Bruised

Footsteps down a bleach-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. Every day I am waiting for the timer to stop, but it doesn't. It keeps ticking, tantalizing my insides and shaking my confidence.

Confidence? What is confidence? I have looked but I cannot find any Here. Here in the halls that are no longer bleach-white but are now faded from the footsteps of adolescents and dirt. I have no control Here. I'm a part of the game Here.

I am alone and momentarily peaceful in solitude. It is a lonely life. I am a friend to many but I have no friends. I do not fit in the puzzle and it is my fault, isn't it? My fault that no one will be more than an acquaintance. I move from group to group, lunch table to lunch table and I still find that I don't belong. My voice is small like my stature. My heart is on my sleeve but it is constantly bruised.

Footsteps down a faded-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. These are not my footsteps. There is nothing but a soundtrack of panic and the hopes of a quickening heart that I will go unnoticed. I want to blend into these ugly walls without actually becoming part of Here- a place I hate. I want to become a ghost so that no one will see the heart on my sleeve.

I take a deep breathe and glance behind me to see who it is. I already know the answer. The two boys have not stopped tormenting me all year but I try to be nice because my friend loves one. I have to be nice so I don't lose her. Then I will be completely alone. Again.

My small voice pretends to be strong but the echo of the faded-white hallway reveals how thin the words truly are. Confidence? What is confidence? I have looked but I cannot find any Here. Here in the halls that are no longer bleach-white but are now faded from the footsteps of adolescents and dirt. I have no control Here. I'm a part of their game.

They are running. I am running but my feet are like lead and my bag is full of brick-like books. It is not enough. The bag is pushed over my head and I lose balance. I trip on my foot. I fall on the floor- this disgusting tile that is covered from the shoes of adolescents and dirt and now tears.

Laughter. A small voice echoes down the hallway after fumbling desperately for a verbal defense: "Assholes!"

My bruised heart matches my bruised knees. There is a no tolerance for bullies policy this year that will surely save me. There is hope that they will help me escape this. I don't have to hear these words pierce my heart like knives anymore. I don't have to walk quickly in empty hallways anymore.

I am wrong. We all get punished. I am punished. I shouldn't have used the word assholes.

Footsteps down a bleach-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. I fear this timer will never stop ticking.