Thursday, January 4, 2010. My mother is driving me and my sister to prison, my term. I know I'm going to have a bad experience in school today. I always do. 

My sister's music blares from the cars speakers. Thank goodness today she isn't listening to something sickeningly obscene, no matter how subtle in nature. My mother grew up in another generation, so she didn't understand the vulgar metaphors in some of the songs that my sister listened to.  

Turning to my right, I look at my crudely drawn smiley face in the condensation fogged window. I smile, I'm always doing something random. Whether it be running in the cold of night, or writing a story with no point. It's almost like I need to do these things, or else all I'd think about is just how dire my life is here.  

I fight against my eyelids, which are threatening to clamp shut over my eyes. Last night I got less sleep than my usual four hours. That, in all rationality, is not enough sleep, but going to bed early would only mean that I would have to stare at the ceiling, observing my constellation of glow in the dark stars, or toss and turn. I am always striving for a good night’s rest, but it eludes me.  

My hypothesis for why I cannot sleep takes into account many variables. But, the most powerful of these is stress. Stress induced from moronic kids, stress from being unable to pretend that I can tune out what goes on around me in class, stress from the group conspiracy on me. Stress from being unable to concentrate on my school work while people are screaming to each other back and forth, arguing about pointless materialistic things. Stress from being so- alone in a sea of madness.  

Stress has given me a mild form of insomnia. My eyelids flutter, but I force them to stay open.  

Through the wind cooled window I see it. Gray clouds hang over the haunted asylum like an endless ceiling- my school. In my mind I cry out for freedom. Freedom from the horror around me. The ceiling of my confinement is visible the walls, however, are not black and white.  

Taking technicalities into account I could run away from home and legally be permitted to live at my lonesome. It would make no difference for me as that is how I have lived throughout my life. Eventually I will, and no later than a month. I close my eyes, resting my head on cold glass. Many thoughts swirl through my mind which never has the luxury of relation. Some of them horrendous enough to make every horror film quail in surrender.  

Two employees found dead at a downtown Pizza place in the twilight of dawn after a robbery. Each victim had their lives ended by two lead rain drops fired into their skulls. It was a heinously sadistic act of cold blooded murder, and the killers were students from my school. One of them was a partner I had in my art class. The realization that I was, for days, in the proximity of a killer raised a red flag. Just how many delinquents was I surrounded by?  

Male High School Senior killed in an unsolved hit and run. The little brother of one of my brother’s friends. I knew the big brother of the kid too. He was a cool guy; he never gave me any grief except call me by the random nick-name of Mosquito. I thought it was kind of funny. Laughter is one of those rare luxuries that I love to cherish, which is why I make myself laugh, limiting the power that depression has on me.  

Threats of a school shooting by a large group of students. It didn't happen.  

Male teenager killed by a gunshot to the head at the park. The park where me and my mom used to jog on the running trail, during my middle school years. After which we both ran a mile she proceeded to drive me to school. Other times we just went there to feed the ducks. We are both animal lovers. But, now I no longer see the park the same way anymore. Not after blood was spilt there. How the gunshot must have boomed like a cannon as the ducks slumbered.  

And the most recent- three girls dead after being struck by a car driven by a drunk driver. On a road that I frequent during my jogs in the frigid wind with its mocking whistle.  

Withered flowers and photos made illegible by the torrents of rain on the side of the road call to me every time I passed them by. The girls in the photos were only hazy silhouettes of who they were.  

In all honesty, I had never known them, but I do know that they often walked down my street. My younger sister actually knew one of the girls- the youngest who was just shy of her fourteenth birthday, which will never come. The girl had set foot in my home, and now she will never set foot in hers. She will forever be thirteen. 

And the really tragic part is that she died with her sister. Witnesses said that the sister had ran in front of the car hoping to save her sister. She was killed instantly, the car driving over her broken body. Two sisters would never see each other’s graduation.  

Sometimes, I can't help but think about how easily that could have been me. How it still can as I frequently go out for jogs. But, I've learned to not think that way. No good will come from allowing pessimistic thoughts to consume me.  

My mom stops the car on the curb on the side of the street across from my school. I grip my pack in my left hand and throw open my door. The cold air makes my arms break out in goose bumps beneath my sweater, which is as dark blue as the sea storm of the century. I swing my pack behind me and put my arms in the straps.  

“Goodbye son,” my mom says as she asks God to watch over me.  

I shake my head, saying nothing. I know it's best if I just ignore that part of my mother, but sometimes I can't help but tell her how I don't want anything to do with religion. Time after time she inquires that I go to Church with her, and time after time I say no. Although, on the rare occasion I oblige.  

The man at the podium of the Church talks about peace and harmony, but all I see is death. And, amidst my family I see Holy Wars fought with words. My relatives, whom I don't even know are of many religions and each have their own opinion on God's so called word. My ears ooze metaphorical blood; I am an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire.  

My mother drives away to drop my sister off at the middle school. My mother unknowing leaves me stranded everyday of the week. I look both ways before crossing the road, a few cars drive past, exhaust fumes vanishing behind them like phantom serpents. I run over to the other side.  

The building is planted over the unhallowed earth on the edge of town. The company that had the school constructed had a grim sense of humor. It slumbers over the earth like Death's watchdog. People drive by it every day. No doubt they know the reputation that surrounds my town. It floats around like a virus.  

But, a new comer can be fooled by the beautiful multi-million dollar theatre building that hides the campus. Like a luminous golden gate, it can entrance unsuspecting victims. That elegant building is where I go for my drama class. A diamond on an endless plain of smoldering brimstone.  

I still cannot begin to comprehend why my town has one of the top ten school theatre buildings in the nation. No sane contractor would have considered such a thing, and yet it is indeed always in my midst.  

I take off my scarf as I approach the building, my feet making only the faintest of sounds on the bricks beneath the soles of my shoes. The school stands as rigid and lifeless as a limestone boulder after years of being showered by acid rain.  

Tucking away my scarf in an empty section of my bag I reach for the metallic door handle. It is cold against the flesh of my palm. But, I know that what is inside is colder.  

I twist the handle and it makes the squeal that never ceases to fill me with relish. I enter the asylum, which I must go to every weekday should I wish to continue my free education. Most people know it by the name of High School.  

Passing several kids in inside I avoid eye contact, continuing straight ahead. The walls seem to close in on me. It feels as if I am dwelling deeper and deeper into the darkest of caverns. I pass the lunchroom, the aroma of sausage and freshly baked biscuits enter my nostrils. At home I had already eaten breakfast, so I pass it by. I wouldn't have to eat alone surrounded by bloody scavengers.  

I walk toward the counselor’s office to get on a computer. The computer at my house doesn't have Microsoft Word, or any other related program with all the advantages that it brings. I go to it every morning to edit my novel with the aid of spell and grammar check. I keep my novel on a flash drive now.  

Not too long ago I lost hours of grueling work on my novel a few minutes after my eighteenth birthday. It was a devastating blow to me. I could not stop from shaking with both anger and sadness. My stomach had felt like it's acids were boiling. I tried to calm myself down, nothing worked. But, someone came to my aid. They didn't have to, but they did.  

Nothing has ever been the same since then. I had finally seen the light in the pitch black. 

I work on my novel scanning through the pages looking for the green line that indicates a grammar mistake. It's not entirely reliable as most of it is dialogue where proper grammar is not a requirement. The minutes tick by and the bell signaling the beginning of my hell sounds.  

I save my novel changes onto my flash drive, pull it out of the computer, and log off my student account. Putting away my flash drive I shoulder my bag and walk to class.  

The counselor’s office is right next to the door leading to the sidewalk to West Campus. I walk around kids who are slowly shuffling forward like zombies. Maybe they didn't care about getting to class on time, but I did.  

I open the right side door to West Campus and walk into the warm cozy feeling building. The feeling, however is only just that, because the ambiance is no different than that of East Campus, which I had just walked from.  

I walk into my first period Economics class and take a seat in my desk at the back of the room. To my horror I see that the teacher is gone and there is a substitute in his place. The kids were about to make her day hell, along with mine. I felt sorry for the new girl who sat behind me.  

The teacher calls role and I say, “here” as she mouths my name. She then proceeds to give us our assignment. It’s nothing too difficult, only a couple of questions over chapter two of the Economics textbook. A dated book that claimed that the economy was functioning smoothly. But, in reality it was like an improperly weighted balance scale, bobbing up and down.  

While I work along with a few others, the majority of the class talk to each other, neglecting their assignment. 

I pity them. They are like dogs refusing their masters servings of nourishment. Without it they cannot truly live.  

The substitute teacher asks them to settle down and get busy on their work. They ignore her. She repeats what she said.  

It takes all my power of will to keep from telling the kids to clamp their barking jaws, and listen to what an adult has to say for once. But, I wisely keep my thoughts a secret.  

A boy sitting at the front of the class tells her to shut up using a certain f word. She pretends not to have heard the obscenity echo throughout the torture chamber. I didn't have to turn around to know that she did not like any of this. I looked at the paper on my desk and swept my pen over it.  

“Hey?” the boy who sits in a desk next to me says.  

I turn to face him. “Yes?”  

“Could I borrow a pen?”  

“Sure,” I say leaning to the side and unzipping the flap of my bag where I keep my writing utensils. I hand him a blue ink pen.  

The boy nods and returns to his work.  

These kids really should learn to come prepared to class. A student who has paper, but is without a writing utensil is like a soldier with a gun, but no ammunition. All he can ever wish to be is a casualty.  

I sigh in the safety of my conscious where no one can hear me. The teacher's nervous footsteps approach the desk behind me where the new girl chose to sit. The girl is not wearing uniform like the rest of the student body.  

“You're new here aren't you? Or are you just not in the mood to be in uniform?” the teacher said laughing. It was nervous laughter.  

“No, I am new here,” the girl said. Her voice was only faintly audible among the mingling howls of feral dogs. But, sitting in front of her I was able to catch every word.  

The teacher complimented the girls name, and then she asked, “Where did you move from?”  

The girl answered.  

So, she moved from a big city. That meant that she probably did not know the reputation that surrounded this town. But now she was getting a taste of it.  

As the class period goes by I work diligently on my work. All is going as well as it could, before I hear something that I dread. Someone is asking me to allow them to copy my work. I shake my head.  

The kid doesn't like that and persists like a scratched CD repeating the same line of lyrics.  

I ignore it as I put the finishing touches on my assignment. My hand tenses up around my pen as the conversations around me grow louder. I do my best to ignore them. But, no matter how hard I try it is an impossibility.  

At one point my fingers twine around my pen like pythons coiling around a tree truck. The kids are now conversing on the subject of marijuana.  

“What are you kids talking about?” the teacher said. “That's not appropriate classroom conversation.”  

Hm, those two phrases contradict each other each other. I smiled internally at the all the insane thoughts that materialized in my mind. My interpersonal world was a biosphere where everybody lived in harmony with each other. But, the world around me was a dark place where humanity had a parasitic relationship with one another.  

“Mrs. have you ever smoked weed?” a boy says. I nicknamed him Latey for his tendency to get to class late nearly every day.  

I find myself unable to continue any further and could only pretend to be concentrating intently on a problem. Thank goodness the kid who demanded to see my work had grown silent.  

“No,” the teacher said.  

“You're lying,” Latey said.  

“No, I'm not. I don't lie. Absolutely not.”  

“Man, you know you're lying,” another boy says.  

“Have you ever been drunk?” Latey said.  

“No!” the teacher said.  

I could not believe she was even answering the questions.  

“Have you ever taken a shot?”  

The teacher walked beside my desk and want to the front of the room. Kids were spewing questions from their mouths.  

“Alright!” she said. “I'll tell you a story of how I was given these little seeds that grew into marijuana plants."  

She proceeded to tell her story, being interrupted every few seconds. Upon hearing the f word about a half dozen times she went into a lecture on why she did not like that word.  

I wanted to cover my ears, because what followed was a stream of f words.  

“Why is it bad?” Latey said.  

“Yeah, it's only a word,” another kid added.  

She went on to say how she would walk out of a theatre if a movie had that word. The room was filled mocking laughter.  

This was insane! And I don't mean in the way that I am. It was just ridiculous. Did these kids have no sort of decency? I already knew the answer. Decency, courtesy, and any other similar attributes are not welcome in this town.  

The seconds seemed to never pass. It was as if the grandfather clock had finally given up the ghost. In my mind the rabid students had lynched time. The clock was dead and decomposing on a noose. His hands were now brown with oxidation. Would this confinement of agony ever end? 

I cried out in joy inside as the bell ending the period rang. I handed my paper to the teacher and returned to my desk to get my bag. The boy who I had let borrow my pen had already walked out of class. I wouldn't be getting that pen back. The next day he'd be sure and give me the excuse that he lost it.  

I said goodbye to the teacher. I had to show her that not everybody here was a monster.  

She smiled nervously and returned the goodbye.  

I walked out of the classroom, which was so peaceful without the kids. Next torture chamber- French class.  

I stopped at a restroom and stepped into a stall. A Swastika was sprawled on one wall, along with other racial slurs, and gang signs. Blacks, whites, and everything in-between was being mocked. It was so stupid.  

When I was done with my business I walked over to the sink to wash my hands.  

I stared at my twin in the mirror. I ran a hand over my hair, as black as a crows feathers. But, it cannot compare to the ominous darkness around me.  

I am holding a flickering candle in a black mist, surrounded by shadows intent on extinguishing it. But, I will never allow it to go out. I will help it grow into a torch to ward of the shadows. 

“Bonjour,” my French teacher said in his thick African accent, as I enter his classroom.  

“Bonjour,” I say smiling. It's a deceptive smile, there is no genuine happiness behind it. 

I take a seat in the barren room. I am often the first one in class. And so, I wait there patiently as other kids populate the room. I am glad to see that the trouble maker of the class is apparently not present today.  

That kid is one of the most vile persons I have ever had the displeasure of being around. And he sat in the desk on my left side. The rabid dog often joked to his classmates on how the teacher should go back to, “Where he came from.” 

Recently the teacher had gotten onto him about talking while he was giving a lecture. The kid had sprung out of his seat and thrown his desk against my leg. The bloody football player had no idea how close he was to having his cruel nature beat out of him. But, I had controlled myself. I wasn't going to get in trouble over something that could be easily shrugged off.  

The kid had then spat profanities to the teacher. Telling him to shut the f up. He even had the nerve to say, “You think you're just talking to a little kid!” 

I felt like telling him everything that was wrong with that phrase, but I refrained from it.  

The minutes were much easier to bare during this class. Throughout the class the worst that happened was a boy going into a brief tantrum and shouting at the teacher.  

When it passed all was silent. Everybody finished their assignment. Although they finished, it did not mean that they bothered to do it correctly.  

The iconic school bell rang and I exited the room throwing on my pack like I always do. French class is near the door that leads outside. I weave around kids, heading to the glass doors to the chill of the outside world.  

Kids are going in and out the doors. I hold an arm behind me to keep the door from closing. It's not quite as cold as it was in the morning, however never the less the wind is still irritating against my face. With a flick of my right arm I throw my hood over my head. 

A sea of kids is moving around me. I don't know any of them. But, I wonder if any of them are part of the group conspiracy on me.  

To this day I do not know why the conspiracy even came to be. All I know is that I would walk by groups of kids and they'd say things like, “You'd better watch your back.” It was sometimes hysterical how the things they said seemed to come straight out of movies. But, this was not Media, it was reality. 

Once when I went to my towns annual fair with my mom and sister an enormous kid had shouted, “Come on Big Boy, let's go!” 

Initially I had no idea he was talking to me. Because, calling me, Big Boy was like calling a creek a river. At that time I only weighed in at one hundred and thirty pounds at the most. But, when the towering figure had started to follow me around the fair and calling to me to stop walking, I had known that he was after me.  

I had wisely left the fair and went to wait in my mother's vehicle. I was forever grateful over my forgetfulness at leaving doors unlocked.  

But, that was two years ago. Now in my last year of High School the majority of the conspirators had either dropped out, or graduated from school.  

I reach a pair of doors to East Campus and pull the right one open. I once again set foot in East Campus. Today during my third period Block A day I have Chemistry. One of my weaker subjects. And it being on a Block period means that it is one hundred minutes long. The teacher always intends to use up every minute. From the moment I walk in, and until the bell sounds, signaling lunch.  

I pick up my pace and walk toward a stair rail, coiling to the top floor. I rush up the stairs, wishing they would never end. Going up and down stairs is something that I could do to the end of time. Whenever I'm given a choice between using an elevator or stairs, I will always pick the latter.  

Once up the stairs I head toward my class. My spectacle-wearing Italian teacher hands me a slip of paper to begin the assignment he has set up on the board.  

Students are already sitting in their desks, doing their work. This is one of my better classes, and yet there are still those who only live to spread the plague of chaos. Some of these enjoy taunting me at times. I never let them get to me.  

When everyone is done with the problems on the board the teacher collects the papers.  

The teacher had very strict rules regarding his assignments. Missing to follow even one step in a problem and he would count it wrong, even if you gave the correct answer. I had just narrowly passed the first semester, scoring in the exact center of a C and a B. But, in the end I could not deny that it was regardless only a C.  

Yes, it is a challenging course, but the teacher usually had many intriguing labs for us to do. My favorite was one in which he had the class check to see what their lung air capacity was. During that lab I discovered that I had the best lungs in the class.  

It hadn't done much for me. Nobody really cared much about after the first few seconds after I forced every last drop of water out of the five liter container. Five liters was the maximum amount of liquid that the air sealed container could hold. I might have a larger air capacity than five liters.  

An hour and several minutes later, the dinner bell rings. Now, it's a race to get to the lunch room before the entire place is swarming with carnivores, herbivores, omnivores, and eating disorders.  

When I reach the lunch room I get in the left line. Almost immediately kids begin to pile up behind me. It's like a feeding frenzy of sharks! I ignore this common occurrence. But, when a kid cuts in front of me I can't stand it anymore.  

The kid is taller than me, but that doesn't stop me from asking him why he has cut in front of me. When he doesn't respond I pull him out from in front of me. He gets mad and tries to squeeze back in front of me.  

He asks what my problem is.  

I respond by telling him that he should see the fact that there is a line behind us. While the kid stays where he is I am in no mood for a staring contest and continue down the line.  

I let out a groan, seeing that all the sandwiches are gone. I look through the other food choices. Life shortener, life shortner, and another life shortner. I ask for a chicken salad, the next best thing to a sandwich. I thank the lunch lady as she hands one to me.  

In my peripheral vision I see that kid who had tried to get away with cutting in front of my was next in line. Nobody else was doing anything about him cutting.  

In fact, most weren't doing anything as more kids who decided that they deserved to eat before others sliced through the contorted snake of a lunch line.  

I averted my vision from the scene and waited patiently while the students in front of me slid their ID badge under a scanner. Some students were purchasing bags of chips and candy bars, slowing the line down.  

Once there was no longer nobody in front of me I pulled my ID badge out of my pack and scanned it. While I was doing it, the kid who I had pulled out of line was glowering at me. 

I could have laughed. Did the kid actually think that he was in any way intimidating to me?  

I walked away and sat at my usual table with a bunch of guys and one girl. There wasn't much choice as to where to sit. Every last table was occupied.  

Earlier during the year there had been a couple of empty tables. At those times I would eat alone, and then throw away my empty tray or plastic container. After which I headed to the counselors office to continue working on my novel.  

The library, like in the morning, was also closed during my lunch period. The counselors office had become my work area. The counselors, however were terrible at their jobs. I once tried talking to them, and they were absolutely horrendous at giving assistance.  

It was no surprise why they were replaced yearly by the school board. Or, maybe that was just my overactive imagination at work.  

At the table that I was eating with a former fellow student of mine and a kid from my Advanced Environmental Science class sat, along with other faces. The former often ignored me during the time when I was till in Theatre Tech. It was like the kid was deaf. 

Now, I am happier in Theatre Production, although I am still vastly ignored. Considering if I don't take into account the student who seems to fancy me. Not interested.  

Another sin that my school is guilty of is that it is absolutely packed with kids who believe that sex is the very definition of fun.  

The county that my school is in has the highest percentage of teen pregnancies, and students with STDs in the state that I live in. Absolutely disgusting, I cannot believe I walk among these kids every day.  

As I consume my chicken salad I do the chore of tuning out the always vulgar conversations and jokes spewing from the mouths of the guys at my table. The girl sitting here seems unaffected by the talk.  

To give an example of just how idiotic the ideas these kids come up with they each came up with offensive nicknames for each other. Just for the fact that I sit with them they included me in this.  

I don't remember what obscene name they had given me, but I am none the less frustrated over hearing them refer to each other by their ridiculous nick names.  

When I was done eating I got up from my seat and walked over to a trash can. Tossing the salad container inside I made my way to the counselors office where I worked on editing until the bell rang.  

My next class was English. Now, that class could at times be my favorite, while at the same time it is more than capable of claiming the crown of worst period of the day.  

The teacher was insane, and she knew it. She often got into shouting matches with students. Whenever she was faced with a girl telling her to shut the f up addressing her as a female dog she would fire back with, “Say it louder!”  

That very same woman gave me a restriction to the number of pages that I can write. The worst of it was was how she said it. It was not the way a teacher is supposed to speak to a student. She didn't give me any sort of eye contact, and she stated it as if she were commanding a misbehaved dog.  

I enter the chamber, like always it is packed to full capacity with students. Not a single desk is unoccupied. Today, a girl got into a heated argument with another one of her classmates. The screaming girls were driving me insane. At any second the classroom could become a battlefield for two cats.  

I suppose I could break it up if it came to that. However, hat would not make me popular among my classmates, who were cheering the girls on. Like the bloody Romans at a Gladiator battle they wanted their thirst for violence to be quenched.  

“Both of you shut your mouth!” the teacher said. 

“No, you tell her to shut up!” the girl at the far end of the room shouted.  

“Did you not hear me!?” the teacher shot back.  

“Don't tell me what to do!” 

“Get out of my class!” 

“No, she needs to get out of the class!” the girl said, pointing to the blonde that she had been arguing with.  

“Don't point those fingers at me!” the blonde said. 

“You shut up!” the girl said, adding an angry girls favorite b word at the end. I looked down at my desk as the girl walked in-between the rows of desks and then walked toward the blonde girl.  

“You better get back!” the blonde said.  

The teacher directly addressed the girl that was up and said, “Come see me outside!” 

“What if I don't want to go outside with you!?” 

“Does it look like I'm giving you a choice!?” the teacher said, her expression one of pure rage. 

“Why do you want me outside!?” 

“We're just going to have a talk!” 

“Well, I don't feel like talking to you!” 

“You're either going to step outside the class with me, or I'm calling someone to get you out!” 

The girl threw her arms up and groaned. Passing the blonde she was having a shouting match with she muttered, “Ugly.”  

“Yeah, you better walk off!” the blonde called after her.  

“Shut-” the girl began. 

“What did I say!?” the teacher shouted. 

While all this was happening I was internally wishing for peace of mind. Moments later the girl stormed back into the room.  

The blonde and her went back to what they had begun. 

The teacher burst in saying, “I thought I told you to not come back in my classroom!” 

“I'm getting my stuff!” 

While she was making her way to her desk the teacher dialed a number on the wall mounted phone next to the door. 

“Yes, you can go ahead and send a police officer to escort a student out of my room,” the teacher said, her voice full of nothing but bitter anger. After a slight pause she gave the girls name.  

“I'm going!” the girl said, storming out of the room. The slamming of the door echoed like a thunder clap.  

The remainder of the class period was mercifully silent. It was one of the miraculous minutes of silence that I had to enjoy. All I did was lay my head on my pack and shut my eyes. The teacher was still so mad about her ordeal with the arguing girls that she hadn't bothered to continue with her lecture.  

I was snapped out of my peaceful trance by the bell. 

Next stop, Advanced Placement Environmental Science. Among the better behaved of my classes. But, the kids were by no means well mannered. There were plenty of vulgarities filtering through.  

The beginning of the period started with the teacher informing us of the horrifying news of her last period class stealing her beta fish and putting two males in a container to watch them fight each other.  

I was gad to know that my self preserving ecosystem in a bottle was untouched by the vandals.  

This time the worst that happened was the thievery of a large portion of the teachers fish. Unlike last time in which kids put air freshener in aquaria, killing the fish.  

To add to just how bad her other classes were a foreign exchange student from Germany requested to have her schedule changed to my period, because her previous class was so awful.  

After the shock at the early minutes of class the rest went well.  

When the bell rang I was on my way to my weight lifting class. Since it was a Thursday I wasn't going to lift any weights today. A smart lifter only does so three times a week. As I walk outside through the cold I feel a slight drizzle of precipitation patter my hair.  

It's been raining here a lot lately. I can handle both the cold and wet weather, but when they occur at the same time, it does get uncomfortable. Getting wet when it's freezing out does not feel good. It's down right brutal sometimes. Thankfully, there is only a noticeable amount of water falling from the clouds.  

Rain is a mesmerizing thing, as long as I ignore the fact that it is full of pollutants. I like to think of it as the atmosphere shedding it's tears. All the atrocities of mankind make it weep for us.  

Mother nature cares for us, despite us being only intent on destroying each other. I am filled with remorse. Not over anything I've done, but of what our species is doing. 

The weight room is in the Athletic Complex. The furthest building on the campus grounds. I pick up my pace, since I don't want to be late, though I often am. I'm just too far to realistically be expected to arrive on time. Jogging there wouldn't be much help either.  

And besides, the walkway was so slick with water that my chances of slipping were to be expected. Grace is not one of my virtues. Th bell rings as I near the Athletic Complex. A group of guys who are in my class break into a run toward the complex's doors.  

I follow behind. Today I won't be able to run on the nearby track. Not with the rain. A slip could do well to put me out of working out for a while, should I sustain the type of exaggerated injury that tends to happen to me.  

The rain is still only the slightest of drizzles, but it can easily become a down pour. I actually like full on storms. The brilliant blue flashes of lightning are beautiful, and the accompanying thunder is Mother Natures singing voice.  

I enter the building and head to the weight room. I don't go to the locker room where other guys change into their muscle shirts. I've got no intention of bragging of anything.  

I hang my pack by it's straps on an ab machine. Then I take off my sweater and drape it over my pack. The coach calls for every body to get ready for our warm up exercises.  

In the entire class of over thirty five students, only two are girls. One of the students has taken a particular liking of me, and it's not a girl. High School is a strange place.  

At this moment of time I seem to have effectively deterred him with my strangeness. Thank goodness for theatre. I've learned many outrageous thatrics that would scare off any sane person.  

After doing the warm up exercises I walk over to an ab machine and do four sets of twenty. Then I simply just wander around the room aimlessly. Close to the end of the period I become bored and go over to a squat rack and grip the pull up bars above.  

I know that I shouldn't be exercising any muscles today, but I don't have anything else to do. Well, I did, but reading or doing homework would make me a laughing stock. Although surprising much larger kids with my strength does not.  

The coach calls for everybody to rack their weights. Since we are so far from the school buildings the coach always calls for everybody to leave early before the bell rings. I don't have to be told twice and proceed to help rack weights that I hadn't set up.  

Once everything is done I jog out the Athletic Complex and into the coolness, beneath the still raining gray sky.  

I break into a half jog. My destination the huge building in the distance. The diamond on the plain of brimstone. My last class of the day. It was well worth sacrificing my off period to be back in it. Despite the fact that my fellow thespians could care less about me. 

Everything is so odd in this town. People with decency are treated like vermin, or if they're lucky, simply ignored. Their existence not even acknowledged. I would acknowledge them, if I knew where to find them in the sea of eternal madness.  

When I was in middle school I always wondered why people not from this town called the people here stupid. I assume that the fact that this town has the only asylum for miles around helps to keep people believing that life here truly is the pinnacle of failure. A dead end.  

I simply call it by the name of The Land Of Dead Zombies. It's rather suiting, seeing as no new ideas are ever established. For how can it? People are too scared to move here, and many of those that do live here are quick to move out. Most of the residents here are families who have lived here for generations.  

For them life was good enough when they were kids, and they felt no need to move up in life. At least according to some of my teachers that was the case. I truly had no idea how this town became a wasteland social disarray. And I don't know why my parents had decided to move here. 

I duck under a porch and run alongside the gorgeous building. Passing under the large lettering identifying it as being school property I am reminded of how some people were thick enough to steal some of the giant letters.  

Just how low does a person have to be to even think of such a thing?  

I shake the thoughts away and open the door to the shop area of the building. Inside the shop is nothing impressive. There is a large platform lying against the wall on the left side of the door like a beached whale. Buckets of paint are lying on the floor, and many other touches add to the workshop ambiance of the place.  

But, upon exiting the shop and entering the edge of the stage I can't help but be blown away every time I set foot here.  

A state of the art theatre is my class room. How many thespians throughout the nation, no the world, would cherish to be in such a place every time they went to their drama class?  

This was the only thing that kept me sane during my school day. Because, I knew that the wait and endurance of chaos would be paid off. But, the tragic part was that the kids that made up the cast were not the type that deserved such a facility.  

So many talented and ambitious students out there were acting on much smaller and older stages. So, why me? Why here? And, why doesn't anybody like me?  

I'm not talking about like me as in by appearance. I get plenty of that. Not interested in STD carrying zombies. No, that is not remotely what I mean.  

Why doesn't anybody like for who I am? Somebody once told me, “Because, those people are dumb.” That made me smile. It was an honest smile. 

That same person said this about smiling, “Smiling equals the ability to see the white in between the black. Even if the white is looking a little gray, at least you may be able to see it. Some people never do.”  

I'm not sure if it is from somewhere, but regardless, even if it is copyrighted material, it was used beautifully and intelligently.  

I walk in between the curtains of down stage left, and walk with a sense of purpose down a set of stairs. My feet connect with the house and I walk to the center aisle of eight seats. I take off my pack and set it in the fourth red chair.  

I then sink into the seat next to it. The two best seats in the house, are mine.  

That is why it is important for me to get here before the bell for the seventh class rings throughout the campus's in unison. There are no reservations. The ticket is luck. Something currency can never purchase.