My body jolts suddenly in response to the familiar repetitive ringing from the device beside my head, uncomfortable upon the cotton casing. Before I’m really awake, my hand darts out towards the silencer. My eyelids begin to draggingly peel apart, the scarce hours of sleep evident in the discoloured bags beneath them, deep hues of violet and jade like an aging impact. I inhale, and through my routine I go, ready by 8:10 (though really it’s 8:15), walk till 8:45, bell goes at 8:48. Everyday the same mistakes, everyday the near miss of registration, everyday on time- just about.
As the clock strikes 9AM, my eyes flutter shut, minutes morphing hideously into years. The drone of daily notices becomes a comforting hum , a hum that echoes through the dull room, compiled with a myriad of personas, each securely camouflaged beneath a copy of a copy in a swamp green tie and blazer. 9:01 and my head lulls harshly onto the wooden table, each carved initial a comfort of 100 lives left to live, but this one is not mine, not really.
I’m not falling, I’m not flying, my teeth are intact, and I’m not even dying. That boy isn’t mine, now or later, though here I can be naive, I can be moronically narrow within this endless void of longing. Is it a crime to waste a little more time here?
Though perhaps here I’ll be late to an exam, I’ll leg it into the hall only to realise I’ve forgotten a pencil, and clothes- but don’t fret! My favourite superhero will burst through the roof and we’ll all pass with flying grayscale… that’s not right. For now watch me spread my wings! Just to fall down again, because I can’t move a muscle.
However, that boy’s back, whistling to the tune of my favourite song! “Hey!” He calls, “You alright?”
But I can’t move a muscle.
Slowly, slowly, the fear creeps towards; I can no longer wait and keep on pretending that the cares of my world will never come back. Just give me 5 more minutes to keep my worries at ease, soon our lives can resume, just please not today.
“Hey! You alright?” My body jolts suddenly in response to the familiar voice, dripping with stern sarcasm. Instinctively my head flicks up, only to be met with the face of the 40-something tutor I call ‘sir’. Years of imagined life flicker away like a candle in a snowstorm, as if they were never really there.
The clock ticks to 9:05, a wave of students flood the door, cascading through the hallway, a 100 lives left to live, but this one is mine.