Rated R for language and references to rape.
Haunted.
The school bell rings, and at once the classroom is filled with movement. I stand up, lift my bag onto my desk and watch the others chat among themselves. Their voices echo, loud, though the room, their exited words ringing in my ears. They’re thrilled that they’re free from school for the time-span of two days. I stuff my folder and books into my bag, toss in my pencil case, and clip it shut. Letting the weight of my bag pull down at my shoulder I set my chair on top of the desk and walk out, wishing my teacher a nice weekend before I let the door drop shut.
The hallway is a tumultuous crowd of enthusiastic teenagers, and I don’t share their joy. I close my hand around the shoulder strap of my bag, clinging onto it like a safety buoy, as I push through the throng. I greet my friends as I pass, and stop to talk to them. I laugh and joke, free under my careless façade, though on the inside I’m crumbling. It's so easy to pretend, to put on a pretense and make everyone believe that I'm perfectly fine. After all, I've been practicing just that for eleven years.
I feel laughter tickle my throat as Cathy cracks a joke, and soon enough I forget, and am no longer pretending. We discuss the day, the lessons, the teachers; the usual. What would teenage life be without never-ending sources of gossip? Another friend shows up, hugs one of the others from behind and grins. “Ha! I’m butt-raping you!”
They all snigger, but not me. I stare at the floor, feeling cold after this rude awakening. Gone is the carelessness, the sense of normality. I fix my gaze curtly on the black floor tiles until they’re done with the jokes, until they’re finished throwing that word around like it means nothing. I can understand, though. Naturally, people joke about the unknown, about things that scare or confuse them, or even things that seem so distant that they assume they’re never going to tie a real meaning or experience to the words. I don’t blame them, I just keep quiet, my heart pounding in my ribcage.
The topic shifts, and I join in again, my momentary lapse of joy having gone unnoticed. Then I glance at my watch and realize what time it is. I can’t help but grin when one of them extends a fist, speaking through her laughter. “Bump it, dude.” Our fists collide, softly, and she opens her hand, awaiting my high-five. I laugh. They’re so crazy, so awesome, and they have no idea how they’re keeping me from losing my mind.
“Gotta go.” I say, stepping into the open arms of one of my friends, hugging her. I pace away, heading towards the twenty-something parked busses. Looking back over my shoulder I catch their gazes, and shout. “See you Monday, bitches!”
Like most Fridays, my friends will be hanging out at school until the time comes to catch the train into town. I’m exhausted, and not in the mood to party. I was once again forced to provide them with a cheap, see-through excuse. I’m broke. I’m grounded. Sorry, we have guests for dinner. I can’t… too much homework. I despise lying to them, and every time I do it makes me feel horrible. But it feels less bad than coming out with the truth.
I write myself a mental post-it. I’m going to have to join them again sometime soon, before they and the others forget that I am capable of having fun outside school. The odd thing is, when I look back at a night in town, it’s the fun and the freedom that stick in my memory, and yet I am reluctant to go. The prospect of the omnipresent fear, the evaluation of every man that passes me by, the nagging knowledge that sooner or later the night will fall and the streets will become a more menacing version of they daytime counterparts. It all adds up in my mind, and scares the living shit out of me.
I love spending time with the girls, and it has, so far, always ended up perfectly or relatively fine. Save from occasional nights of over-drinking or the infrequent encounters with pesky drunks or annoying men on the trainride home, nothing negative has ever come out of the nights. Despite this, the fear simply doesn’t leave me. When my eyes meet those of a man on the street, I can’t stop my muscles from tightening involuntarily, a thought flashing through my head. Can his eyes, too, reach he heightened level of brutal cruelty I saw that night?
Statistically speaking there should be more good men than bad men in the world, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to tell them apart, making the data worthless. So what if there are more who aren’t evil? All it takes is one. How can you tell what his intentions are when a man stops you on the street? Does he really just want directions, or is there an ulterior motive? Once you’ve seen the manic, lust-driven rage in the eyes of a person, the image never leaves you completely, or not for a long time, anyway.
I climb into the schoolbus, glancing at the empty driver’s seat. The bus is my sanctuary away from home; the serene and generally tranquil transition between distraction and confrontation. I salvage what’s left of my happy mood and store it, very much aware that I’ll need it later. I walk towards the back of the bus, sliding into the last row of seats. Setting my bag beside me like a barrier I lean sideways against the window, my forehead against the cool glass. My hand finds my iPod, and I unravel the earphone wires. I exhale in relief. The next thirty minutes will be all mine to control, and then once I’m home I’ll hopefully be calm enough to fight the memory. My iPod begins to blast music, and I settle down more comfortably.
I won’t be disturbed; they all know better than to talk to me when I’m listening to music. My thoughts trail off, and I catch myself wishing that the school day wasn’t over yet. Although some aspects of school aren’t my favorite things to go through, such as the crowds in the hallways, there is a certain serenity that accompanies me there; like a shield that keeps my dire recollections away from me. Some things are too painful to remember.
My friends, the lessons, they’re all a very welcome distraction. Naturally it happens that there are memory-triggers, or that a comment makes me feel uncomfortable, leaving me to stare at the floor until my thoughts clear up, but still I love being at school, and I love being with my friends. The wild and hilarious bunch of teens that are my friends qualify as my support pillar, the column of strength that keeps the ceiling up above my head. I would be nothing without them, and even though they don’t know my secret, they’re the ones who are unconsciously helping me through the days.
The bus driver turns the key in the ignition, and I feel the bus tremble to life beneath me, jolted back to the present. I glance up and catch his eye in the rearview mirror, and my heart skips a beat. He turns his gaze away, and so do I, eyeing the people in the parked bus beside me as I focus on my breathing. My heart is in my throat, and I curse wordlessly. What the fuck, Ally, get a grip on it. You’re being irrational. Breathing becomes strenuous as fear threatens to close my windpipe, or so it feels, and I focus on my respiration as my gaze consciously avoids the rearview mirror. Inhale… Exhale… Inhale… Exhale…
When my sub-conscience regains control over the simple task of breathing I cross my legs, turning down the volume of my music, still waiting for my heart to calm down. Don’t be so stupid. You know you’re safe here, so what the fuck is up with that reaction? Damn it, this is absurd.
For a few minutes I silently beat myself up, then shake it off. My stare drifts across the school bus, and I oversee everything from my place on the last row. They’re all sitting silently, one or two listening to iPods, the others staring into space. I wonder. Are they hiding something, too? Am I the only one who feels this way? The only one who has a secret?
I focus on the music, sing along in my head, fold my arms across my stomach and people-watch until my eyes get tired. We reach the highway, and the bus no longer rocks uncomfortably over bumps and indents; now I can rest my head against the window without risking being smacked into the glass. All too soon the bus ride will be over, and I’ll be home. The kids who sit in the front seats are chatting joyously, and I smile a little despite myself, momentarily caught up in their childlike innocence. I can’t hear them, as the music is blocking out the sounds, but I can see that they’re happy. They’re happy; and that’s exactly what they should be.
I sigh, recognizing the roadside supermarket that indicates we’re only minutes from my bus stop, and glance down at my iPod. Scrolling through the songs I find my favorite one and select it, then stare at the familiar countryside that is rushing by. The way the trees and fields shoot past me, right this moment; that’s how life feels sometimes. As though it’s speeding up bit by bit, spiraling out of my control; and one thing I know already is that control is a terrifying thing to lose.
Hate floods me, and I feel my blood boil. Fuck you, you cunt. You had no right. You had no fucking right to do this to me. Hell better have a special place for sick bastards like you. I wish you were- The bus screeches to a halt, cutting me off mid-thought. I switch off my iPod, dropping it into the front pocket of my bag before getting to my feet. On my way out I smile at the little girl who is already getting off the bus, and she smiles back, wishing me a nice weekend. I step into the fresh outdoor air, and react to her waving as she makes her way to the front door of her house. She’s the living example of what childhood should be all about; playing with friends, swings, happiness, and innocence.
I unlock my front door and push it open, stepping into the hallway. I shout a greeting, then retreat to my room. I should probably try to be more social, but I’m not in the mood. I know my parents will be mad if I don't come downstairs to say hello, but today I don't care. Dropping my bag in a corner as I pass, I head over to my laptop and switch it on. The internet will be my entertainment for the afternoon. My thoughts stop swirling in circles, and allow for peace of mind, accepting the manner in which I plan to pass the final hours of daylight. I find it amazin how much time one can waste while surfing the web, and how many pointless videos there are on YouTube. With internet at hand, it’s nearly impossible to get bored, and it's overly effortless to block out thoughts that haunt you. The internet contains such mind-numbing bullshit that you nearly go brain-dead, which sounds like a plan to me.
I sigh, my gaze drifting across my room, taking in the familiar furniture, the eternally cluttered floor. It’s my personal territory; the place where I, and only I, should be in control. Leaning back in my swivel chair I lift my eyes to the window before me, watching a soft breeze play through the tall trees outside. For now, it’s light outside. For now, I'm okay.
