In A Week I Will Be Dead

Chapter Four: Malfunctioned

As you can see, one of my reasons for wanting to leave is due to the fact that my voice is not heard. That's exactly what happened every time I need a shoulder to cry on. I cry onto my own shoulder.

As soon as I placed that letter underneath his desk I envisioned what would happen. He would read it. He would laugh at it. He would say that what I have isn't real and I'm just a silly little whining person who needs to just move on and be thankful for what I have. But I think I have the right in saying it's not what you don't have that makes you sad, it's the ability to no longer see this.

I hope he doesn't find out who I am because I really do want to leave. I change out of my uniform into some mufti clothes, and sit downstairs and wait for my friends to come down so that we can leave for dinner. They walk past, through the door, and continue through me. I walk behind them, always behind them, always in front of them, but never beside. I am simply not worth their time. I try joining in the conversation a few times, but all these efforts are done in vain. They laugh and talk over me, whilst my whispers are taken away by the breeze. I smile to myself, knowing that in seven days I can finally follow it.

Around me, there are crows cackling in my direction, I know it. I think that crows have the ability to sense pain, and then laugh at it. I wonder if they teach this ridicule to their chicks as soon as they've hatched from their eggs, like humans' do. Again, my mind is arrested by a daydream, but this time not of the present or the future, but of the past.

When I was around nine years old, we had an Easter hat parade and the best ones got prizes. There were categories, such as the tallest hat or the most elegantly designed, and I won the prize for being the most innovative. I won't bore you with the details, but what I can tell you was that my hat was pretty spectacular – I spent hours on that hat. Anyways, I won an Easter egg wrapped in golden foil, like a trophy. I was proud of myself. Happy. God, it feels weird to use that word.

Following the parade, we went to a disco. My school had hired a really cool band to play – they were western – and I can still remember the lead violinist wearing flares and a leather cowboy hat. And to a nine-year-old, what was the shit. Some of us who played instruments were asked to go and get them to play with the band, and I was so excited. I grabbed my egg and ran to the music department, yanking my violin from my cubby hole and unzipping it as fast as I possibly could.

Then this boy walks up. His name was Alex, and he'd asked me out a few weeks earlier. He too played the violin, and started opening his case which happened to be in the slot next to mine on the shelf. He looked at me, and smiled. I can remember my face blushing, and I knew then and there I knew the answer to his question. I was going to say yes.

In an attempt to be romantic – as romantic as possible for a nine-year-old – I offered him some of my chocolate egg to eat. What he said next will never be forgotten by myself; he simply said, 'you owe my half of that egg.' I split it in two, the brown pattern breaking seamlessly down the middle. As the egg cracked in half, my nine-year-old heart did the same. I gave it to him, tears in my eyes, and he, along with his violin, ran back to the disco. That was the first time in my life I truly felt a sadness I had never felt before, that was when I got my first real taste of a mental disorder buried deep inside of me. I was a week too late, and my lateness invited the crocodile for tea.

'Hello?!' I see a hand waving over my face.

'How long was I out?' It was a stupid question, I was sat eating a meal, and all I remember last was walking by and hearing a crow caw.

'A while.'

'Thanks for waking me up. I was wondering...' But it was too late. They'd already began talking about something else. I slump into the back of my chair, picking at a piece of broccoli. Somebody yells my name, and my spirits are lifted so high that they literally crash through the roof and make me jump. I swivel on my chair, and say, 'yes.'

'I was wondering?...' This was it, I knew they hadn't cut me off, they were listening in. This was my moment, my chance to let my voice be heard in a wave of sound. I open my mouth, ready to continue my line of thinking.

'...If you were going to eat that?' I follow their gaze to my plate, then my desert plate which still has my pie on it. I know I want the pie. I really want the pie. But at moments like these, the universe makes sure that everybody is hearing and watching, eager to see what will happen. I do what I do every time I am put on the spot. I give in. Follow the script.

'No, would you like it?'

'Yeah.' They grab the plate at lighting speed and all at once forks from all directions stab at my pie. Over the top of the animalistic clutter, I just about hear a 'thanks', and this is all the invitation I need. As silent as a dodo, I pick up my tray, and glide out of the room. Suddenly I stop, and look over my right shoulder. He's there. The guy. He is stuffing pie into his face. Feeling like my nine-year-old self, I pass the food and accept the pain. He didn't notice me. Why would he? I'm not really there am I. Once again, I place my head forward and place one step in front of the other, and wonder if the crows are still outside.