Letters From The Dead

Chapter 1

I trudged through the school halls, my backpack heavy against my shoulders, my eyelids dropping heavily.

I used to put makeup on when the dark circles under my eyes became especially prominent, but that luxury, along with the flat-ironing my hair on Fridays, quickly became impossible. Nearly every night was spent on the phone, talking to my best friend until she fell asleep at dawn from sheer exhaustion.

Two hours of sleep a night was my average, and there was a time when I could handle it, but as the depression got worse and more nights were stolen away from me, it caught up.

She’d fallen asleep early last night, and I’d gotten four glorious hours of sleep. Unfortunately, sleeping more than my usual amount did nothing at all against my tiredness. It just made me more exhausted. Deidre, my best friend, used to call it taunting the brain with sleep it would never get, and that’s exactly what it was.

But nevertheless, I was grateful for the four hours. I had my midterm exams all this week, and sleep was the only thing I needed to keep my head during the test.

There used to be a time when I could take an exam with no studying whatsoever, I thought ruefully as I flicked through my pages of notes.

I’d been told that a sudden drop in grades and personality could be due to stress. They had no idea how much stress I was under. I wasn’t ‘fessing up any time soon. They chalked it up to me reaching my limit of how smart I could be effortlessly and now I had to work for it like every other human on the planet.

The exam was relatively difficult, but I was moving through the two-hundred questions with enough speed to earn me a glare from my teacher.

None of them could ever understand how I managed to work so fast and still get reasonable grades, but I’d always been like that. Of course, those reasonable grades used to be flawless grades, but, semantics.

I remember reading my question a couple times. Proofs always irritated the crap out of me because they took so damn long and detour proofs were a thousand times worse.

My phone began vibrating in my pocket. I ignored it, grimacing at the fact that I’d been unable to put it in my backpack, off, like we’d been instructed to. Deidre didn’t usually text me during class, and it was rare she called me. She knew I didn’t like disrespecting my teachers by texting when they were talking.

It wasn’t disrespect, she’d always say, especially if you are getting the grades they want to see anyway.

But it is, I’d say, they’re giving up their time to teach me. I owe it to them that I respect their wishes of keeping from texting in class.

I ignored it and my phone stopped. Silently sighing in relief, I began studiously working through my detour proof when my phone started buzzing again. This wasn’t a text coming in, this was a call. And the second time in a row in two minutes?

Biting down on my lip hard, I finished off the last step and moved on to the next problem. My phone began buzzing for a third time. Deidre’s always liked threes.

I remember pausing and dropping my pencil. Only Deidre would call three consecutive times, and she would only call if it were an emergency.

I stood up.

“Miss Emerson.” My teacher said loudly, scandalized.

“I have to go,” I bit out, drawing my phone from my pocket and staring at the green answer button flashing on the screen.

“If you leave this classroom, you will receive a zero for your midterm exam.”

“Then fail me for all I care,” I snapped, already halfway out the door, my backpack slung haphazardly on one shoulder, “This is far more important.”