Creative Writing Being There

It began as a whispering in the air. The day had been beautiful and the sky was like a dome of plasma blue. Large pillows of clouds were forming, blotting out the stained gold of the fun. Your eyes caught the first droplet of water as it cascaded from the ridge in the roof adjacent to the side of the classroom. Droplets of moisture began to drip from the leaves hanging limply from the trees, they were sprinkling onto the grass like a gardener’s hose. It was a Noah’s Ark convulsion of rain, an unending hurl of water sluicing from the sky.

You glanced outside, and noticed the rain had at last ceased, the wind now toyed with the leaves. From inside the classroom, envious of the outside world; the grassed field lying out like a wet blanket, the weathering trees that battled back and forth in the wind. you confined in the stillness of outside yet felt consumed by what the classroom entailed.

There were kids running around, aimlessly. Desks were turned on their backs, chairs barricading against windows, doors, and hurling left to right and center. A mass destruction of supplies. The troublesome teenagers were defiant in wearing their school uniform, they were rebellious in their acts of hanging their navy jackets around their shoulders, against the school’s policies. The teacher was dismissive, accordingly late and careless. The students were easily distinguished by the massacre of stripped burgundy in their hair, and as they pulled out their iPhone X’s the sound of camera shutters allured the room.  

Students hammered on the remaining desks as they tipped and gathered balance before cowering over onto the ground. Blaring ear-splitting music; the deafening dissonance could be heard down the hall, thumbing against the vinyl floor.

You cuffed your headphones over your eyes, eyes wrenched shut as your body pivated back and forth in the chair. The madness and incalculability of the classroom let out a wave of incomprehensible frequency – spilling into the tunnel of your hypersensitivity. You could never tell your classmates to quieten down, your social communication was weak. Eye contact from another individual was enough for you to spiral and abruptly cause a scene. It was any excuse to metamorphosis into a raging tantrum. Each time you were tormented by sound, people, and lack of routine.

Noise grew in the classroom. Paper planes were being manufactured with great focus, flown from A to B whilst brushing the tip of your head along the way. Your breath turned from quiet and regular to a pant and gasp for air. The air had ever so suddenly become thick, the air was too difficult to draw in. Tension grew in your face and abdomen, a primal surge to flee become too overpowering to avoid. Racing to the bathrooms, your stomach contracted so violently you reached the bathroom just in time. Chunks of the morning’s breakfast covered in creamy chyme from your stomach propelled into the toilet, splattering the sides of the basins. Heaving again and again, you were weak and collapsed to your knees and retched.

Not again. Hopefully tomorrow would be better; the teacher would turn up on time.  







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