In my high school, it was a custom for us to be assigned a class number. The class number would be made up of a letter followed by a number. Girls would be assigned the letter G, while boys would be assigned the letter B. The numbers would then depend on the alphabetical order of your surname.
There was this one particular girl that caught my attention. Her class number was G1. Naturally, being G1 would mean that you're most likely the first one to get called out. Now if you were surrounded by good, rational people, you'd be lucky. She, however, wasn't.
There was always a pair of eyes watching her. And it was the unwanted attention you hope you'd never have to receive. They judged her.
Her every word.
Her every action.
Her whole existence.
Ironically, there wasn't anything about her that was number "one." She wasn't good at sports, she wasn't good at academics, nor was she the prettiest girl in class. The only "one" I could associate with her is if you put "al" together with it. She was always alone.
I didn't care.
About her, nor about the people going after her.
It's funny actually.
Because I finally found another word I could associate with her class number.
She was Gone.
Why do I know so much about her?
Afterall, I'm next.
