the class chorused, their voices too loud, too sharp, like nails scraping against a chalkboard.
My heart pounded in my chest, erratic and frantic. I tapped the desk, counting. One, two, three…
"You."
The word sliced through my panic. My head snapped up to find the teacher standing beside me, his gaze heavy and expectant. The world tilted as I tried to process what he was saying, but the words were muffled, distorted, like they were underwater. His mouth moved, forming shapes I couldn't decipher.
Panic tightened its grip on me. My vision blurred, and my hands moved frantically, shoving items into my bag without reason or direction. The noise, the voices, the sensations—it was all too much.
Then, like a lifeline, something soft and heavy draped over my head.. It muted the chaos around me, creating a bubble of calm amidst the storm.
I blinked, my breaths slowing as I focused on the texture of the fabric, the faint scent of laundry detergent. My fingers began tapping again, this time steadier, more controlled.
The person who had placed the jacket over me leaned closer, his hands briefly covering my ears as another loud commotion erupted outside the classroom. Screeches of chairs, excited voices, and shuffling feet filled the space, but I clung to the muffled calm the jacket provided.
"What's going on?" I muttered to myself, my fingers resuming their rhythm against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
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Flashback
"Hello," twelve-year-old Dahlia said hesitantly, her voice soft but determined. Her mother always told her that good girls should greet others, so she was trying. The older girl, dressed in her green school uniform, didn't respond, her sharp gaze cutting through Dahlia like a knife.
Dahlia's stomach churned, but she pressed on. She approached the desk, curious about the math problems the older girl was working on. Numbers and symbols danced on the page, foreign and fascinating.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
"What happens when you write that there?"
"How do you solve it?"
Her questions came in rapid succession, a stream of curiosity she couldn't contain. When the older girl remained silent, Dahlia's voice grew louder, her words spilling out in a rush.
"What's log? How do you know how to solve that? Can you show me?"
"Shut up," the girl hissed, her voice low and dangerous.
But Dahlia didn't stop. The numbers on the page were mesmerizing, and her need to understand outweighed the girl's hostility.
"SHUT UP!" the girl yelled, her voice echoing in the quiet classroom. She shoved Dahlia, the force sending her stumbling backward.
Dahlia hit the floor hard, her palms stinging as they caught her fall. The room went silent, the air thick with tension. Then, like a dam breaking, a piercing scream tore from her throat.
Her body burned where the girl had touched her, the sensation overwhelming. She clawed at her skin, desperate to erase the feeling, her sobs echoing in the stunned silence of the room.
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End of Flashback