Middle school horrors
By CAITLIN FLAWS
Staring at the ceiling, my head slightly tilted backwards, I attempted to keep the tears from spilling out of my eyelids. The sneers and jeers of the bullies next to me were on a loop in my head, repeating that insufferable word over and over and over again. The teacher just sat there, witnessing it all. She just sat there, watching me take the emotional jabs, as if she thought it would do no harm if she did not interfere. The ceiling tiles consisted of bitter edges that seemed to cut into my soul.
I was enrolled at Winters Middle School, and I loathed every second of every minute of every hour I was at that school. I was constantly taunted for my lanky tallness, as well as my face that few people recognized as beauty. Most people recognized my face as ghastly and bird-like. At the start of sixth grade, Delila deemed me “Dinosaur” and everyone who knew her knew me as just that. A dinosaur. Not just a dinosaur, an ugly dinosaur who should kill herself.
Unfortunately, Delila was in almost all of my classes, but she was the most malicious in Beginning Art. Even worse, she had accomplices in that class. Delila, Aaron and Morgan (Morgan was a boy, by the way) would taunt me until the second before the bell rang to go home. Everyday after Beginning Art, I walked out either almost crying or wanting to end my life so I would not have to go back to that evil school again. They would chant “Dinosaur” until the teacher would finally decide that they were annoying her. But on one particular glum afternoon, Delila, Aaron and Morgan decided to go too far with their torment.
As I sat down at my table, I reached down to grasp my notebook out from my backpack, but there was no notebook. There was not even a backpack. There was a backpack in the sink though, being drowned in watery, leftover acrylic and oil paints. When I tried to rush over to the sink, Morgan tripped me. I flew into the dirt encrusted faux-marble floor; I heard the annoying high-pitched laugh that haunted me in every class. It infuriated me. I had never been so angry until the moment her annoying sound waves of laughter reached my eardrum.
I wanted to snatch my soaking wet backpack and show it to the teacher, but I could not move after the cold ground made contact with my back. I felt paralyzed as the entire class laughed and pointed at me. As much as I just wanted to leave, I could not. If I ditched at that moment, I would be the one in trouble. Not them. Not the three people that made me want to end my life. I would be the one to be punished for “disturbing the class.” So I attempted to pull myself together. I asked to go to the bathroom and I stayed there. I stayed in that graffiti-covered stall, pathetic and whimpering. I did not cry. I could not allow myself to cry, and I needed to walk back into that classroom with my head held slightly higher and my ears deaf to all their hurtful words.
So I walked back. I walked back blinking so hard I could not distinguish what was in front of me. I sat down and stared for the rest of the period. Luckily my backpack was returned to me, but without a wallet. It was the closest thing to an apology I would ever get at that unbearable school. It was not the soaking of my backpack that hurt me; it was that no one would help me. No one ever stood up for me. Not even the teacher. Not even acquaintances or friends of friends. No one.