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Black and white"Hey, hey, Kiraaaaaa!"
The feminine voice stood out against the normal chatter of the room, causing me to lift my head up from my reading. A blonde, ponytailed girl in a plaid skirt and white blazer ran up to the my seat in the brightly-lit room.
Motivational posters were littered across the creamy colored walls, still as stone, contrary to the girl whose dark brown school bag swayed with each step she took. We didn't even need to wear fancy uniforms like hers, but this particular student loved wearing them.
Actually, she was pretty much the only one who even liked them.
"...yes?" I asked the charging girl, raising an eyebrow and motioning with my right hand to sign
Frustration"Okay, class, write down the color and texture of the four objects, then find the density of the objects. And please, don't scrape the wax off of the wax block."
This would have been an acceptable assignment in 3rd grade. Or 4th. Or 5th. Heck, 6th was pushing it, but if we were using interesting objects, it'd be fine with me and at least it'd be curriculum-related and we'd be learning something.
But this was 8th grade. 8th grade, in a high-capability class, the year with a huge standardized science test at the end of it and we were finding the texture of acrylic and candle wax, or something.
Because this was new stuff and we needed to spend a week figuring this out. Uh-huh. Oh no, I don't know how to find the texture of this object! Oh dear, I can't see the colors of this and I'm not colorblind!
Just, no. No.
And the worst thing about it was that the teacher gave us things that we didn't even know the names of but were obviously commonplace and not really academic a
UnbreakableTheme number 5: unbreakable.
I used to think I was that. All high and mighty, you know. Back when I was unbreakable, I thought that I could go through life as I would a superhero, soaring through its difficulties and smashing through its obstacles.
I thought that I could save myself and anyone else, even at gunpoint, in my little fantasies where I was the hero.
Not really. Not anymore.
Not after I've been crushed by paranoia, strangled by fear, and if you needed a physical thing, then almost killed by a seat belt.
No, really. A seat belt. Well, a seat belt smashing into my liver at more than 50 miles an hour, but a seat belt nonetheless.
I'm pretty breakable now.
Reaching for an eraser, I sighed to myself as I reread the words I had just written. Was I in a writing funk or what? Themes that don't make sense, themes that are seriously depressing- like, really?
I'd better step it up some.
Taking the paper and crumpling it, I started on a new sheet.
Hopefully I wouldn'
This couldn't be happening,
They couldn't make me.
They didn't understand.
I was never the performing type.
Well, perhaps a bit when I was younger, but I didn't know anything back then.
Nowadays, I prefer sitting in the shadows, watching other people shine.
Looking from the shadows is fine with me.
It may hurt to be alone, with nobody to lean on, because the panic attacks that come more frequently now, that wreck my mind and create delusions that send me silently screaming for help and clawing at my head are forced shut in my head, because there's nobody whom I can trust enough to talk to.
Yes, it does hurt.
But having to preform, to even simply be in a person's presence scares me even more.
Because I always get a feeling that I must meet their needs.
I must please them, in some way or another.
But I don't know how.
And as you can imagine, it's very nerve-wracking.
To have a problem and not know how to fix it.
Sunshine and Rainbows: Epilouge-Some time later-
It was lunchtime. Again.
The sun was still shining, the sky still spotless. A rare sight in early March, but a sight nonetheless, making the mood brighten in the large room- again.
Only this time, it was more subtle- more relaxing.
'This past year, I've really been through a lot, haven't I.' I thought, smiling to myself. I carried my drawn-on dark blue binder into the room, looking around and taking in the tables that were occupied by fellow students.
I walked forward, then right, stopping for a moment at the table where, last year (or was it this? It seemed a lifetime ago) our little group of friends sat at the table. I could see some now, gathering with food, sitting in their respective spots. I saw the spot I usually had occupied, grinning at the memories it held. A person who was fairly new to the table- I don't remember his name- looked at me.
Then I shrugged and walked right past, putting my stuff down on the next table over, and making myself comfortable in an
RivalryNo matter how much you try to love everyone, there's always that one person you hate. Or multiple people. Or more than multiple people.
I frowned, and continued writing in the journal.
Sure, you really try to connect with them, but after a while, you kinda just give up. Then you start hating them for the stupidest reasons, judge them unfairly, everything you can do without simply murdering them on the spot. So I guess that it's the reason why people aren't gonna agree with each other for quite some time- we just can't help but hate each other sometimes.
I groaned and leaned back in my chair, dropping the pen down on my desk. It was bad enough that I had to write during the weekend- I had to write about rivalry, of all things.
Okay, actually, I imposed that on myself, but I really didn't want to get into the specifics. I mean, no use telling myself that I promised I'd at least try to do all the themes, right?
Rivalry was a kind of strange theme to
Prisoner of WarI never quite figured it out.
Of course, that might be because I had, well,
No knowledge on the subject,
But that doesn't change the fact.
I'm terribly sorry for any misunderstandings,
Or stereotyping I may have,
Because as I just said,
I am not literate in the language of war.
Every day, people fight.
Perhaps it's a trivial matter,
Such as who gets the TV remote,
But sometimes- And I hate this one-
It's about who shoots first.
Or about who gets killed last.
Worst of all: who can kill more innocent people for a silly cause.
Isn't that what war is about?
They say to fight for our country,
At least in America.
They tell us to bear our name with pride,
Uphold justice within the states,
And serve a patriotic cause.
To not conform to a bad cause,
Such as fighting for another country,
Or giving any kind of mercy to the particularly nasty ones.
Because our country is all that we live for,
And it deserves more respect than us.
They say that, but they know that not all of us are pure
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