Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

05

It isn't hard to miss, either.

The entire back row is sleeping, a group of girls are huddled off to the side, gossip slipping through their cupped hands. Most of the dudes are staring at the ground or the ceiling (me included), some have consciousness slipping through their fingers, and the rest are probably in another universe. It's almost enough to make a man quit teaching. Mr. Clark sure seems on the verge.

He blows air through his lips. "You know, all the musicians and rappers and grunge people, whatever you guys like nowadays, wouldn't be where they were if they never picked up a damn book. Kurt Cobain reads, for crying out loud, and he can barely articulate a sentence, let alone write cognitive lyrics. Am I speaking your language now?" As though name-dropping a celebrity will make us realize what he's trying to say, because he's hip and cool and with the times.

Try-hards like Mr. Clark are why we've lost interest in almost everything school-related. The only part of class I'm still interested is the dismissal bell.

"I swear, your generation is more stupid than the last," he grunts. "Let's see how your book reports are going."

Judging by the response to the lesson, I'm sure he already has his answer. He goes around, lighting up when he sees some have begun their papers. I obviously haven't yet, but I have the motivation. My pencil is going a mile a minute and I'm sitting up straight and raising my hand. I've never been this talkative or confident. I've never been more proud of myself.

Proud of myself, but I'm fucking starving. My brain is melting through my ears, but I'm smiling. I don't feel hungry, but a fog is drifting into my mind.

Pain is the new ecstasy.

I dig my fingers into my stomach as it emits thunderous moans. A storm is coming, so I ask for the bathroom, go behind the school, and light a cigarette. The sun forces its way through the clouds. I'm both shriveled and broken. I'll succeed in the end, so it doesn't matter how much I destroy myself in the process. Self-destruction looks like battle scars. Nobody will understand why I did what I did, they'll just admire the fact I succeeded.

Admire how calm, collected, and organized I am. I worked through the pain, and I got to a point most only dream of.

Pure nirvana.

I fail another Math test. In Physics, I'm supposed to be taking notes on an Isaac Newton movie, but I fall asleep instead.

At lunch, Gio and I sit on the bench outside. I watch the clouds as he eats a tomato and cheese sandwich. I don't need a sandwich because I already know what tomatoes and cheese and wheat bread taste like.

"Man, are you high or passing out?" he asks.

"I'm happy," I say, voice shaking as I force a smile.

"You look deranged."

I flip him off and take out my sketch book. I've started drawing more, too. Dead trees and the broken, flaky leaves surrounding them. Wilted, dried flowers. Bones. Lots of bones. My heart is trapped in my rib cage, which is trapped beneath skin. Once I tear back the fat, I'll be free.

The worst part, though, is that I'm forced to acknowledge how much my life revolves around food. I eat out of boredom and sadness.

I have absolutely nothing to distract me.

"Hey Gio, can I ask you a question?"

"Mhm."

We were sitting on his patio, drawing with chalk. "Does your Mommy touch you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know..." I glanced down. "On your privates?"